kstreetjournal | A pony a day keeps the money away —

Borrowed light (with respect to Sue – )

Posted on May 19, 2009 by K

NOTICE: I did not write this. This was a talk given in our Sacrament Meeting on Mother’s Day. It is the first and only Mother’s Day talk that didn’t leave me wanting to kick walls and chew furniture. So I begged Kathryn to let me post it. And she let me. And here it is:

My Scrapbook of Motherhood.

I have worried and wondered about what to speak about today. In this life there are few responsibilities greater than being the speaker on Mother’s Day. The emotional state of ten’s of women hangs on your words. So I hope you like My Scrapbook of Motherhood.

Page One: I’m going to have a baby. Well. Okay. I was going to try to graduate from college first. But. Okay.

Page Five: Jonathan is born. We were going to call him Christopher, but I just started to call him Jonathan and so did his dad, so he must be a Jonathan.

Page Six: Jonathan is one month old. We are in the emergency room in Logan. I tripped on some stairs and landed on my baby. He’s going to be okay, in spite of a hairline fraction on his skull. I call my parents and my dad gives me some very useful advice. He says, “Always remember, children’s main purpose in life is to destroy their parents, even if they have to destroy themselves in the process.”

Page Ten: I’m going to have another baby. A really, big baby. I’ve just graduated from college, thankfully. The baby is due in a week and a half. And suddenly the doctor is REALLY concerned about the size of the baby. A test reveals two babies. I cry. My husband laughs. (Later, Jonathan says, “Don’t WANT two bebes.” ) The day after the test, my neighbor shows up on my door step. She had just finished helping me make a baby blanket. She has fabric for a second baby blanket. “Is this fabric okay????” She asks.

At a baby shower I get this advice: “Don’t get mad – get the camera!”

Page Fifteen: I’m nursing the twins and grading papers at the same time. I can hear Jonathan banging on cabinets in the kitchen – he wants some candy that is stashed on the highest shelf. A few minutes later I hear him fall and start crying. That’s normal. I call for him to come to me and he doesn’t come. That’s not normal.

Page Sixteen: Jonathan has a cast on his leg. We are at my mom’s house. I’m feeding the twins. Jon’s little cousin comes in (he’s kind of one of those tattling-all-the-time kids). He says in his best 2 ½ year old voice: “Jon’s in the water.” “That’s fine, Tyler.” “Jon’s in the water!” “Okay.” “Jon’s… UNDER the water!!!.” Oh! The pool! The twins are on the floor in an instant. Jonathan almost has a grasp on the edge of the pool. If it wasn’t for that cast —

Page Thirty: I’m going to have another baby. I tell my Heavenly Father that it had better be a girl. He supported me on that request. This little girl talks to angels, all the time.

Page Forty-Two: I’m heading home from running errands to our house on Center Street. [a busy street] The twins (about 2 or 3) want to go to “Aunt Nita’s” house (she’s their “other mother”). I need to get home. They fuss. I insist we go home. I park the car behind the house. They won’t get out. “I am not going to Anita’s house right now! So, fine. Just sit in the car then.” I go in the house. A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. A very nice lady is returning my children to me. She found them walking together up Center Street on their way to Anita’s house.

Page Fifty: I’m going to have another baby. Clearly I’m not the one in charge here.

Page Seventy-five: I’m having a VERY BAD mommy day. I’ve locked myself in my room. I can hear 1½-year old Cameron pretty much screaming. The other kids are laughing. They pound on my door. “Mom!. Mom!” I holler from under my pillow, “Just take care of him.” “No, Mom! Open the door. You have to see this!!!” I drag myself to the door and open it. I see two beady little eyes peeking out from a head and face covered in peanut butter. I know the other kids didn’t do this to him, because he’s been going through a phase of smearing shampoo all over his head – when he’s not taking a bath. I’ve had to keep him OUT of the bathroom. So now he’s found the peanut butter, and he is a mess. We are all laughing and Cameron just keeps screaming. I remember—get the camera.

Page 100: I’m going to have another baby. This one is a new adventure. We get the PRIVILEDGE of spending a great amount of time at Primary Children’s Medical Center.

Page 125 Cameron has an “other mother.” It is the 16 year old girl across the street who babysits the kids. Every morning Cameron’s first word in the morning are “Go Shilo’s house.” His last words at night: “Go Shilo’s house.” And when he is in trouble or doesn’t get his way, “Go Shilo’s house.”

Page 150: Michael is bossing me around. He’s about three and I explain to him that I am not his slave. He says, “Oh yes you are!” His nursery teacher tells me they had a lesson on what they were going to be when they grow up. Michael said, “When I grow up, I’m going to be in charge.”

Page 175: Alex comes in the house with blood running out of the side of his head. A neighbor kid threw a rock at him. As I do triage on the wound, I’m trying to figure out what happened. No harm intended. This is a game the kids play. It’s called Rock Wars and they throw rocks at each other. Oh.

I wonder if the doctor will just send some of that super-glue home with me.

Page 200: Alex and Chris are about 10. They are doing the dishes together and they start talking about being missionaries. One of them says, “Hey! Maybe we’ll get to be companions.” The other says, “Yeah! It’ll be like: ‘Elder Van Wagoner and….. Elder Van Wagoner???? Hey! Are you guys twins!!?!?!?’”

Page 300: Alex and Chris are doing dishes together. They are about 13 or 14. Alex just got off the phone; some girl called him. He says to Chris: “You know the girls would talk to you, too, if you would just talk to them.” Chris replies: “And just what IS there to talk about???” Sixteen-year-old Jonathan pops in from the next room and says: “Exactly!!!”

Page 400: I’m driving through Idaho late at night with my three youngest children ages 11, 8 and 6. Michael is driving us all nuts, and Cameron isn’t much help either. I’ve been reading Parenting with Love and Logic. “Michael, if you can’t behave appropriately in the car, then you will lose the privilege of riding in the car.” He loses his privilege. So I pull over on the highway and make him get out and walk on the far right of the shoulder. I follow along behind him in the car. I’m a little nervous about what I’m doing, but I’ve run out of options. Cameron solves my problem by rolling down the window and yelling “Ha-Ha, Michael!” Cameron is now walking with Michael. I feel much better. After a few minutes, they get their privileges back and we continue along the highway, peacefully.

Page 600: President Hinckley has challenged all the members of the church to read the Book of Mormon. All of my children are reading and report their progress every Sunday. We met the challenge.

Page 700: I’m at the MTC. I thought we would never get here. Jon is almost twenty. I keep wondering when the devastation that I’ve heard so much about will hit me. Out of respect for the other mothers, I refrain from throwing my hands in the air and yelling “Yes!” as I walk out the doors and leave my son behind.

Page 800: I’m at the MTC with my twins. I’m sending them to foreign countries. I’m looking at all the babies in the room, dressed in black suits and ties. I want to stand up and yell, “What on earth are we thinking!!!!”

Page 900: I’m sitting in a chair in my bedroom in shock. Seventeen-year-old Alisha is standing in front of me. She is saying something about borrowing a shirt to wear with a skirt to school the next day. I’m staring at her in unbelief. Alisha hasn’t worn a dress to school since picture day in first grade. I gave up that battle on picture day in second grade – a long time ago. All I can say is a dazed “Why?” “I got a text message from Sarah. We are all wearing Sunday clothes to school to honor President Hinckley.”

Page 1000: Jonathan will be home soon. It is so close it hurts. Miraculously, he is still in one piece.

Page 1100: My 13-year-old is working on his Duty to God requirements. He needs to bear his testimony in church. He dutifully gets up and walks to the pulpit. As he begins to speak, the spirit washes over him. I can see him receive a witness of the truth.

Page 1200: My sixteen-year-old is saying a family prayer. He speaks with the power and authority that he holds as a bearer of the Aaronic priesthood. I am touched by his diligence in doing his duty in all things.

Page 1300: Alex and Chris will be home soon. It is so close it hurts.

Page 1400: My house has a revolving front door. There is always someone’s bedroom packed up in boxes in the basement. They come and they go. But eventually, they will stop coming back.

Page 1500: I co-signed on a diamond ring. Who knows what will go on the blank pages of my scrapbook.

I would like to share these words from Elder Jeffery R Holland, (April 1997).

Do the best you can through these years, but whatever else you do, cherish that role that is so uniquely yours and for which heaven itself sends angels to watch over you and your little ones.

You can’t possibly do this alone, but you do have help. The Master of Heaven and Earth is there to bless you … Yours is the work of salvation, and therefore you will be magnified, compensated, made more than you are and better than you have ever been as you try to make honest effort, however feeble you may sometimes feel that to be.

Remember, remember all the days of your motherhood: “Ye have not come thus far save it were by the word of Christ with unshaken faith in him, relying wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save.”

Rely on Him. Rely on Him heavily. Rely on Him forever. And “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope.” You are doing God’s work. You are doing it wonderfully well. He is blessing you and He will bless you, even—no, especially—when your days and your nights may be the most challenging. Like the woman who anonymously, meekly, perhaps even with hesitation and some embarrassment, fought her way through the crowd just to touch the hem of the Master’s garment, so Christ will say to the women who worry and wonder and sometimes weep over their responsibility as mothers, “Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole.” 12 And it will make your children whole as well.

Written and delivered by Kathryn Van Wagoner, May of 2009

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged kathryn, mother's day | 8 Comments

Conclavity of the Arts

Posted on May 17, 2009 by K

When I was invited to function as the Mormon Arts Foundation’s Chair of Literature some years ago, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it. Yeah, we make our living in the music biz, but that’s all just working class stuff; when you know drummers personally, you don’t get all puffed up with yourself over your involvement in the “arts.” And anyway, I found out that the Arts guys, getting together to plan the annual retreat, said, “Hey—we’ve got visual arts guys coming, and theater guys and film guys and music people (they have yet to invite a drummer). Are there any other art forms out there we should be paying attention to?”

At which time the Music Chair, who had done hours and hours in our studio—who had, in fact, cut his teeth on our console—said, “Hey. I think Kristen writes books.” And—ta-da—literature sprang into being as a fully founded and funded Group for the next retreat. Do not ask me if any of them had read my books; I was a pig in a poke then. I still pretty much still am.

Were the discussion to lag, there’s always the magnificence of creation to keep the eye busy.

Aspen Grove Family Camp in early spring

My buddy Cori, who writes like an angel. And the good Julie Rogers.

The Hoffmans and Ross Boothe

My formal experience in “The Arts” began in college. Note the “formal.” I was brought up in a house with a piano, a mother who taught me harmony, walls’ worth of books, tap/ballet lessons (complete with tutu) and there you are: a person who was a music major in University for exactly ten minutes, at which point it became glaringly clear that serious music was going to be TOO DARN HARD.

Morning session. I looked up and saw this incredible reflection on the lid of the piano. Our piano would NEVER do such a thing – too dusty, and stuck in that dark old studio.

Marvin Payne

So I majored in Theater instead. And by this means got to know the full range of weirdos who hung out at the Fine Arts Center. I repented of this silliness by choosing English as my graduate study. Big Mistake. Weirdoes there too, only with verbal acuity.

I shoulda had a picture of Dave, too. But I guess I can’t take my eyes off my own tech geek.

Q Randle, journalist, professor, songwriter (Nashville), brother-in-law and dog groomer

Eric Orton and the lovely Perrys (also this)

And through all this experience, I found that “artists” are often people who spend an awful lot of time looking down their noses at the poor schlubby old nebbishes who should be making up their audience (Why don’t they “get” me? Because I am too deeeep.) And much “artistic” discussion centers around this philosophical question: “How can we get them to give us money without selling out our ‘artistic integrity’??” But all of this is fodder for another day. The point is, I was afraid that the Mormon Arts Retreat would end up being more of the same – with an extra shot of “how the church and our kids get in the way of our genius and success,” for good measure.

Turns out I was wrong. WAY wrong.

Christensens

Pretty good eats up there in the mountains

My friend, Dorothy, and hubby

Dave and Jefra Linn (Jefra also here)

The retreats are small, each Chair inviting seven people to represent his/her discipline, so that’s thirty-five guests, give or take the couple of dancers who keep sneaking in, plus spouses (don’t you hate that word?) plus board members, plus grunts, which is what G is, one of two A/V grunts (the other one is a sitting judge—a real one) which is why I am still invited. So I go as a grunt’s wife, now. Because Chairs and guests rotate.

Stewarts (Hi, Mary!)

The honorable Cards

Sometimes they invite truly useful people, like copyright lawyers like Bill Evens (who is secretly still a musician), to explain the rigors of real life to us.

The adorable Rick Walton

I am writing about this because every time we go, I come away impressed with the kindness, the quiet earnestness and humility of so many of the people we get to party with there. I say party – and it feels that way – a serious, grown-up, enriching, challenging party that centers around really good conversation, some about the business of the arts. But mostly about the work the arts should do to serve. It’s still a group of weirdoes, but really, really talented, nice, faithful weirdoes, who share faith and a sense of responsibility.

Lew Swain and a Stephen Tuttle

Sharlee Mullins Glenn and Mette Harrison

Gerald Lund

Swains and Thompsons and other nice folks. (If you follow the link to see Dahrl’s really cool stone sculptures, select “artists gallery” then click on her name—second row from the bottom, on the far left.)

And my brain’s gone and I can’t remember this lovely writer’s name – Vicki Richmond, is that you?

And who constantly remind each other that gifts are given to people on earth so that they may serve as many as need their service—to heal, uplift and bless where they can.

And even weirdoes like to get together with their own odd kind now and then, just for the simple joy of feeling not so weird.

I don’t have pictures of everybody, obviously, and I apologize, should any of you MAF guys actually stumble on this blog and feel left out. Or relieved. I really apologize if you feel relieved because that will mean that the blog isn’t as cool as I thought it was.

Especially, I write this to Kershisniks and Greg Hansen and every other person I should have shot and remembered. With the camera, I mean.

Posted in Epiphanies and Meditations, friends, Fun Stuff, Just life, Making Things, The outside world | Tagged MAF, Making Things | 11 Comments

~enter chaos

Posted on May 17, 2009 by K

Soap Box: Mormon Women drive me crazy. I think they are a little like Jewish women, except without a trace of Yiddish accent—which is sad, because the accent adds charm to the signature guilt, guilt being one of commonalities here, guilt and cooking. And obsession with marriage. The difference is (may be) that the stereotypical Jewish mother is ace at engendering guilt in other people, while the LDS women are busy beating themselves with it.

It is Sunday, and I am preparing my lesson about temples, and this is the first thought that comes into my head. Sad, I know. The culprit was this beautiful little passage of scripture from Sec 109 of the D&C:

7 And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another words of wisdom; yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom, seek learning even by study and also by faith;

8 Organize yourselves; prepare every needful thing, and establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God;

9 That your incomings may be in the name of the Lord, that your outgoings may be in the name of the Lord, that all your salutations may be in the name of the Lord, with uplifted hands unto the Most High—

Leave it to LDS women to scalpel out that middle section, which was directed to the builders of the first of our temples, and aim it directly at themselves. “Our homes,” someone will inevitably point out in Relief Society, “should be governed by this counsel.” She will say it with solemnity, and everybody else will nod with the same solemnity, in spite of the fact that the entire room has just pretty much assumed fetal position.

Let me explain temples as I see them: they are the focal point of our entire belief system. These are lovely, quiet, spotless buildings where people come to shut out the world and seek spiritual peace and clarity of mind. In them, we go about the business of making family relationships eternal – so that marriages and parent/child connections, and thus aunt and uncle and cousin and grandfolks to all degree, will still have connectivity after death. While I cannot explain the physics of this to you, I do believe there is physics involved (remember that string theory explains a TON to me about religion), but because we are the bug in the pool (see the metaphors of Richard P Feynman), we have trouble catching a vision of the mechanics of the universe. As far as I am concerned, the very fact that I am is a mystery. But in the simple lovely magnificence of the temple, I can come as close to actually hearing myself think (part of the mystery) as I ever will.

In short, this is a very holy, very focused place where grown-ups are searching for spiritual clarity and connection, and where this focus is bolstered by the simple, humble and quiet ritual that establishes the connections. Peace. Safety. Order. Quiet.

And this reminds you instantly of home, right?

Let me explain homes as I see them: all about kids. All about earth life. All about learning and creating and making mistakes. Three meals a day, at least. The temple has a cafeteria for the benefit of the volunteers who sometimes serve in several hour shifts. This is manned by grown-ups for grown-ups. My kitchen is hardly manned by anybody, but is used liberally by all. It used to be spotless back when my business was keeping small people from dying in droves; I needed something to keep my hands busy while my eye was on them. We eat there and talk there and sing there. Not a pit stop in the day. Now, it is anything but spotless: clean enough to keep us healthy and safe, but not spotless.

A home, as I see it, doesn’t want to be white and holy—it wants to be The Velveteen Rabbit, brown and green and blue and red and yellow—colors of grass and sky and dirt – of earth. Things are planted here, tended and harvested. There is elbow grease expended here. Result: dust, dirty clothes, closets in mild-to-wild disarray. A home wants to be used hard – not irresponsibly, not destructively, but warmly, actively, parents playing with children, arguing with them, guiding them. Kind of like a sculptor’s studio, not built to be clean, but to be functional and safe while the sculptor argues with the stone.

There are dirty dishes in the temple, but they’re out of sight, the realm of the kitchen guys. In a house, it’s hard to hide that stuff, because the people who function there ARE the kitchen guys. If the mother and father are spending time with the kids – teaching to read, or to fold clothes and do laundry, or how to run interpersonal relationships – or playing Candyland seventy two hair-pulling times in a row – where is the shame in a sink full of dishes? (yeah-yeah, I know – and my kids DID do the dishes.) To think that a house HAS to be spotless? It’s like wearing underwear and expecting it to remain antiseptic at the same time.

Please do not misunderstand—for some women (many? some? a few? most?) keeping a house in spit-shine is a joy, a pleasure, a hobby, a gift. There’s no shame in having things in order, either – as long as the children come first. The people come first. It’s the guilt I’m addressing, the distress at dis-order.

Let me explain entropy as I see it: when I first came across the second law of thermodynamics, it was stated simply that in nature, order—over time and without constant maintenance (human intervention) —will inevitably break down into disorder (chaos). I didn’t like this “law.” I didn’t like it at all. For one thing, the subjective suggestion here is that what is clean and nice and productive must eventually break down into what must be seen as a big fat unproductive mess. And that’s not the way I saw the thing at all.

A farmer comes into the plain (plane – as in geometric) and forces “order” on it. Remember that this plain was a balanced, self-regulated eco system – plants, animals – all balanced and old and functional as dirt. The farmer sets up neat fences, plows up the native plants, plants things NOT native, which require a water source, which means ditches and gates and a lot of sweat. Builds a barn in which to house animals that are NOT native and need feed and tending and defending from the outside world, installs electricity and sewer and roads; all of which need to be tended and maintained . And none of this farmer-created system works together – each part has to be individually manually operated. Then something happens and the farmer goes away, and nobody comes to take over. Eventually, the house decays, the sewers collapse and are filled with dirt, the crops won’t show up after a few years, the grass takes over, the animals leave or die – eventually, all that’s left of the farmer are the scars. And the original system settles back into – order.

Again, don’t misunderstand: I LOVE farmers and crops and food in the grocery store and electricity. People were born to manipulate their environment. People, in my belief, are the point of the planet being here. But the rest of this is a wholly different discussion – my point is that “order” is in the eye of the beholder. To my, the more stable and productive system ends up being the self-perpetuating chaos, which—as science lately will tell you—has its own – to us – inscrutable patterns and rules. Isn’t it like human beings to call what they don’t understand and can’t control “chaos”?

So this is my point: “order” is relative. It doesn’t necessarily indicate clothes ironed and folded neatly into drawers. Maybe it does indicate children loving and respecting parents who are productive, honest—but foremost, loving and wise, realistic but fun. And here, I have run out of steam, and words. And your patience. Now I have to go read other people’s blogs before church, because keeping up with family and friends is part of the Sabbath, and because I love it, and isn’t it nice when those two things go together? Please – as entropy once again claims me, draw what conclusions you can from any of this. Bundle them up and take them home.

They’re free.

Posted in Epiphanies and Meditations, IMENHO (Evidently not humble) | Tagged entropy, home, kids, temples | 25 Comments

Just a dumb day

Posted on May 13, 2009 by K

I couldn’t sleep last night. Who knows why? Just, sometimes, you can’t find the soft place – the place where you sink down and it swallows you. I keep landing on ledges – maybe because I have a yucky full physical scheduled today. Or because of the windshield. Things that are going to happen—they keep me just awake enough to know I’m not asleep.

So I got up at eleven fifteen (I know – you guys were still busy partying at eleven fifteen) and did my morning’s workout (save time – do it eight hours early). Seven hours of sleep – up at a good time – cool. Except sleep still didn’t come for a while, and in the morning, I was sluggish. I could hear G doing his workout—he runs for hours on the treadmill with the TV blasting. I almost slept through that – which is fairly unbalanced.

Then I remembered the windshield guy was coming between eight and one, and I had to get the horses out, then get them back in – no more than an hour on the grass. Too much spring grass, and you harvest a vet bill and maybe lose a horse. So I got up, and came almost awake somewhere along Center Street, heading west.

It was cold this morning, A little knife like. The pink snow was real now, lying in drifts all along the ill-kept front of my place. I parked, and climbed the fence and was halfway down the drive, shivering, when I realized that I could have driven in.

So the day started out stupid.

I knew it was Wednesday. Because I had the doctor’s appointment. Only because of that. On my way home, G called. The Suburban, which evidently has a bad heart, wouldn’t start. This massive vehicle—I mean, the thing can haul a five ton trailer with four full grown horses in it up a mountain—never gets used. We hide it from the sun in the garage, into which it fits the way a USB plug fits into the back of a computer. We had a real garage once, but that was before we bought Chaz a bunch of furniture for the household that didn’t happen, and the riding mower, and—you know—other stuff.

So I went home, and we sidled into the garage, got to the hood, and began to push the bear out. It really wasn’t that hard. We’d made about twelve inches progress when I set my foot against some cardboard conveniently and anciently put down to catch oil. When I shoved that time, the foot slipped and my head slammed down onto the hood, chin first, teeth through the top of my head. It wasn’t actually that bad – that sound of grating teeth, the momentary numbness that makes you wonder if you’ve broken your whole face. I must have warped my whole skull – my chin’s sore where it hit the car, but so’s my right temple. Glad I wasn’t watching that happen.

Got the car out. That was good. Went inside. I sat down to put together today’s deposit. Forgot all about email. Forgot all about the things I usually check first. Until I got mail. And it was M. M’s day to write. He’d been posting for half an hour: here I am in Argentina. Anybody awake? Anybody home?

I can’t explain how horrifying this was. That I’d forgotten that Wednesday meant M. That I hadn’t hurried, and gotten up early and checked my mail That I’d just slogged along through half of that precious time. Picture your child on the far side of a door, knocking, and you’re just upstairs, messing with your hair – and you don’t hear.

The writing back and forth was fast and furious after that. And just at the end, when he was saying, “Gotta go,” the windshield guy came. I hauled G in from the studio and sent him out with the guy, and then finished up this controlled fall of a conversation. It left me feeling a little suspended, like I’d run out of road before I ran out of inertia. And then I sat at my desk, a little blank now, color correcting the old family scans, trying to remember what else I was supposed to be doing.

Because there was something I was supposed to be doing. The deposit? Yes. Getting together the health records? Yes. And then, right about ten o’clock, it hit me: the horses. I’d totally forgotten them. I never forget them. And they’d been on the grass for two hours.

I forgot that I was going to take the camera to shoot the pink snow. I had visions of horses, writhing and dying in the pasture. I drove like the proverbial bat, listening to political radio that did not help my mood.

But when I got down there, they were fine. So far, I mean. So far they are fine. And even though my bottom teeth are a little bit sharp along the edge and my chin hurts, I have not formed any blood clots yet or noticed that my face is lop-sided.

And it occurs to me that this is just more of the life I’ve been living since I had kids. You wake up to a day that maybe has a few things scheduled in it. But you never know what’s going to happen in the first ten minute, or where you’ll have ended up by what was supposed to be dinnertime.

So I guess this already kinda dumb day is just business as usual. Sound familiar?

Posted in Just life | Tagged Horses, Murphy, stupid, windshield | 8 Comments

Every little triumph counts

Posted on May 12, 2009 by K

People always like to think that I am brave and fierce, a thing which is just completely untrue. I’m verbal, which is a kind of armor, I suppose. But I am not brave, and rarely fierce—only when I’m protecting someone or something I love. And even that statement doesn’t stand if the situation involves wasps. Or bears. Probably Sharks. Nazis. Yeah – not brave.

But I am here to tell you that there actually have been a few times when I’ve practiced chutzpah to my own advantage, one of which happened today.

I hate to be rude. I hate to make people feel like I don’t trust them, even when I don’t. I don’t even want to imply an insult. I don’t think I’m all that different from most nice women (in that way, at least). Which is why nice women so often get taken advantage of, sometimes in terrible ways. (The man, sitting behind the wheel of his car, looks at her reproachfully and says, “What? Don’t you trust me?”)

So I don’t stand up for myself. And when something happens and I don’t speak up about it, I spend days feeling sick to my stomach, or mad—especially when it’s a matter of money, and that, especially when I don’t have any to waste. As was the case many, many years ago when G and I went out to dinner in LA with his brother and wife, his other brother and wife, and his sister and husband.

We went to TGIF. Back then, I think it was a California institution with a menu that was about 30 pages long and an atmosphere like the old Provo Jimba’s used to have: true chaos, weird memorabilia all over the place – kind of like the present Friday’s except genuine. We were visiting from out of state. M (the 2^nd brother) and his wife were from out of town. V and her husband were living in Utah back then, I think and Q and his wife – I think they were living with her folks in LA. So, anyway, it was a big deal. A big sort of reunion deal.

We sat there talking and laughing in the roaring chaos after they’d taken our order. It was kind of an exciting time, no kids – good conversation. And we had definitely splurged; the place was not cheap. The talk was fun enough that we didn’t notice the time go by. Not until somebody noted that the table next to ours, which had been seated when we were, had been re-seated since and was now being served. So we called the waiter over and said, “Umm – what gives?”

Evidently our own waiter had gone home in the middle of our order, and one of the chefs had burned himself with hot oil and had to be taken to the hospital by another of the chefs – and an earthquake had torn off the kitchen: a number of things had happened. He promised he’d get us our food. Which he did, very soon after. It wasn’t hard for him; the food had been sitting under the warming lights for an hour, as witnessed by the tepid French fries and the limp lettuce.

We ate the stuff because we were starving. But with every bite, I was thinking of the money this had cost. And I was getting sicker and sicker at the thought of having spent that much for something so short of promise. And I knew that I would be feeling even sicker and more disturbed when I had to write the check and get in the car and drive away to face the rest of my life – which really could have used that money.

So I said something about it to the others. Like, “This just isn’t right.” Which started an interesting conversation. Each couple reacted in a different way. M, whose philosophy had always been “the customer is always right,” (and he meant it both ways – as customer and as owner of a business), agreed, but wasn’t sure he wanted to make drama.

Q simply refused to do anything about it, even though his wife was feeling just like I was, so he paid his bill and left us, announcing that he would wait in the car, thank you very much. G, who doesn’t ever like to make waves of any kind, left with him. V and her husband, both of whom are quiet people, also stayed. And then they all looked at me.

While we’d I waited for the waiter to bring the bills, I was quaking inside. Confrontation is not my thing. I wasn’t brought up to it, really. But it was either slink away, heart-sunk, or stand up and simply state the case. I didn’t have to be angry or unkind, I told myself. This just wasn’t right, and all I had to do was explain my feeling. Still, my hands were shaking and nerves were standing out like toothpicks all over my wee self.

The waiter came. I smiled at him and said, “Here’s the thing. When we ordered this food from the menu, it was with the understanding that it would come to the table hot and ready to eat – and in good time. It didn’t.”

He said, “I’ll get the manager.”

Yeah.

Like somebody saying, “I’m telling the principal.” Or “I’m calling the police.”

I was now a plasma ball around a tiny core of personal terror.

When the manager came up, I took a long, slow breath and repeated my calm and reasonable complaint. And he apologized. Volubly. Generously, with a flourish, he wrote something on the back of his business card. “There,” he said, handing it to me. “Free bar drinks and appetizers the next time you come in.” Which would have been nice, “Except we live out of state,” I said firmly. “And, ummm—we don’t drink.”

“You do?” he said. “You don’t?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “I’m afraid this doesn’t help.” And then the negotiation started. In the end, the man very kindly gave me our two dinners free, and did the same for M and his wife. I can’t remember what happened with V and her husband, but because money, once put into the registered, could not be retrieved, Q and Les did NOT get their dinner free. Instead, they inherited the drinks and appetizers card (they don’t drink, either).

I’d argued a little—getting the food completely free didn’t seem fair to me, but the manager wanted us to want to come back. So I was feeling pr-etty darn good as we went out to the car. I’d stood my ground, remained civil and respectful and – as I climbed into the car where Q and G had been hiding out, I said, “I just earned myself $48.72.”

I meant it. That money was now mine and mine alone.

The rest of them piled in, all wired and laughing about the whole thing.

When Les got into the car, Q—from a dark corner of the very back seat—said, “So did you get our money back?” Like she was supposed to have done that for him, the big idiot.

On the way home, I felt like I was flying. Like I’d just finished a final. Like school was OUT. I said, “I can’t believe I did that! I stood up for myself. I can’t believe it.”

And M made some caustic remark, something about “so what’s the big surprise?” Like he thought that had been easy for me. Like he thought I did that kind of thing all the time. Like I hadn’t been scared to death. He thought he knew me. But he was way, way wrong.

So this was a very long story—remarkable only to me. It was supposed to be a set-up for what I just did, about which I feel very good and self-congratulatory. But it’s not going to make much of a story really.

It’s just, we have to replace our Suburban’s windshield so we can get it inspected, and it’s months over due because we keep forgetting to do it. But I remembered today. And I got out the phone book and picked a place and called, and the lady was really nice, and said they could come out and do it right here in my driveway, which is perfect, and quoted me a price. Along the way, we’d sorta made friends – and I didn’t want her to feel bad, but I did manage to say, “Now, if I call around—is somebody going to quote me a price that’s gonna embarrass you?” And we laughed, and she said, “Well, if somebody underbids, we can come down.” So I said, “Deal.” I hung up, and for two seconds, I felt really good about the whole thing.

Then I started feeling antsy about not getting another bid. But I didn’t want to betray all that friendliness by going behind her back. About then, my head started blowing up, so I called another place we’d tried, and they came in forty dollars cheaper. I started imagining trying to explain to G why I was spending forty dollars more than I had to because I didn’t want to hurt this lady’s feelings and back out on a commitment, and maybe make it so the Diamond Auto Glass people, who were probably on their knees, thankful that they’d have food on the table that night, would end up with hungry children.

But the awfulness of explaining all that won; I called Diamond back and got the same nice lady and said, “My GM would hit his head against the wall (right – blame him) if I didn’t get two bids. And this other place came in at $120. I’d rather use you guys.”

And you know what? She didn’t feel betrayed at all. There were no recriminations. Nobody yelled at me. She just reworked her numbers, came in ten dollars higher, and I suggested that she charge me five more than that (I know – I’m an idiot – but they are driving ALL THE WAY out here, and the other place wasn’t). Saved myself twenty five dollars. TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS. Just by being brave.

Cool, huh?

Anybody wanna go to Friday’s???

Posted in A little history, The outside world | Tagged brave, Fridays, standing up | 10 Comments

~in just spring

Posted on May 11, 2009 by K

There was a time in my life when I believed in magic. (If you read this out loud, you must say the word – say “magic”—very softly, as though you are breathing it, and feeling the touch softly on your arms and on your face). Not the kind of magic in Harry Potter or whatever. But the kind a young girl feels when she is thinking of the things that could happen – could, if the stars align correctly, if something unusual and gently provoking should enter the stage. It’s the heart-catch of a drift of lilac, a glint of light that laughs along the edge of a leaf, waiting only till it catches your eye to vanish. As though it had known you. As though to remind you there are other realities a thin and mysterious moment askew from our own.

She feels it when she sees the boy. Not one of the usual, dorky boys of noon-day. A different boy,of dawn or of evening, whose hair falls a little over his face. His smile is tentative and his eyes beautiful. She has only a glimpse of him across the room. And he, too, seems to wait till he catches her eye, then, very likely regretting the plainness of that, blinks and looks away. Or did he just not see her at all? She may not meet him before he gets away. Someone’s cousin. Someone new? In fact, it’s better if she doesn’t find out. Then there’s no earth stuck to her imagination, and she is free to feel the lightness in her chest at the chance, the slim chance of something about to happen.

It’s the magic of a rare spring evening, when there is one last bird stirring and the moon is out, and every plain thing in the world is the same—but oddly different. Changed by moonlight. Softened. Opening. And you can feel the blood beating in your fingertips, as though you have turned to something between paper and glass, and you are breathing with the universe. And waiting. And there are lamps in the evening, frail and oddly star-like in the lush dark green shadows under the warm light of the window. Lily of the valley, glowing – and stars of Sweet Woodruff. And the air is full of things not yet spoken, of gentle hands that lift your chin till you are looking at the silent moon.

It is a sort of hunting magic that Shakespeare knew very well, perhaps not to his credit. A breathless electricity that makes the ears sharp, connecting soft air all along the skin. And the girl wears her long, gored, brushed-denim skirt, and her gauze and lace shirt with the tiny buttons, and the wide brimmed straw hat she found in some odd shop, the one that dips slightly over her eye. And she is aware of herself in these things, and of the air touching her as she moves, and of the lilac flirting with her heart—and she wonders . . .

This is what I knew. And I remember those lily of the valley under the window of my house, my student-rental, once real—a place old as the pioneer town, well aged red brick, dignified and over-grown, its basement still furnished with ancient pie-safes and older newspapers. I was reading the Princess Bride in those days (long before it was anything but an odd and romantic literary experience—new and defiant and failing to defy the rules) and The Robber Bridegroom (odder still) and Beowulf (in its original old English). And everything was a mystery, as though life had stored all my future things in some Welcome Bag, left behind a door, waiting for me to knock on the right one. And I was pretty then – willowy, face-tanned, hair like moonlight.

On one birthday in that time, I woke up to find lilacs on my porch. To my senses, so alive that morning, so heightened, the scent of them was dizzying—and their origin a seductive mystery. And then a boy, an odd and attractive boy, came along, almost before the day had sprung, to breakfast with me on hot fudge Sundaes. And after that more, other people. I remember very little, except that it all seemed planned, a decorated stage— just beyond my seeing, things were happening, readying, bustling with an eye half on me and half on the production at hand. I was Puck in those days. And Ginger was Mustard Seed, and others took other parts. And we played the play at a park, in shredded jeans and make-up, our backstage three huge pine trees that hid us from the audience, which was sitting all together, a colorful semi-circle in the grass.

We fairies played the music – me the flute, Ginger the recorder. And we did the business Robert had set for us, and forgot lines and entrances, and pranced across the stage, trailing ribbons and couplets. I did not love everything about being on the stage, but that play I did love, and the smell of the pines, and the laughter on the grass, and the dawns and the evenings then, all so odd and breathless and poignant. And waiting.

And then the years go by, and my children are standing totally still in the back yard under towering trees, deep green with May—silently, their arms out to the side, waiting for the spring’s first mourning cloak to check them thoroughly out, ascertaining honesty—waiting for him to land, sweet as a whisper, light as breath, on a head or an arm, or even on a hand, which happened more than once over the course of the years.

I saw that mourning cloak again a few days ago. Why was I outside? Taking these last few offerings of images. But the children are gone from this house, so I held still, very, very still, my camera ready in one hand, wanting a picture of him, so chary and careful—but hoping he might still land on me.

Me this time.

I got a picture. Not that he would let me close to do it.

And then he went off on his own business.

Probably to find Emma.

Posted in A little history, Epiphanies and Meditations, Images, Memories and Ruminations, Seasons | Tagged lily of the valley, magic, Puck, spring | 9 Comments

Spring color

Posted on May 10, 2009 by K

——=0=——

The tiny harbinger flowers, so delicate – but surprisingly decorated. Snowdrops are like this too, but white with a delicate stroke of green. They’d be gaudy if they were any larger, eh?

Years ago – no. Decades ago, we planted these tulips at the edge of the thicket. Now they are in the thick of it, still going. Still spreading, oh, so slowly.

Most of the old tulips are long gone. As old as Murphy, this one may be.

I used to think these were boring—too many of ’em too quickly. But a closer look is almost batik-like, and the blue deepens in gradient.

Sometimes you can’t really get to the heart of things till you get to the heart of things.

May. It pours into the yard from the south, then the north, the the southwest. It coaxes the yellow bits out of the butter and eggs, festoons the trees with leaves, buries the feet of the bridge in green and invites the sun to stain the air with life.

Our yard is wild. Wilder than it used to be before we took on the acre and a half of pasture. Wilder than Guy would like. But I love the deep yellow of the lions, especially played against this brilliant blue, deep green and sweet pink.

Easter eggs and tulips: both surprises, something surprisingly material and promising hidden in the splintered green.

Mushroom city – love the brown.

Lilac against burch

Again, the lions against the bells and the crimson tulip.

lily waves

More thicket. Tulips gone feral.

This, my dears, is pink snow. It comes from a great big tree across from the pasture. I’ll show you that later, when I’ve had time to remove the ugly power lines that scar the tree. The wind comes up, and the petals fly across the street to catch in these nasty early bits of weed. I open the car door, look down, and find the pink snow. Then I know it’s spring.

Once Gin’s and Cam’s and Char’s, then M’s. Now Emma’s.

The lions still don’t trust me. Or maybe they thought I was G, coming to find them.

Posted in Images, Seasons | Tagged color, pink snow, spring, yard | 12 Comments

Scenes from the hood –

Posted on May 9, 2009 by K

This is a thank you note:

I can’t decide which of these I like better.

There is nothing like the deep green of May.

Posted in Images | Tagged home, storm, yard | 9 Comments

Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish

Posted on May 7, 2009 by K

Okay, so tomorrow is my birthday. And I’ll be really, really old. And usually, I don’t let people get me stuff. I have everything I could ever dream of. Except maybe a basement. But there is something I do want to ask for. And I’m actually stealing the chutzpah from Megan to post my wish list here:

For my birthday, I would LOVE it if every one of you – including any and all lurkers who think, because we haven’t actually met yet, they aren’t part of this circle (wrong, wrong) – it would just cheer up my old 57 year old life to hear from you tomorrow. Just a word? A happy line? Right here in these comments? So I can run my fingers through them, and gloat over them and do the dance of joy?

And that’s what I want. It would make me very, very happy. That and some fudge icing, maybe. About a tablespoon. Or a hug. And for Toni not to have broken her arm, and for Rachel to be well, and Paul to get his letter, and Mike and L to get some rest and have some fun – and I guess I do have a long, long list of things like that. For each of you. For all of us. A truly happy day.

Kiss.

Posted in friends | Tagged birthday | 61 Comments

Three gray old men walking

Posted on May 7, 2009 by K

Truth told, I never did pay much attention to Ludwig Wittkenstein, even after I’d seen Max Dugan Returns for the tenth time. Until Sunday. When he (not Dugan) showed up in Red and Rover and charmed my go-to-meetin’ socks off. I still don’t know very much about him. Read the head of the Wiki piece. And found a treasure trove of sound bites to him attributed. I don’t usually approve of sound bites. Context, you know, is everything. But I am going to pass this plebeian link on to you, and supply two quotes for free, just because I love them so very much:

Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness but come down into the green valleys of silliness.

I sit astride life like a bad rider on a horse. I only owe it to the horse’s good nature that I am not thrown off at this very moment.

I am thinking of having both of these embroidered on banners so I can wear them next time I ride in a convertible. If I ever do. Which I won’t, and haven’t done since my imagination grew up to include caved-in heads.

And will someone please explain to me why formatting in an HTML environment is so hair-raising? Why do you HAVE to get a space between your lines when you do a hard return, huh????

But that is not what I meant to write about, huh? It was the three old men. Walking. A story in pictures. With captions.

The curtain rises:

Act One

But you don’t get to see act one, which concerns the difficulties faced by short, fat old men struggling to get into, and subsequently out of, a car. I would have to take vid for that which I no longer shoot. So you must just take my word for its dramatic value.

Act Two

Getting on the path.

This can be a complicated matter.

He stoops to conquer. There was another picture that might have explained the interesting design on the pavement, but I elected to leave that one out.

Notice the side-long glance? Only the person on the far side is pretending not to notice us.

ACT THREE

On the path.

It is nearly sundown, which you must have noticed. This is symbolic. And our three old men are being passed by young people whose concept of life at this stage includes wheels. They carry their hopes and plans in packs on their backs. We watch them go by and smile discretely.

We have come a long darn way.

Act Four

It is never too late to be distracted.

Hmmmm.

When you have come this far, you have the right to stop. Headlong living is all well and good, but stopping is also good. Dogs like stopping. Not for the same reasons I would, perhaps.

Crossing the plains. Or looking for something edible. Edible resides, ultimately, in the nose of the beholder, I think. And you are never too old to lick your own nose.

Act Five

Reflecting on the journey.

This is the back of our house. We have lived here pretty much 31 years. That’s a lot of life. Four children. Half of a cat. Seven and a half dogs. Or maybe only three full dogs and five half ones. Lots of easter egg hunts and snow slides and 4th of July parties. Sometimes it’s good to see your life from behind.

I stole this image. These people do not belong to me. But that’s what happens when you walk the path at sundown. Sometimes you find children in surprising places. Sometimes they are swinging, out of shadow into light. Sometimes the light is the gift.

And th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!

Posted in dogs, Epiphanies and Meditations, Family, Images, Just life, Memories and Ruminations | Tagged dogs, G, river path, walks, Wittkenstein | 10 Comments

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