A curmudgeon speaks out on "TRUNK"-or-Treating (Warning .... controversy ahead)

As we returned home the other night, we passed by a huge crowd of parked cars with adults and children milling about.

"What's going on?" asked Husband.

"Oh," said I, "it's the ranch community TRUNK-or-Treat party."  (Not to be confused with those my church group has sponsored over the years.)

These are, as I have heard, parking lot parties (held sometime during the week prior to Halloween) where people gather with their vehicles decorated in a festive-spooky fashion, and hand out candy to costumed children going car-to-car.   This is offered in addition to the traditional trick-or-treating on Halloween night, October 31.   I don't understand such activities that mimic the real thing a few days before the real thing, causing a double sugar whammy for children and added assault on the wallet for adults ..... and will explain why.  But first a bit of personal history, titled,

"As It Should Be, In My Opinion" or "My Generation Ruled, So There"  .....



When I was a kid, and I'll just say it .... some 50 years ago ..... Halloween consisted of putting together a costume of sorts (there was seldom room in the budget to buy one) using old clothes or whatever one had on hand.  The ol' hobo theme was always a good backup ... (which I've heard is now politically incorrect.....)  Then we teamed up with our friends and set out after dark with the grand plan of covering miles and miles to facilitate the biggest candy haul ever known to mankind.  But after two or three blocks, we fizzled out and returned home to sprawl on the living room floor in front of the fireplace to count and sort the spoils.  And on the banner years, there might be a spooky-fun movie playing on the TV to top it all off.  (No recorded movies back then.  We got what was offered on any of the five TV channels, or nothing.)

The Whites, two houses away, always gave out homemade popcorn balls, and Mrs. Phelps (next door) always greeted us with a tray full of paper cups of apple juice.  These were traditions a kid could count on.  And get this -- back then the candy bars were FULL-SIZED.  Yup.  None of this "fun size" nonsense.  My favorite was Nestles Crunch Bars which I had to hide before my dad got them.  Then anything chocolate, then anything soft and chewy, with the suckers ranking last.  It was glorious and I usually plowed through it within three days.

Then as teenagers, we had the grace to pass the tradition on to the younger kids and stayed home to help at the door or perhaps go to a well-chaperoned party.  (Hint to parents:  THIS is the age that needs an organized party or activity.  The little kids are happy JUST trick-or-treating..... trust me.)

As a kid, I never once heard of a "TRUNK-or-treat" party.  We had the little parties at school but other than that, TRICK-or-treating on the 31st was it.  I mean .... it was mind-boggling-to-a-kid plenty.  We never felt deprived because once a year for a few magical hours we could canvas the neighborhood after dinner, knock on any door, and get free candy!

Possibly for religious reasons, if Halloween happened to fall on a Sunday and some felt it inappropriate to knock on doors, threatening tricks on the Lord's day .... then I understand the need for an alternative event on another night.  Makes sense.  And I suspect this may be how Trunk-or-Treat parties began because if you google "trunk or treat", my particular religion is implicated in the top site.  (These may be the same people who thought -- Why stop with Santa when we can burden parents further with "elf-on-a-shelf"?)

Good and well-meaning ideas tend to take off like the plague and with some groups, this one has become the norm every year.  So now kids get TWO almost-consecutive nights of fleecing strangers for free candy so that they can gorge themselves on enough sugar to set back the health code for years.

Some cite safety reasons ..... but really .... did those old razor-blade-in-the-apple stories really happen?  Really?  Check the candy before they eat it, if needed.   If you really don't trust your neighbors, then organize the trunk-or-treating party to happen (INSTEAD of trick-or-treating) on Halloween night.

I'm all for a good old-fashioned Halloween.  As adults, when we lived in a populated neighborhood where children seemed to be bused in, we geared up with bags of candy, spending a small fortune on Reeses PB cups, Snickers,  KitKats, etc., since homemade treats are now forbidden ..... and happily tossed 'em into the plastic pumpkins, pillow cases, or bags, held by the little goblins awaiting at the door.  I'm even well-behaved and kindly give to the teenagers who (again, my opinion) look quite ridiculous standing there asking for treats.  But having to spend the money needed to buy enough candy to cover TWO nights in one week .... is too much.  I mean ..... why?  Isn't one big night enough these days?

So even though I feel a bit surrounded by trunk-or-treat candy-gorged events, I avoid them.  I feel no need to dispense candy twice in the same week.  To be clear --- I am only talking about parties that try to duplicate trick-or-treating for children when actual Halloween-night-trick-or-treating is already available.

Because once a year the real thing ..... is wonderful enough.

Christmas confessions

In my own personal, when-I-was-a-kid world, Christmas was glorious.  I remember our mis-shaped, gangly Christmas trees that Dad would put up a week or so before the holiday (normal timing in those days).  It's curious why trees looked different in the 50s and 60s ..... more natural and less pruned to look like giant gum drops.  Plus all the silvery foil icicles with which we'd smother every branch and twig.  Does anyone use those icicles anymore? ...... (I tried them once, years later, but the mess got them banned along with Easter grass.)

I remember music from Handel's Messiah playing on the stereo ..... a tradition that planted the love for that masterpiece deeply into my soul.  I remember my two older brothers tromping down from their upstairs bedroom announcing how torturous it had been waiting for morning.  I remember the awe when I realized the biggest present in the room, that had appeared mysteriously during the night, had my name on it.  There was a fire in the fireplace.  Dad distributed the gifts.  I don't recall if a big dinner was the norm, but there was always good food.  (Potato chips, nuts, and ribbon candy come to mind.)  Anyway, it was everything Christmas should be.

Being the youngest and last to leave the nest, my teen years were sometimes rocky and my relationship with my stepmom was strained.  I remember one Christmas morning, when I was about 17, opening presents alone.  I have no complaints ..... I mean, I had gifts!  A lot of people don't.  But to this day, I empathize with all youngest family members.  The older kids get to have all or most of their sibs there for their whole childhood.  The youngest often doesn't.

Then came the best Christmases of all.  There is nothing as good as being the Santa and the fun of watching one's own kids on those magical mornings.  I loved everything Christmas-related when our kids were growing up.  (I tried to enhance the true 'reason for the season' and extending the family tradition of playing The Messiah music .... although .... one of my favorite parts that says, "All we, like sheep ..... all we, like sheep ..... have gone astraaaaaaay .....", our kids would sing along: "Oh WE like sheep .... Oh WE like sheep!")

We always stayed home on Christmas eve and it was my labor of love to make everything as homey and memorable as a Hallmark card.  There'd always be a fire in the wood stove, music playing, classic Christmas movies to watch, home-baked cookies, re-enactments of the nativity and other traditions .... and sitting together in the living room sharing memories of favorite Christmases past.

The one that stands out was the year when, after all the presents were opened, we pointed out one more gift tucked up high in the tree branches.  It was a metal coil .... part of something the kids had to find.  They began to search, unsure of what they were looking for ..... then the screams erupted when they discovered a new trampoline in the backyard.  We worked hard to give our kids happy memories but no doubt, their dad and I had the most fun of all.

Fast forward to now.  I don't know why, but Christmas has become difficult for me.  And try as I may, I cannot seem to remedy it.  The expectations seem unattainable.  Helpful, listening friends have suggested I simplify and I've almost simplified it right off the calendar ... leaving a pile of guilt in the wake.  I've stopped sending cards.  I hardly bake because I am like an alcoholic in a liquor store when sweets are around.  Decorating is a chore that has to be all undone in a few weeks.   Choosing gifts is stressful and whereas I used to start in September with a carefully detailed list .... I now procrastinate as long as possible.   Hence I've cut it to the bare bones.   On the list of the "Five Love Languages", gift-giving is somewhere around negative fifteen for me.

I cannot explain it.  There's no reason for it.  Especially when my life is near perfect.  Our happily married kids are having their own best Christmases as they are, or are on the threshold of, experiencing it as young parents.   My cup is full.   I have absolutely nothing to complain about.  And yet ..... there it is.  I don't like being a Scrooge ..... but the relief I feel when it's over, the last box is stored away, and there are eleven whole months till I have to face it again, is very real.

So instead of a gift or a card or a plate of cookies, may I offer one of my love languages instead?  "Words of affirmation"....  Here goes .....

I love my siblings ...... who, many years ago, all did that leaving-the-nest thing before I was ready; but are not allowed to leave the nest of mortality without me.  I've informed them of this.  It's not happening.

I love my kids.  If there was a selection process before we were all born, I was at the head of the line.  Somehow, undeserving, I won the lottery.  Their joy is my joy ..... literally.  And I love their kids.   Watching my kids become parents is akin to heaven.  I wish I was more like a story-book grandma, with sleepovers, tea parties, and full cookie jars;  nevertheless, I love them in my own awkward way.  And I love my kids' spouses.  Again .... lottery winnings.  My kids married angels.

And I love my best friend/husband/forever-partner who would move heaven and earth if possible, for me.  I could happily spend every day, Christmas or otherwise, forevermore with him.

Thank you all, dear friends and family.  You know who you are.  We love and appreciate every one of you.  The posts in this blog are my Christmas letter.  And in spite of my weirdness this time o' year ......

Have a Wonderful Christmas.

Arizona, back to Utah, then home

For years, my brother, Dick, said, "Ya gotta go to Sedona," (in Arizona) knowing that we love the red rock landscape of southern Utah.  We've been to Arizona many times, but never to that portion of it.

So on this trip, we made it a point to see Sedona which lies about 30 miles south of Flagstaff.    The road connecting the two towns cuts through a breathtaking canyon with a few switchback turns. Fortunately, Dick warned us about it before we headed down in our motorhome.

"Take the freeway south and cut over to Cottonwood", he said.  So we did.

We discovered Dead Horse Ranch State Park which sits on the north edge of Cottonwood, on a slope over looking the town.  This, of all the campgrounds we visited, was our favorite.  One must remember that this is not western Oregon.  This is desert.  The terrain may not appeal to everyone.  But the sites were spacious, the view was vast, and the price was good.

Cottonwood is one of several small towns in the area, and of no particular interest in and of itself.  But it had the essentials and was a convenient base.  The first night there we were treated to a lively thunder storm.  Hello Arizona.

We rode our motorcycle back up the next day to see Sedona.

http://www.outsideadventureguide.com

Wow.  We continued north through Oak Creek Canyon which we had avoided in our motorhome.

More Wow.

Then back to Sedona which has a hearty array of shops and restaurants.  The town itself isn't all that unusual.  It's the countryside wrapped around it that puts on the show.

Note:  If you are easily swayed into impulse purchases of touristy stuff you don't need, just use a motorcycle for transportation.  Then you are physically unable to buy that gorgeous but ridiculously expensive rug that YOU KNOW would eliminate all sadness if you could gaze upon it in your living room forevermore.

We rode through the streets and neighborhoods.  Sorry these pictures are not the products of high-end camera equipment, skill, and careful composure ...... just me with my phone, holding onto the back of a bike, with shadows in all the wrong places.

(Thanks, Dick, for pushing us to go there.)

The next day, on the advice of a fellow camper, we decided to visit the nearby town of Jerome.

"It's right over there", he said, as he pointed to a small clump of lights on the side of a mountain in the distance.  (Notice the small community in the center of the picture, half-way up the mountain.  Cottonwoods sits below.)

Jerome came to be in the late 1800s, built next to a copper mine, and accessed by a narrow, winding mountain road.  It was once known as the "wickedest town in the west", likely due to its unfortunate, yet colorful history of brothels and saloons.  Now its streets zig-zag up the hill through a quirky hodgepodge of shops and cafes.  This semi-ghost town is a must-see if you ever get this way.

In it's 100+ years history, all the buildings in Jerome have burned or slid down the hill once or twice.  At one time there was a 200 room hotel, considered to be the largest in the state.  It too had the sad fate of burning to the ground, but was never rebuilt.

We spent the next two nights on the shores of Lake Powell which gave Husband ideas of a future house-boat vacation.   It's sad to see the low water level of this very unusual lake.

http://www.gundemiyorumla.com/group/lake-powell/

While there, we did motorcycle loop down through the town of Kanab where we had lunch.

A bit of personal history:

It was the summer of my ninth year, 1964.  My mother died several months earlier and my dad, my two brothers, and I were on a road trip down to Los Angeles and back up to Glenwood, UT.  My sister was spending the summer between college semesters in LA with our aunt who was house-sitting for Rose Marie Reid, a successful swimsuit designer. I said house-sitting, but it was more like mansion-sitting.  Our few days there made an impression on me, hence I never forgot the name of its owner.  I never met Ms. Reid, and it wasn't until just very recently, I learned of her fame.  We visited Disneyland, Marine Land, and Knotts Berry Farm, before heading north.  (My only memory of that leg of the trip was going through Bakersfield in 112 degrees with no AC.)

My point in telling this story is that we (plus a pet guinnea pig I somehow acquired along the way) spent a night at Perry's Lodge, a motel in Kanab, UT.  Kanab is a small town and in the 40s, 50s, and 60s was often the hub of movie makers because the landscape, with the canyons and mountains, made the perfect backdrop for westerns.  And for years when in Kanab, Perry's Lodge was the place to stay.  

After that hot car ride, we were glad to hit the swimming pool at the motel.  My dad was an avid swimmer.  He taught all his kids to swim, except me, the youngest.  Not that he didn't try to teach me.  I just never got it.  But he figured he'd give it another go.  T'was at the edge of this pool I remember standing, with my toes curled over the rim, arms stretched up over my head, knees bent, and hands clamped, thinking that any minute, I would somehow transform into an actual swimmer and dive in head first.

My dad urged, coaxed, and patiently waited ..... I stood for what seemed like an hour in that crouched position.  But it never happened.  I never did the dive.  I probably pulled off a few impressive belly-flops in the process, but to this day, I do not dive into water.  I hardly even swim, in spite of several attempts at lessons.  And THAT (with a lot of unnecessary details tossed in) is what I remember every time I drive through Kanab.

Notice the irony?  (The rules must have changed since then.)

We drove to St. George, UT.  T'was there we did four awesome things:
1.  Reconnected with some dear cousins whom we think need to move back to Oregon.
2.  Spent a few hours in this beautiful, historic building.

3.  Rode the bike up through Zion National Park.
4.  Went to Costco to do some serious shopping.  (This was the first real city in which we had spent time in weeks and I had been in withdrawal.)

Zion is my favorite national park.  The pictures I took are (again) ... from my phone, from the back of the bike, and with the same bothersome shadows.  This canyon is beyond words and the pictures don't even come near the experience.  We've driven through it in a (different) motorhome with our kids, in our convertible BMW, in a van with friends, in a bus with family, and now on a motorcycle.  We've hiked in it and waded through its river into slot canyons.  I think all that's left is to see it on a bicycle, or from a helicopter ... or perhaps in a hot air balloon?

Needing to expedite our return home, we began the trek north.  We had an appointment in Bend, OR, in a couple of days and other family matters looming.   On the last day of our trip we got in a quick visit to a particular piece of newly purchased property in a community called Crooked River Ranch where we were welcomed home by a stunning sunset.

Check out our future view when someday we again put down roots.

It's not Zion, but it's ours.

If I could hug a town .....

I was only eight years old the final summer of my mother's battle with cancer.  School was out for the season and both sets of my grandparents, who all lived in Salt Lake City, stepped in to help.  My mother stayed with her parents and I stayed with my other grandma while my dad remained in Oregon to work.  Grandma took me to visit my aunt and uncle and their family in their summer home in Glenwood, Utah, several hours south.  These relatives were strangers to me because they lived most of the year in Phoenix, very far from Portland where I grew up.

I remember us arriving in their kitchen that night, finding this strange new group crowded around a small table ..... Uncle Glen (my dad's brother), Aunt Millie, and my cousins Liz, Glen, Gayle, Bo .... and my older brother Dick who had been there a few weeks before me.  I remember the laughter and banter that filled the room.  Being so very shy, I stayed close by my grandma.   Little did I know, my life was about to change.

Grandma and I were given the front bedroom to sleep in, which had one regular-size single bed and a small cot-like bed.  Gayle and Liz, whose beds (I assume) we were given, were on the sofas in the living room, my aunt and uncle were in the back bedroom.  The boys slept in the barn which was more of a bunkhouse.

I remember waking to my grandma moaning and my aunt and uncle coming in to help.  I remember Aunt Millie moving me and Gayle to the big bed in the back bedroom.  They took Grandma to the hospital where she was treated for a heart attack.   And before daylight arrived the next morning, I was again awakened by the frightening sound of a cannon in the distance.  Boom ...... Boom ....... Boom.  What WAS this strange place?!  

That cannon, as it turned out, was a local tradition, hailing in our annual Independence Day.  Hello, Fourth of July.

Later that morning, Uncle Glen took me with him to check on a neighbor's cows or something .... and I was introduced to a smell that, to this day, takes me back to Glenwood.  The smell of hay, manure, old farm buildings, and barnyards.  I fell in love that day, with my dear Uncle Glen.  A kinder man, I'll never know.  I also quickly grew to love Aunt Millie and my cousins Gayle and Bo, who were both close to my age.  They became my second family.

Thankfully, Grandma recovered and was able to return to Salt Lake but I remained in Glenwood for the rest of the summer.  It was kid-heaven.  We climbed trees, floated toy boats in the irrigation ditch, made play-houses in the mud, sewed clothes for dolls, and spent hours sprawled in the patio reading comic books.  Glenwood was small enough that we could walk from one end to the other.  It had some old pioneer houses and buildings that were unquestionably haunted.  Uncle Glen, a master of nick-names, knew all the local legends and told us that a mysterious old man named, "Jimmy-on-the-Binder", once lived in the scariest crumbly old house which is now gone.  Just to walk up and touch the front door took all the courage an eight-year-old could muster.  Uncle Glen nicknamed me, "Buckwheat".

Their funny old farmhouse had a coal/wood burning cookstove in the kitchen and a wobbly toilet next to a claw-foot tub in the one bathroom.  Hot water, needed for bathing and dish-washing, was created solely by the cookstove from which my aunt could produce anything delicious.  Her fried chicken was legendary and she introduced me to Mexican food ..... something unheard of at home.

I remember the ladle hanging by the kitchen sink that we all use to get a drink of water.  I remember the creaky screen door that squeaked and slammed each time we ran through.  I remember the covered patio outside that served as a central gathering place.  There was the ice cream maker, the party-line phone, eggnog made from raw eggs, and the garter snake named Roscoe that lived in the woodpile. Their Phoenix home was modern and comfortable, but this odd little Glenwood house was magical.

We rode their horse and went on Jeep rides in the mountains.  Aunt Millie took us into nearby Richfield to shop or for other errands, and we'd often stop at A&W for rootbeer freezes.  There was no TV, no videos ..... just playing cards, a radio, and a record player upon which we played Beach Boys and Beatles music endlessly.  It was wonderful.

The following winter I lost my mother.  I believe, however, with absolute confidence, that God filled that void with an army of heroes.  My best friend's mom, my 4-H teacher, my grandparents, etc., and especially my dear aunt and uncle who took me in .... not just that summer, but each summer thereafter for the next five years.  Glenwood became my second home.   It was half my childhood.  Fifty years later, I still feel the magic when I visit that dear town.  I continue to bemoan each old building that is torn down.

Aunt Millie and Uncle Glen are gone now, and the odd little house has been replaced by a lovely new home where my cousin Gayle now lives with her husband.  But the barn is still stands along with the old horse corral and chicken coop .... and that wonderful barnyard smell ...... and many more of my delightful relatives who, over the years, have also made Glenwood their home.

This includes three of my cousins and their spouses and my brother and sis-in-law.  My other brother owns a farm a few miles away.  Another cousin and her husband lives in a nearby town.  It's a reunion whenever we go there and we go there as often as we can.

Which brings me to my latest trip update.  We spent four days parked next to my brother's home.  I hung out with Gayle and made the rounds to see everyone.  I will never own property there .... it's too far from our kids and business ..... but for a few days my little house-on-wheels can be my own Glenwood home, where I can reminisce along the quiet, dusty streets, smell the smells, and reconnect with family.

(I don't have any pictures, so I found these online.)

The old mercantile.  It has looked just like this for the past half century.

The post office.  It too, hasn't changed.  No one has a mail box.  They all come here to collect their mail.

We used to pass this house as we walked to church.  Sadly, it too must be torn down.

Another of the original homes.

As it looks today.  I don't know the actual name of the mountain behind the town.  We call it Hercules because that's what Uncle Glen named it.  As far as I'm concerned, that's as good as official.

How NOT to do a honeymoon

I was reading through some of my old posts and one of them mentioned our honeymoon ..... of many moons ago.  I described it as disastrous.  It wasn't THAT bad ..... well, yeah, it was bad.

Husband-to-be had been home from his LDS mission for five months when we got married in October of 1975.  At 20 and 21 years old, we were ridiculously young.   He had an entry level job as a pattern maker, making $3.75 per hour, in a manufacturing company in which he would eventually rise to responsible positions over the next fifteen years.  I was working as a receptionist for a finance company, earning even less.  We had a small convertible Fiat that he bought a few months prior, for $300, and we were still making payments on my ring.  A very humble and drafty apartment waited for us in our home state of Oregon, after we spent what little money we had to travel to Utah to get married.  In those days, there were no LDS temples within 700 miles of home and a wedding anywhere else, for us, was not acceptable.

Did I mention that we were young?  Add to that ..... we were naive and inexperienced in travel and other things of the world, much less planning honeymoons.  We figured it didn't really matter as long as we were together.  Which, in hindsight, was true.

We were married on a Tuesday morning in Logan, Utah, in the temple that sits on a hill overlooking the town.  I had only been in a temple once before that, when I was in college.  This was my first time in the inner sanctuary of one of these holy edifices and I received the ordinances needed prior to being married, right before our wedding ceremony.   Our families were with us and I remember feeling awed that they had come all that way.  I don't remember much else.  After the temple, we attended a lunch that was hosted by New Husband's grandmother in her home.   A few hours later we left to begin this thing called Marriage, heading towards Salt Lake City.  Our plan?  A day in SL, then a visit to Provo, and then head home.  We had made no reservations, because hey, it didn't matter ......

Inserting a reassuring note to our kids -- Relax.  No need to close your eyes, cover your ears and hum loudly ..... Nothing gross here.

As luck would have it, there was a convention happening in SL and motel after motel was full.  We finally found a simple, non-memorable room somewhere near downtown.  (Let me reemphasize simple.)  The next morning we attended the stunningly beautiful, historic Salt Lake Temple for a bit of a review of what we had experienced in the Logan Temple the day before.  I quickly learned that I was no longer the bride and center of attention, but instead just one of the crowd.

As it started to get dark later that day, just before we planned to head for Provo, our $300 Fiat quit working.  Fortunately, Husband's aunt and uncle, who lived nearby, came to the rescue.  We managed to get the car to their house where Husband spent the evening pulling out the transmission and diagnosing a broken clutch lever.  They loaned us a car to go find a room for our second night.  The next morning he found a welding shop and had the part repaired and I again spent several hours in Aunt and Uncle's living room watching snow lightly falling outside, while Husband shivered under the car in their driveway, reinstalling the mended part.  Thankfully, since we didn't even carry a credit card back then, the repair only cost $7.

After that we no longer trusted our $307 Fiat, so we scrapped our Provo plan and beelined for home.  We stayed in our third humble motel room in Brigham City, and then landed in my sister's home near Boise, for night number four.   Did we realize that we broke all honeymoon rules by spending a night with relatives?  No.  We were THAT naive .... and nearly out of money.

Shortly after crossing into Oregon, still very far from home, the car started to sputter again and we nervously pulled into a rest stop.  But miraculously, it restarted and gave us no more problems.  We like to attribute that to a merciful God, who must have been chuckling at us, knowing as only He can, that all would be okay, in spite of our worries.

We arrived home to Humble Drafty Apartment late that night with less than $20 in our pockets, only to find it had been semi-trashed by my new in-laws.  I'm sure they had fun, confident that we'd both laugh at the joke, after we dragged in from our long and stressful trip.  Yeah...... right.

So there it is.  Our honeymoon.  In our defense, our options were few if any.  The trip was mandatory, the car was what it was, and ditto with the budget.

Afterthoughts:  We determined that, when our own kids got married, if needed, we would at least help them with their first night's arrangements.  No one deserves a drab little motel room like we had, for their wedding night.  That said, we figure it's all relative.  We both came from humble circumstances and had never really experienced "posh".   So, in other words, we were fairly clueless anyway.  And in the 39 happy years of our marriage, we have more than made up for it.   Besides.... when you start at the bottom, the only way to go .... is up.

Home-made clothes and root beer

(I was rereading some old drafts for posts never published.  Found this one, dusted it off, and added some pictures and updates.)

*******************

I am reminded again why I don't sew much anymore.  I used to sew everything.

My sewing history goes back to about age 12 or 13 when I learned from a patient combination of my aunt, home-ec teachers, 4-H teacher, and grandmother who gave me a used machine.  I have always loved clothes and for many years, this was my only way of having any.  I remember gleaning fabric from a couple of old wool skirts found in a trunk in our basement, to sew some culottes, which were popular back then, so that I'd have something new to wear to high school.  If I didn't sew it, I didn't have it.  I made pep-club uniforms, boy scout shirts, costumes, and even a swim suit which proved to be a mistake.  I've sewn for hire and for favors.  I've made countless window coverings of almost every type, quilts, cushions, and have even re-upholstered a boat.

(Husband says I need more pictures in my posts, so here you go.)

I sewed my prom dress, my simple wedding dress, and even my mother-in-law's Mother-of-the-Groom dress.

Us, many years ago, sandwiched between the folks.

Mother-In-Law, in her sage green dress, is standing next to the groom

 who was still in his short-lived post-mission-extreme-hair phase.

My step mother, next to me in her lovely non-homemade turquoise dress, unknowingly did not comply with my attempted color scheme.  Oh well.  (Thanks, Lins, for cleaning up the old photo.)

When I had children, I sewed everything they wore too.

And of course the Husband sported many home-made shirts.

It was just what one did if one couldn't afford to shop ready-made.

Not anymore.

I recently decided to re-use some fabric from a failed window shade project to make a new duvet cover for our bed.  I pieced together the top of the duvet and then headed out to the distant BIG fabric store to look for the backing.  Good freakin' heavens!  The cost of fabric is ridiculous!  Get this:  It would be cheaper if I bought a new set of king-sized sheets and used that for the bottom piece, than to buy the fabric.  And if I didn't already have the fabric for the top piece, it'd be cheaper to just buy a finished duvet.  How can that be??

How can unused fabric cost more BEFORE it is made into something, than after?  Doesn't labor count?

The sad thing is, if fabric cost what it does now, back when I was a teenager, I would have never learned how to sew.  I couldn't have afforded it!  It is no longer cheap, nor practical, to make one's own clothes and my frugal-to-my-bones nature is aghast.   And if you do take out a second mortgage to invest in some fabric for a project .... once that project is done, you'd better be happy with it because you ain't taking it back.  And need I mention the price of patterns?

Hence, I fear that sewing will become a lost skill.  Like the home-made root beer my dad used to make (not the dry ice variety, but that which you bottled and kept in the basement like wine) ..... no one does it anymore.  Sewing used to be a big part of my life.  Not that I miss it, because, to be honest, I don't.  But I see the value of what it taught me for those many years.

So now I'm looking for sheets of the right color, for the right price, to finish my project.  And I WILL find them because another skill I have honed to near-perfection, is ...... shopping.   And now that I've discovered and embraced RESALE shopping .... my frugal bones are ecstatic.

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Update:  I ended up using an old sheet from my own linen closet, made the duvet, and now it remains stuffed on a shelf in my closet because the darn thing is too heavy to sleep under.  THAT is the problem with home-made ..... no returns.

A "run" back in time and a lesson on sacrifice

In the spring of 1973, I bid a teeth-gritting, heart-wrenching farewell to my boyfriend of two years.  I was 18 and he was 19.  He was choosing to honor his responsibility to the Lord and serve as a missionary on the other side of the country for 24 months.  I would not see him at all during that time, and phone calls would be very rare.  Email was non-existent then, and all other forms of communication, other than good old-fashioned snail mail, were unavailable.  He was my best friend and yes, I was as much in love as any 18 year old can manage.   The hardest part was that neither of us knew for sure if we would "make it", meaning would I remain unattached and would we still feel the same after so long with such minimal contact?  They say only about 10% of such couples do.  But in spite of those unappealing stats, we both knew what had to be done.

Now in all honesty, and even though I was supportive, if he had changed his mind, stayed home, and offered marriage, I would started sewing my wedding dress right then and there.  The responsibility to go was not stressed back then, as it is now.  So I wasn't such a noble and faithful giant.  But religious missions for the boys are part of my culture and heritage.  And I knew it was right.

A thin missionary and a very fat tie.

A good definition of a sacrifice, is giving up something of value in exchange for something better.  Not that I met anyone better that he.  But I spent those two years at Ricks College, an owned-by-my-church junior college, that sat on the treeless hills next to Rexburg, Idaho.   And while I was there I fell in love again, with life.

Other than a couple of married cousins who lived nearby, I knew no one in Rexburg.  I moved into the upstairs of an old brick home-converted-to-apartments, about 1/2 block off campus, with several hand-picked-by-God roommates.  (Thanks to facebook, I found one of those roommates about a year ago and now get to see pictures of her grandbabies.)

(2011)   It's still a great old house.

The entire student body of about 5000, gathered in the indoor stadium for an assembly at the start of the semester, and we sang the "Mormon" children's classic, "I am a Child of God."  I grew up singing that song at church, but I will never forget the feeling I had at that moment in that stadium.  This was my first experience in a large group of LDS people of my age.  I had never before really realized the magnitude of that in which I had been raised.  I grew up in Oregon, in a school system where only about a dozen kids shared my religion.  I had experienced large church gatherings and conferences, but nothing like this.

Do any of you recall the children's story of the Saggy Baggy Elephant?  He felt he didn't fit in with the other animals because his skin was too loose and saggy.  He tried many ways to shrink his skin so that it would fit better, but nothing worked.

  Then he encountered other elephants.  Their skin was saggy too!  And it looked good on them!  And he realized he belonged to something much bigger and more wonderful than he ever knew!  Take the baggy skin out of the story, and I felt like that little elephant.  I had found something wonderful to which I had belonged all along.  I was home.

Those two years at Ricks College were truly God's gift to me.  The school has since become Brigham Young University - Idaho, but the "Spirit of Ricks" still wafts through the campus.  Among my generals, I focused on classes that would give me useful office skills - such as shorthand and the proper use of electric typewriters and carbon paper.  High tech for sure!  Computers were still big boxy things that only a handful of people knew what to do with.  And woven throughout every class was the gospel of Jesus Christ.  Our instructors always found a way to tie spiritual growth to every aspect of an 18-20 year-old's life.  We applied the gospel to biology, English class, accounting, and even to an evening swimming class which, although it seemed like a good idea during registration, I quickly learned to hate.  (I still don't swim.)

I graduated with my two-year degree in the spring of my 21st year, about one week before the young man to whom I had said goodbye 24 months earlier, returned home.  We had both accumulated a sack-full of old letters that had traveled across the country, and the growing question of --- did we "make it"?

Needless to say, we were married about five months later.  This brings me back to that lesson on sacrifice.  Giving up something of value, in exchange for something better.  We both put our faith on the line, said goodbye, and stepped into the unknown.  He feared the infamous reputation of Ricks College for being a likely place to find one's spouse.  I knew that two years would be a very long time.  We both gave up something of value ... for a while.  In exchange, I was given two years of magic, and much-needed personal growth.  He gave two years of honorable service to God, and the blessings have poured in ever since.  And I have no doubt that his decision to go, and my decision to not stand in his way, did indeed give us both something better.  Something with which to teach our children.  Something eternal.

Hippo birdie two ewes ....

Yes, I know, I just put out a new post yesterday, and I'm trying to not wear out my welcome in the Blogosphere.  But tomorrow is Husband's birthday and he doesn't want me to get him anything and we're both in hot competition to not eat (see previous post) so dining out is difficult.  Therefore, I will blog about him.  Won't that be a fun surprise?  Who doesn't want to be paraded across the internet!

A brief history:  Neither of us remembers when we first became aware of each other.  My early memories begin in a Sunday School class somewhere near the age of 12.  He was just another gross, geeky boy.

Fast forward into high school when we both attended an early morning scripture class and were carpooling together.   Our backyards met at one corner so we always seemed to be grouped in the same car for church events.  Good thing.  Being painfully shy, it took a while for the sparks to ignite.

He asked me to a semi-formal dance for our first date.  I was 16, he was 17.  My older sister and brother were home at the time and both were suddenly much too interested in my "love life".  He showed up at the door, corsage in hand, only to learn I wasn't ready because I wasn't actually sure WHEN he was supposed to come and was too shy to ask.  Anyway, awkward start.

Senior prom.  Different dance.  

More fast forwarding - two years later.  He decided to heed the call of the Lord and serve a two-year mission on the other side of the country.  We had been together for two years and seeing him go was hard, to say the least.  I spent those two years dutifully missing him and writing letters twice a week, all the while having the time of my life at college.  Yes I DID miss him, and yes I WAS having fun.  Can't explain it.  It just was.

He came home a week after I graduated and about two months later, we were engaged.  He kind of blew it with the question-popping, which he is the first to admit, but I married him anyway in Logan, Utah, nearly four months later.   Our honeymoon was one of those unfortunate occasions you laugh about years later.  Basically it consisted of limping back to our humble little apartment in Oregon, in a $300 car that was threatening to quit on any random deserted stretch of the highway, and with only a few dollars left to our now-married name.

Even more fast forwarding, 36 years and four grown kids later, I must say, life with this man has been nothing short of delightful.  He may be messy, disorganized, and forgetful, but he knows how to work hard and better yet, how to play even harder.  He's smart, kind, generous, and genuinely cares about others.  He has a heart the size of Wyoming and an optimistic tendency to get carried away when planning fun events.  He loves people and people love him.  Every pet we owned, bonded with him over anyone else.  Not to mention he loves his family, his kids, and best of all he adores me.  For what more could I ask?

I look forward to a bazillion more years with the LOML, after which we'll take stock, reassess, and sign up for a bazillion more. 

Happy Birthday to my BFF.

A Very Brady Christmas

Christmas is over.  Officially.  The trappings are still out, ie. lights, tree, other stuff, and too much left over food.  But all company is gone and the house is quiet.  The floors are quiet.  The walls are quiet.  The AIR is even quiet.  All I can hear is the fridge humming and my fingers on the keyboard.

I don't mind the rain outside because my run is done.  5.25 miles this morning.   And that's all you'll hear about running in this post.  Because I'm going to talk about Christmases past.

We used to live in the semi-country, on a couple of acres, with a long driveway.  In the early years, before our driveway was paved, the gravel used to scatter out onto the street below.  I don't remember ever actually walking down there and sweeping the rocks off the street.  But we talked about doing it.

So one Christmas morning, after our resident Sugar Plum Fairies dutifully waited until the hallowed 7:00 hour when they were FINALLY allowed to make any noise or disturb their parents --- they tripped, stumbled, danced, wrestled their way down the stairs announcing in full volume:  It's time to open presents!

"Not yet." said Dad.  "Gotta sweep the street first."

Oh the wails of agony.  The sheer torture of child abuse.  The demands for justice.

"No!!!!!!!  Dad!!!!!!"

Of course he was teasing, and the rocks on the street were forgotten.  Until the next year.

"Dad, are you going to make us sweep the street first?" asked one small resident fairy.  "I don't want to sweep the street!  Do we HAVE to??"

So for many years thereafter, it became the family Christmas tradition.  Not to actually sweep those rocks off the street.  But just to talk about it.  I'm not sure, but one year there may have been a broom set out by the Christmas tree as a reminder of the all-important chore.

Fast forward to 2011.  Christmas day.   We're all here in fully-grown adult-status, and in addition there are six NEW sugar plum fairies and a son- and daughter-in-law who helped produce them.  Favorite Daughter, and mother of three of the above-mentioned next-generation fairies, presented us all with copies of a drawing, neatly framed.

All who'd grown up in this household instantly got it.  Poor Daughter-in-law didn't have a clue why we were all suddenly laughing and exclaiming our delight.

The driveway was eventually paved and no more rocks spill out onto the street.  And we don't even live there anymore ....

But the memory continues.

Born to run?

One of my earliest memories takes place at what must have been a church picnic at a park somewhere in Portland.  I was about four.  There were organized activities for the little kids, including a short running race.  I remember my mother coaxing me to participate.  But I, being extremely shy, just clung to her leg.  Then once she gave up on me and the race began, I burst into tears. I was upset that I had missed out.  And of course it was her fault.

That was the only organized running event I can recall in my youth, although there must have been others.  However, nothing comes to mind because I avoided sports whenever possible.  I preferred climbing trees and building forts.  I obviously was a proficient cyclist (see above) and I could hold my own in foursquare and hopscotch.  I even played a decent game of ping pong, but never anything involving speed and endurance or throwing something farther than a few feet.   I still can't throw a ball  - well actually I can, but as Husband jests, I do it "like a girl".

Anyway, this is one of the many appealing things about running.  It takes no skill.  You just run as we were all born to do.  Well, actually there is SOME skill involved called form, and if you want to learn from a master, just watch a kid ..... which may be difficult to do when they're clamped onto their exasperated mother's leg, bawling.

Dedicated to my Big Bro

I've often said what got me started in running was my interest desperation to maintain my weight loss three years ago.  And that is mostly true.  But I had other sources of motivation and one came in the form of one of my siblings.

About six or seven months prior to my discovery of Weight Watchers, (or maybe it was longer ....) we went on a Caribbean cruise with a delightful group of friends and family, including my sister, brother, and their spouses.  As I've mentioned several times here, I was a confirmed walker who disdained running, and during this cruise I'd sometimes be on the upper deck, doing laps.  Once or twice I met my brother Larry up there while he ran.

Larry has been running for years.  He ran in the Hood to Coast several times long before it entered my world.  He has joined in various races and biking events through the years and would casually mention it now and then.  Since I hadn't yet started running and was painfully clueless, I never understood how completely AWESOME this was.  He has always been the model of discipline and moderation.  Some people would go all out and attempt marathons, Ironman events, or other examples of emotionally-driven craziness, often overdoing, then dropping off, stopping and starting, revving up and burning out, while Larry just continued on with his regular routine of healthy exercise and active lifestyle, year in and year out.  I can't begin to express how I have always admired all that he does.  And it goes without saying that ALL my siblings stand solidly on pedestals, IMO.

So back on that cruise ship, I ran a few laps with him.  I wasn't even wearing proper running shoes.  But it was fun and I remember being a little surprised at that.  Those few laps with my brother stuck in my head.  THAT seemingly little thing helped to fuel my interest enough to eventually start running.

Larry also, years prior, inspired my husband to start biking, which was life-changing.   See this post.

When I was about 20 lonely miles into my own emotionally-driven marathon last June, I thought about calling my brother, two states away, on my cell phone.   I wanted to hear him tell me that he was proud of me.  Second in value to my husband's opinion of me and what I was doing, my brother's opinion ranked very high.  I didn't make the call, partially because I probably would have started bawling at that point, but I knew he was proud of me and just knowing that was what I needed as I pushed through those last endless miles.

So my humble thanks goes to my big brother for his inspiration, example, support, and love.  I hope to always be worthy of ALL my terrific sibs, and to make them proud of me, as I am of each of them.