TravelinOma

My Maturation Program

2012-01-26T03:51:00.002-07:00

Marty about 12

The biggest thing that happened in 5th grade was the Maturation Program. We all knew it was coming, and even though we acted nonchalant or even disinterested, we could hardly wait. The secrets of womanhood would be revealed and finally, we would be knowing. In my day, the boys stayed in class and did subtraction or something equally boring, and we came back with our Kotex booklets hidden in our skirts, giggling, wiping cookie crumbs from our mouths. We were now wise, and yes ... mature.

Marty, Olympus High School Senior Year

An advanced maturation program took place in my college dorm. We were all virgins (or at least pretended to be) but by then older sisters and former roommates were getting married, sharing details of what doing it was like. In the time-honored way of women, the uninitiated were prepared for the big moment.

A couple of years later I was in a room full of the well-initiated. Twenty pregnant mamas-to-be shuddered as we watched a movie of a woman in labor, and sobbed as we watched her give birth. We'd matured for six months, and attending the labor and delivery class was a privilege of the third trimester. We toured the hospital, learned all the signs and symptoms, and practiced our breathing techniques. We were ready.

Chase, Mack, Hannah,

After that, the conversation shifted. In preschool parking lots and ballet class waiting rooms we discussed our children's maturation instead of ours. Crawling, walking, talking, reading—"When did your kid start?" In Little League bleachers and parent-teacher conferences we worried and wondered if they were on schedule to become all they could become.

Halverson Heroes 1980

Back then I watched my kids get older by the second, but I planned to stay the same. Lancome and L'Oreal promised I could, so I bought eye cream and went to aerobics, hoping to catch the aging process in time. Forty came and went, and although I joked about hot flashes and reading glasses, I knew deep down that I was still pretty cute. Middle-age wasn't so bad. I'd wisely avoided the problems the old ladies at the mall seemed to have. I was through being pregnant and through being fat. Months of chicken breasts and hard-boiled eggs had me trim and youthful, and the fact that I wasn't supporting a developing or nursing baby for the first time in 11 years contributed a wonderful feeling of vitality. I lost 30 lbs in 5 months and was back to my fighting weight, healthy.

Mom and Dad, 1997

About that time my mom started to complain about her hair, her joints, her eyesight, her feet, her stomach, her taste-buds ... I tuned her out. She really didn't complain that much—just enough to bug me. "Hey, Mom! I thought we were talking about me!" (She was starting to sound like my grandma.) Then she died. I was only 48, still in denial about my own impending dotage. Getting old was for the uninformed, I thought. It was actually surprising to me that my own mother had let it happen.

Now I wish I'd paid attention to her ailments. In spite of all my plans, I'm getting old. As crazy as it seems, I'm married to a sixty-five year old Opa! And the girl who does my hair paid me this compliment the other day: "You are so darling! You remind me of my grandma!" (With compliments like that, who needs tips?)

I had an MRI on my heart this week to follow up on a problem the doc detected on an echo cardiogram. "The good news is you're 62. You've lived a good, long life with a defective heart. I'm not worried about you at all." It was good news, of course, but when someone refers to my very unfinished existence with "you've lived a good, long life" it's a reminder that I'm on the downhill slide. I'm in the third trimester, but I don't want to go to the movie and see what happens next.

Aged seems to be another normal stage of life, but nobody's interested in having the aging discussion. I would be. If they passed out booklets and cookies and punch, I'd love to head over to the gym with the class of '67 for a maturation class. Maybe they'd talk about whiskers, (on girls) and forgetting where I put all six pairs of glasses. I'd ask if anybody's feet feel like they're walking on knives first thing in the morning. The guys would come this time (even they are mature by now) and discuss the demise of the prostate, and we'd realize we've circled back to a time when doing it is a big deal again.

Even though my crowd has men and women who lift weights, do yoga, run the treadmill, swim laps and bike the canyons, there's no way around it—we're old. (It's better than being dead, which is the alternative.) I'd love to go someplace where someone acknowledges that getting old is normal, so I can stop feeling guilty about not trying hard enough. Should I have been vegan? Should I have thrown out my salt shaker? Should I have given up coke? I don't really want to know the answer to that question.

Ballou, Robinson Kid's Chorus

I wonder why we marvel that a child goes from a newborn, to a toddler, to a kindergartener who plays violin and piano, to a cub scout, building fires and water skiing, to a 5'6" young track star but we're shocked to notice our bodies have changed, too, in that same ten years.

I need a maturation program where I learn the secrets of this knew stage of life. All about the advantages, stuff to look forward to, tricks to overcome the challenges. And I want to see the folks who've made it to elder statesmen. The ones who are oozing with experience and dying to share it with someone who is interested.

If you hear of a maturation program for the young at heart
(defective hearts welcome) let me know.
I'd love to know how to put a twinkle in my wrinkle!

*P.S. You guys put a twinkle in my wrinkle! Every comment and email is read, gets a smile or a giggle, and a tender thought for what you mean to me! I can't answer them all, because I get carried away and don't have time to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, get dressed, brush my teeth or bathe. In order to keep myself somewhat pleasant to be around, I read your comments, visit your blogs, and respond by writing my posts. You folks keep my heart beating happily!

Love Language

2012-01-24T17:20:00.000-07:00

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about,

but the inner music the words make."
—Truman Capote

Mrs. Wagstaff, my 9th grade English teacher, made us memorize poems and recite them every Monday. I hated it. But, I still remember them, and they continue to touch my heart with their inner music. Here are some of the words that taught me to love words:

Evangeline
"Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of Heaven,
Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels."
—Longfellow

Annabelle Lee
"She was a child, and I was a child, in this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabelle Lee.
We loved with a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me."
—Edgar Allan Poe

Hiawatha
"By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the moon Nokomis ...
And the little Hiawatha."
—Longfellow

Vespers
"Little boy kneels at the foot of his bed,
Drooped on his little hands, little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper—who dares?
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers."
—A. A. Milne

Touch of the Master's Hand
"Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile."
—Myra Brooks Welch

Little Orphant Annie
"Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
To wash the cups and saucers, and brush the crumbs away."
—James Whitcomb Riley

Casey at the Bat
"There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat."
—Ernest Lawrence Thayer

Wynken, Blynken and Nod
"Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—"
—Eugene Field

What Does the Train Say
"What does the train say? Jiggle joggle, jiggle joggle.
What does the train say? Jiggle joggle jee."
—Laura E. Richards

Jerusalem
"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?"
—Milton

Invictus
"It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
—William Ernest Henley

The Road Not Taken
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
—Robert Frost

Thank you, Mrs. Wagstaff!
You made a difference.

My Dad Jiggs

2012-01-18T02:01:00.002-07:00

Me and my dad, 1971

"How did you learn to play the piano," I asked. "Did you take lessons?"

"Are you kidding?" he answered. "We didn't have any money.

"It was actually a blessing," Dad went on. "I learned to work. We were always in deep money trouble when I was a kid, and all of us did any old thing to help make ends meet."

Gerald Hawley Bagley was born January 18, 1922 in Montpelier, Idaho, the second of five kids. He was nick-named Jiggs, after a comic strip. His parents, Adelila and Hawley, moved to Salt Lake City when he was three, into a home full of love, laughter, music, and furniture bought on credit.

"One day some men drove up in a big truck and started hauling out our beds, dressers, chairs and tables," Dad said. "It was great! We kids put on socks and ice-skated around the big, empty rooms on the hard-wood floors, wondering why Mom was sitting on the porch, crying. They had repossessed all her furniture." There was a moral to the story. "Never buy everything from the same store."

Every penny counted in the Bagley household. As a little boy Dad picked strawberries and cherries for 25¢ a case. "The summer I was nine I picked worms. Somebody had a huge dew-berry patch, and the owners came through the neighborhood in a truck to pick us kids up. I took a bucket, a pair of gloves and a hat. For two dollars a day, I filled my bucket with great big green worms, two or three inches long, then dumped them all on a fire of burning oil. It was a long, hot summer."

Jiggs 1932

"When I was about ten, I had a make-shift incubator. I raised 200 baby chicks until they were five weeks old, and then nailed a sign on a telephone pole and sold them five-for-a-dollar. Saturday mornings I went with my mother to a poultry farm where she plucked chickens—my job was to wring their necks. We got paid with a chicken for Sunday dinner.

"A neighbor had 30 cows that I herded when I was 15. I just walked along the road slowly all day long, stopped to eat, and then at 4 o'clock I'd start them back. It was extremely boring.

"After I turned twelve I'd try to get a 'loop' at the golf course on Saturdays and holidays. All the rich guys played at the country club, and they hired kids to carry their clubs. It took an hour to walk there, and caddying a round took four hours. It was a big deal to get a 10¢ tip. With that dime I could buy a hamburger and a coke, and still have a buck to take home after a six-hour day."

There were perks to being a young working man. "I had a huge paper route and my dad had to drive me around at 4:30 every morning. When I was 13 he told me I could drive myself. I had a lot of fun growing up, but I worked for everything—I bought my first over-coat when I graduated from high school. Just having a coat gave me a huge burst of confidence."

This under-privileged childhood produced a man who spent three years as a soldier, then put himself through college (straight A's) and became an optometrist. Later he got into real estate, developed a few subdivisions and an industrial park, bought a tennis club, built Jeremy Ranch golf course, and owned the Utah Jazz long enough to make sure the team stayed in Utah. He wrote a book, worked in the state legislature, coached championship baseball and basketball teams, employed dozens of people and supported his parents. He sang in barbershop quartets, choirs and backyards, remembered stats from every World Series game, could tabulate the grocery bill in his head and played a mean piano.

I wonder if he'd have done better if his summers had been filled with lessons?

My Story

2012-01-16T00:32:00.003-07:00

Where did you come from?

I came from Jiggs and June, Hawley and Ad, Axel and Agnes.

From carpenters, farmers, lumberjacks and miners,
New Brunswick, Boston, Sweden, and Idaho.

I came from thinnies, lutefisk, peaches and corn,
home-grown beef and homemade noodles,
butter and salt and eggnogs.

I came from ukuleles, hand-made violins,
"In the Mood," "The Teddy Bear Song,"
and "A Bicycle Built for Two."

I came from coffee and Sanka and bottles of coke,
No smoking, or coffee or tea.
Ward teachers, roadshows, mission farewells,
and Mormon pioneers.

I came from golf, baseball and basketball courts,
From sewing, quilting, violets and books;
From an old black Dodge, a red station wagon,
A Fury, a Valiant and a yellow Mustang.

I came from FDR, General McArthur,
Eisenhower and Heber J. Grant;
from Depression survivors, the GI Bill, Optometry school
and a carport.

I came from David and Ricky, Karen and Cubby,
Brett and Bart, and Lukas McCain.
From Neil Sedaka, The Beach Boys,
Peter Paul and Mary, and Mama Cass.

From Sassoon hair and Twiggy eyes,
and Weejuns without socks.
From JFK to RFK to MLK to Watergate.

From Sherman, William Penn, Holladay,
OJH, Olympus and BYU,
and Salzburg, Austria,
Where I went from being Marty
to being Marty and Dee.
And another story started.

Pride of Ownership

2012-01-13T02:15:00.000-07:00

"Twelve year old kids can drive boats," Josh informed me when he was almost twelve. "Can we buy one?" "Sure," I told him. "If you earn the money."

With that incentive he found the perfect job in the back of a Boy's Life magazine:

Gift Wrap Salesman Wanted.
Sell $75 worth of wrapping paper and win a . . .

(oh my gosh, can this be true??)

. . . a boat!

Josh trekked the neighborhood, order form in hand, collecting sales and checks. Within three days the $3.99 package deals added up to a $75 package, and all he had to do was wait for his boat.

Six to eight weeks the magazine said.

Twelve weeks passed and so did boating season.

Most of us forgot all about it.

One night Dee and I came home late to a quiet house. A cardboard box was in shreds on the counter and pieces of styrofoam were stuck to the couch. The kids were all in their beds—except for Josh. He was sleeping on the floor, surrounded by dozens of rolls of Christmas wrap.

He'd gone boating.

Josh's raft provided a fun day on Mirror Lake—two at a time we climbed in and prayed it wouldn't sink. A few months later, at Christmastime, the neighbors started calling to see what had happened to their wrapping paper. (Apparently Josh's talent was in sales, not delivery.) I don't know what happened to the boat after that. Most of us forgot all about it, even Josh.

A couple of weeks ago we visited Josh's family. The kids were already asleep when we arrived late Christmas night, but Christie reported on the festivities of the day, while Josh took our suitcases downstairs. "Chase got a boat," she was telling us, just as Josh called, "You've got to see this!"

It's so fun when your kids have kids who are just like them.

Trust Your Instincts

2012-01-11T02:28:00.003-07:00

"Hi, Opa." The little voice squeaked with worried tears.
"We have a big prob-wem!" His panic came through the phone.
"Songbear needs surgery, and there's nobody else who can help us."

Songbear is Benji's best friend, and he'd been hugged til his stuffing was coming out.
A holiday bath had made things worse, and Benji was feeling his buddy's pain.
"Can you help us?" he whimpered.

Opa perfected his sewing skills years ago with Cub Scout shirts and Boy Scout patches. There's nobody he'd rather pick up a needle for than a little boy. He arranged to meet his patient at the Christmas Eve party.

All during the festivities Opa snipped and stitched.

"I'm trying not to hurt him," he said as the needle poked a furry backside.

When Operation Songbear was complete, Benji tied the final knot.
The perfect Christmas present.
(Who needs Santa when you've got an Opa?)

Forty three years ago, when I was just nineteen, I met a 22-year-old boy. We were on a semester abroad without the accouterments we normally judge people by. I didn't know his family, what kind of car they drove, how they interacted. I'd never seen him in real life—his clothes, his friends, his house.

Ten days later we decided to get married. My parents freaked out when they got the letter. What was I thinking? They didn't know a thing about him! But I did. Our first Saturday together he shined my shoes.

Something told me he'd be an awesome Opa.

Herr Bruderer

2012-01-08T23:10:00.002-07:00

"Get him talking," was the whispered advice in our German class. Everybody knew Herr Bruderer would forget to give the promised test if we asked a question about his beloved Switzerland, and let him ramble. When he put his feet on his desk, leaned back with his arms behind his bald head and started reminiscing we all relaxed. Grammar and word order issues were set aside in favor of culture and history. We played right into his hands—it was on those days we learned the most.

I caught his enthusiasm and passion for different lands and I wanted to experience it for myself, although I wasn't sure what it was. I recognized it when I got there.

Colmar, France

It's a feel, an aura: cobblestone paths, unsalted butter, the fragrance of cheese in tiny shops. Buildings built before Columbus, restaurants owned by one family for hundreds of years,
folklored fabrics on carved wooden chairs, flounced light fixtures, embellished gables, dripping umbrellas in painted stands, fur-trimmed baby buggies: this is European art in its natural setting.

Salzburg Festung

Sitting in Herr Bruderer's class at Olympus High, I fell in love with Europe as he talked. A student teacher showed slides from a semester abroad in Salzburg, Austria. I asked her for details, wanting to go, too. "Set a goal," Herr Bruderer said. "Start saving." I did.

If you'd asked me last night if Herr Bruderer was still alive, I wouldn't have known. This morning I saw his obituary and I can't stop thinking about the impact he had me. Everything in my life is because of him.

(To be continued . . . )

Dee and Marty 1969

Is Blogging Dead?

2012-01-04T13:10:00.000-07:00

Am I at a party that's turned into a wake?

Recently I've heard about blogging's demise ("Facebook and Twitter have taken over," they say. "Blog posts are too long to hold people's interest," they say.) So, I've been re-evaluating my blogging career. Are all the good blogging gigs being shipped overseas? Do I need to post in Mandarin?

I've come to a conclusion: Blogging as a fad is dead, blogging isn't. Here's why: A blog is a place to write, like a notebook or a billboard or a magazine or a postcard. It's also a virtual office, with file cabinets, display shelves, writing tools and folders for research. It's a creative space, like a photography workshop, a painting studio or a practice cubicle.

My mom had a big closet she turned into her sewing room. Pictures of the latest fashions hung on the walls, fabric was piled in colorful stacks, threads and bobbins perched on pegs. An ironing board leaned against a file cabinet stuffed with patterns and all sorts of sewing paraphernalia: measuring tapes, cutting wheels, rick-rack and bias tape. Mom was an organized and gifted seamstress, but this room would not have been featured in an issue of Where Women Create. Hers was a workshop. Pajama sleeves were in progress, along with mending projects and home-ec assignments. I'm sure Mom saw some spacious sewing rooms and compared them to hers. Maybe she envied new equipment, commissions for wedding gowns, time spent sitting at a Pfaff, accolades for talent. (I know for a fact her oldest daughter didn't give her the appreciation she deserved.) But shutting down her sewing room was not an option. It's where she did her sewing, where she stashed her sewing stuff. It was her creative space.

I visit other blogs, see how imaginative they are, how artistic and witty, count the advertisers who trust their skill, read comments by the dozen. What's the point of my daily meandering in this blogosphere of expertise? Who's reading it? Should readers even be the reason I write? I understand why bloggers are shutting down: their blog feels like a closet at the back of the house, and nobody cares what they're doing back there.

Thinking about blogs woke up my gratitude for this little place I've created. Stuffed in my blog are organized piles of my life's paraphernalia:

Accounts of who I am, where I've been, where I'm going.
Facts I'd tell a new friend.
Facts old friends already know.
How I've felt from day to day about my experiences.
What I've learned from them.
What I want to remember.
Talents I'm discovering and plans for using them.
Advice I can't share any other way.
What I'd tell my psychiatrist.
Hidden jewels from my childhood.
A written record of our family.
My knowledge of truths about God.
A collection of my anecdotes.
Stories about my ancestors.
Trip diaries.
Lists of goals.

I could go on and on, (and if you check my archives, you'll see I have.) These are the Brass Plates of Oma: my anthology is available to my posterity forevermore. It's already an organized resource for pioneer stories, family factoids, photos, vacation memories, tips, dates, names and lesson materials. Sure, it's rambling, boring, full of too much information, but so is every library. Workshops have dust and wood chips laying around, but does that make the furniture any less valuable? My blog—your blog—is a treasure house.

Oma's Blog Boosters

Don't compare my blog to others. I'm unique and so are they.
Don't judge the success of my blog by the numbers.
Tour my blog occasionally to see what gems I've collected.
Take a break from writing when I need to. (Who cares, really??) It'll still be there when I come back.
When my blog feels like a nag, set it aside, but don't question it's value.

My blog is a place where I gather, assemble, evaluate, ponder, wonder, brag, whine, remember, worry, chat, work, organize, practice and learn. It's mine.

As a blogger, I boldly declare: Blogging is Not Dead. Blogging is a living, breathing, vital pursuit, dedicated to enlightening the past, energizing the present, and enriching the future.

Make a Point: Use Yourself as the Bad Example

2012-01-03T01:34:00.006-07:00

An Oma (Condensed) Storybook.

A true-ish story taken from Oma's childhood,
illustrated by photos from the Cousin's Club Photo Collection.

"Open wide," said Dr. Hall. I was sitting in the torture chair, with the dentist picking around between my gums. He looked over the holes left where my baby teeth had fallen out. "You have a little mouth," he said. "There's not room for your big teeth to grow in. We'll have to pull a few molars, use elastics and headgear to stretch your mouth bigger." We'll see about that, I thought to my chicken-hearted self. I'm basically a wimp who looks for the easy way off a painful path.

When I got home, I rushed to the mirror, opened wide and peered inside. Bubble gum had turned my tongue a ghastly purple, and I could see nothing pretty in there. Teeth twisted every which way—I needed a bigger mouth, and it wasn't going to be pleasant getting one.

Polly shoved me aside, wanting a turn at the mirror. Floppy white legs dangled over her shoulders with ribbons tied at the feet. My crazy little sister was wearing a pair of tights on her head, pretending she had long braids! "Why are you wearing Suzy-long-legs for hair?" I asked. "You look dopey!" She burst out crying. "You have a big mouth!" she yelled.

A big mouth—just what I needed! Maybe I could develop this skill and avoid some dental pain. It was actually pretty easy. I just said everything I thought, without thinking about it first. By the end of the day my sisters and my dad and brother, had all commented on my big mouth. Words were flying wildly and my tongue was out of control when I found Tommy pitching a pup-tent in the backyard.

"It's going to fall down," I teased. He didn't look up. "You're not a real cowboy," I said, and threw his pint-size ten-gallon on top of the carport. He pulled his cap-gun, but I took my best shot: "The fringe on your shirt is plastic," I whooped. Tommy looked down at his shirt with tear-filled eyes.

"That's enough, young lady," said a dark shadow behind me. "You can spend the rest of the day in your room." Mom's voice was soft and controlled. Mine wasn't.

"I hate you!" I yelled up at her. "I hate you!" I'll never forget the heartbreak in her eyes when I said those words. I had hurt the person who loved me most, even when I was the most unlovable. "I hate you." I said it softer this time, more to myself.

In my room I looked in the mirror. I saw a gargantuan tongue flopping around, out of control, and, just as everyone had told me, a big mouth. Even my teddy bear didn't want to get cozy with all the venom drooling out of my lips.

Mom knocked and then came in and sat on the bed. I couldn't stop looking at her lovely smile. And something I'd never noticed before—she had a crooked tooth!

"My mouth was too little for all my teeth," Mom explained, "and some of them crowded on top of each other. I didn't feel pretty for a long time. That's why I want you to have room for your teeth."

"Will I be pretty?" I asked between sobs.

"You know, Marty, ugly words always make a girl ugly, even if she has lovely lips and terrific teeth. Beautiful words always make a woman beautiful, even if her teeth are all skeewampus.

"Dr. Hall can use elastics and headgear to make your smile perfect, but if you have a big mouth, you won't be pretty." I understood what she meant by a big mouth.

At dinner that night I sat across from Polly. "I like your braids," I told her. Her dimple showed, and I knew my opinion mattered. That made me feel nice, so I said, "You can use my barrettes if you want to." I looked over at Tommy and asked, "Are you sleeping in your tent tonight?" He nodded, and straightened his hat. "Looking good, Cowboy," I said and felt even nicer.

"What did the dentist say, Marty?" Dad asked.

"He said my mouth wasn't big enough," I reported. "There's not much I can do, except be patient while he uses elastics and headgear to make it bigger."

Mom seemed to have forgotten my ugly words. "Marty's lovely lips won't have to hide anything unpleasant in her mouth," she said. "because her words are as pretty as her smile."

Not quite The End.

As Marty grew up, her challenge was always to control her tongue, and keep her big mouth shut a little more often. When she met Dee Halverson he told her his motto:

"Think over everything you say, but don't say everything you think."

Dee always said kind, thoughtful things so Marty decided to marry him. Even though she's now a 62-year-old Oma, she still has trouble controlling her tongue. She's learned to think over everything she says, but it's usually after she's already said it!

Luckily the people she loves are understanding. Her children and grandchildren are her best examples: they are beautiful because they think and say beautiful things. See for yourself!

(Just a few examples of teeth coming in every which way.)
The Cousins are all darling because of the sweet words
that decorate their smiles with love!

An Oma tip:

Tell a story about how you learned (or tried to learn) a lesson one of your posterity is working on right now. You'll have a new bond! It's good for kids to know Mom and Dad, Aunt Clara and Uncle Max and even Great-grandpa Hugh had a few habits to break and new skills to master.

Improvement can be a family affair!

Set a New Year's Goal to work on with a loved one,
just for fun!

New Year's Goal

2011-12-31T00:05:00.000-07:00

Dee 2010

Dee was checking the progress of his soup. Feeling reflective, I was rummaging around for purpose and meaning in life. I asked him, "What should be our goal for the new year?"

He suddenly twirled around the kitchen in his socks, struck a familiar pose and started to sing his answer:

"Ah, ah, ah, ah...
Stayin' alive, just stayin' alive."

Good goal, Dear!

(Being married to a man who makes me laugh

is a fun way to live.)

Set Your Own Pace!

2011-12-30T00:11:00.001-07:00

"Is there really a human race? Is it going on now, all over the place?"

—Jamie Lee Curtis

At twenty I started out at my own steady pace.

At thirty I ran faster. I was losing face.

At forty I stumbled late in the day.

At fifty the finish line seemed further away.

At sixty I wonder:
How long is this race, anyway?

Do you ever feel you're running faster than you can?

Years ago a well-meaning teacher set a goal for herself and included the whole class in her challenge. She was going to do a good deed, something extra, outside her normal responsibilities, every day. Each week she passed around a sheet to sign if we'd met the goal, which even included a place to record how many "service hours" we'd given. I was totally caught up in what became a contest to be "the most charitable woman."

Looking back I realize how nutty this was. I had a husband, seven kids and a dog at home who needed to be fed. Bedraggled plants begged for water from their macrame hangers; the dryer beeped endlessly; the closets glared messily, all calling for my attention. Teenagers sat in class every Sunday expecting a lesson, and great-grandmas called, wondering when I was coming to visit. Birthday cakes, haircuts, ear-aches, dance lessons, science projects—none of these counted as good deeds. They were my normal responsibilities.

Although I was running as fast as I could go, I felt like a failure because my to-do list left good deed unchecked more often than not. When the weekly sign-up sheet came around to me, I was embarrassed to pass it on, knowing I looked pretty uncharitable with my meager service hours.

Years later I was in a class on budgeting. The teacher cautioned us about living beyond our means—spending more than we had. Suddenly it dawned on me: I have 24 hours a day. Circumstances already claimed most of them. Setting goals with time I don't have is living beyond my means. One woman's finish line had become my stumbling block.

Misty wrote a cute post about her New Year's Resolutions, reflecting on the baby books she hasn't started since her twins were born. But how many baths has she given? How many late nights and early mornings has she put in? She probably doesn't even have time to count the appointments to the obstetrician, and then the pediatrician, that have kept her kids healthy. Misty's running a different race right now, pushing a triple jogging stroller at full speed.

Don't despair young moms. Someday your course will lead back to your baby books. In the meantime, give yourself a breather, and skip once in a while.

There's no human race. The run itself is the pay.

(Where am I going in such a rush, anyway?)

Be a Star!

2011-12-29T00:10:00.000-07:00

Heroes at Reunion, 1983

Have you ever stopped to count the people in your audience? There's lots of admirers watching your performance in life, and you're pleasing a lot of folks. Did you do a bit of good in the world today? Did you cheer someone up? Did you lift someone out of their doldrums for even a minute? The shouts and clapping might be silent to your ears, but they're happening just the same. Look around at YOUR audience. You've got some fans! Give them your best.

Wait!

2011-12-28T00:05:00.000-07:00

A Piece of Cake by Jill Murphy

Don't look. It's not over yet.

What Do You Want to Have Happen?

2011-12-27T00:12:00.001-07:00

Illustration by Esther Wilkin

It's Time!

In my planner, calendar and journal I scribble a code when I organize a project or target an objective: wdywthh? Asking myself What do you want to have happen? is my most effective method of setting goals. Let me illustrate.

A common goal might be: Don't eat dessert. The first time I fudged I'd be disappointed, the second time I'd be discouraged, and the third time I'd be a failure. And, as a failure, I'd stop trying.

With the wdywthh? method I'd state the goal differently: I want to feel good about myself. There are many ways to accomplish this goal. I always list some ideas. For instance: have the Lancome lady teach me how to do my eye make-up; change the color of my hair; exercise; don't eat dessert; smile at myself in the mirror; read something uplifting every day. Doing anything that makes me feel good about myself gives me a charge, and I have a better chance of achieving success.

Last year I wrote:

Wdywthh? I want to forgive myself for not looking like I did when I was eighteen. Some ideas:

Dress the body I have. (If I like how I look, I'll have more incentive to take care of myself.)
Stay active. Enjoy all the things my body still lets me do.

Wdywthh? I want my family to be strong. Some ideas:

Communicate support to each individual whenever I can, however I can.
Rejoice in the fact that they are conscientious and capable. Let them know how proud I am of their contribution to their world.
Respect their responsibilities and step back so I'm not in their way.
Keep in touch with each kid and grandkid and keep them informed about each other. Be positive, sensitive, and tactful when talking to (and about) them.

I use this formula to plan family activities, trips, furniture arrangement, gift buying . . . it works for everything!

Furniture arranging: Do I want to encourage conversation, have a couple of reading nooks or make it easy to play games? Instead of randomly setting chairs here or there, I know what I want to have happen, and prepare the room for that activity.

When I plan a party, instead of thinking "What would be fun?" I list what I want to have happen, and then decide on the way to accomplish it. Do I want the kids to interact with the adults? (Maybe a baseball game or a big puzzle.) For a shot of self-esteem, I organize a talent show. How will the kids entertain themselves while the parents visit? (A box of dress-ups and a full length mirror in the bedroom will keep them occupied.) It's a different way of thinking that helps me recognize what my goal actually is.

The other part of my New Year's planning is writing a Mission Statement. I always start it out with

"My life has meaning, purpose and direction because . . ." and then I elaborate on that.
I continue with "I am dedicated to . . ."
"I find joy in . . ."
I list "Qualities I value and want to develop."
The final section is "If I could do anything I want this year, I would . . ." Then I sign and date it. I read my mission statement a few times a year and write an "addendum" with any changes, and then I sign and date it again. It keeps me focused in a loose, positive way.

So, what do you want to have happen in 2012?
It's time to make a plan!

What Did You Give?

2011-12-26T00:10:00.000-07:00

Art by Eloise Wilkin

An African child listened carefully as his teacher explained why Christians give presents to each other on Christmas Day. "The gift is an expression of our joy over the birth of Jesus and our love for each other," she said.

When Christmas day came, the boy brought the teacher a seashell of lustrous beauty. "Where did you ever find such a beautiful shell?" the teacher asked. The child told her that there was only one spot where such extraordinary shells could be found. When he named the place, a certain bay several miles away, the teacher was left speechless. "Why . . . why, it’s gorgeous . . . wonderful, but you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to get the gift for me." His eyes brightening, the boy answered, "Long walk part of gift."

When you look at the living room today, and wonder why you worked so many weeks for an event that lasted only one day, remind yourself: "Long walk part of gift."

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

Did he come yet?

Wow! That was fast.

He's already in my rear-view mirror.

Hope your Christmas is merry and bright!

Christmas Priorities

2011-12-23T00:05:00.000-07:00

It's a Wonderful Life

"The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing."

Sometimes my Christmas packages are tied up with guilt—the zest I had on Thanksgiving starts to seep out until I feel like a tired balloon. So many people to see, so many places to be, so many things to make and bake and take. It's a challenge to focus and choose: things I'd hoped to do don't get done, friends get checked off my to-do list like chores, and I have to turn off the Christmas music to concentrate on finding a parking place. The Grinch is stalking me.

I get defensive when I feel guilty, and I start arguing my case in my mind (although it sometimes spills out) justifying myself to myself. And, as always when there's any kind of contention, the Spirit of Christmas leaves. It's time to check my list of priorities:

What do I want to have happen?

I want to remember the baby Jesus, the grown up Jesus, and the lessons He taught about how to find joy in living, and peace of mind.
I want to communicate love, encouragement and support to my husband, kids and grandkids in an unhurried way.
I want to share my heritage with them.
I want to slow down and bask in the beauty of the season.
AND . . . I want to see old aunts, new nephews, cousins, siblings, friends, neighbors; send cards, go caroling, frost cookies, listen to Handel's Messiah; write an Oma book, shop, wrap presents, read Christmas books . . .

Checking my priority list has calmed me down. Scrooge isn't out to get me and that lump of coal thing doesn't apply just because I can't do it all. There will still be life after Christmas. For now, the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing. (A silent night can bring joy to my world, if I let it.)

Call the Doctor!

2011-12-22T01:59:00.007-07:00

"My hormones are skeewampus," I told the doctor. "I have too much testosterone. I think I might be turning into a man."

He rolled his eyes and I could tell what he thought of women who diagnose themselves on the Internet. "Let's run a few tests," he said. After a battery of blood tests his nurse called and said, "Everything else seems normal, but your testosterone is abnormally high. (Really?) The doctor wants you to see an endocrinologist." (Why? Am I becoming a man?)

The next week I visited an endocrinologist. His interview was thorough: "How did your maternal grandmother's paternal grandfather die?" and "Did your father's grandfather ever have an irregular heartbeat?" Do people actually know this stuff?? Then he gave me a sheet of instructions to take to the lab.

"This is a butt-load of tests!" said the technician. "He'll find something for sure." Then she drew eighteen tubes of blood. "What's he looking for?" I asked. "Everything," she answered. "Does he think I'm becoming a man?" I asked. "One of these tests will tell him," she said.

I went in for the results on Monday. He didn't have everything he needed, he said, so he scheduled me for two MRI's and an echo-cardiogram on Tuesday, and another three blood tests on Wednesday (today.) It was not a reassuring visit. He suspected adrenal or ovarian cancer, and wanted my heart checked out in case I needed immediate surgery.

After the echo-cardiogram the cardiologist informed me I have a thick heart. After scaring me to death with questions and explanations, he told me not to worry. He wrote a prescription, scheduled a follow-up test and patted my hand. "You'll do fine," he said. "But I'd be concerned about a surgery." (So would I, buddy; so would I.)

It was time for the MRI's. I took my prescribed Xanax ("chew it so it will work faster," the lady at the desk told me) and I was strapped on a table. Another technician put earphones on me to block out the loud noise and I was rolled into a long tube barely wide enough to fit me. I kept my eyes closed for the first few minutes, and then when a voice spoke my name, I accidentally opened them. Three inches above my nose was the top of the tube—not a pleasant sensation for a claustrophobe!

The Xanax must have kicked in, because although I thought I was awake, I don't remember much until the guy said, "only five more minutes, Martha." I counted to sixty five times, slowly, (hoping I wouldn't totally lose it and start screaming) and then they pulled me out. He said I'd been in there for over an hour! I was panicked on several levels.

This morning I had to fast, and have three blood tests taken an hour apart, drinking horrible stuff in between. By the time I was through with that, I was weak, bleak and freaked. Dee told me I ought to go shopping (that usually cures me of anything) but I thought, "Why? I'm probably going to die soon. What will they do with my new clothes?"

It's been a roller-coaster of a week. Tonight the doc called and said there were no masses to indicate adrenal or ovarian cancer. I have what appears to be a non-malignant ovarian cyst which could be causing high testosterone levels. He said it happens to lots of women. (Finally he acknowledged that I haven't become a man.) So tomorrow I'm going shopping.

He's sending me back to the original doctor to treat my high testosterone.
I've been checking things out on the Internet.

Writing Dawn til Dusk

2011-12-19T02:21:00.001-07:00

Yesterday morning I woke up with an idea for an Oma book. I sat down immediately and started writing the story. Six hours later I realized I was still in my nightgown and probably hadn't even eaten. I love it when I'm inspired. This came together like it had been hovering around my mind waiting for me to invite it in.

It's an autobiographical kids book about saying bad things to people you love. I got it written in about six hours (it's twenty pages long, kid's style) so then I started illustrating it with photos—finding them, tweaking the exposure, scanning, changing them to black and white,cropping them just right, laying them out on the pages. That took from 3:pm this afternoon to right now (2:am) and I have to say I'm pleased. I used photos of our grandkids to illustrate it, plus photos of me and my siblings and parents back in the day when I was at my bratty peak.

This will be an expose' of my own bad behavior and encouragement to improve our own—their own—it will apply to anyone who has trouble thinking over everything they say before they say everything they think.

I'm excited about it! I hope my little grands will learn from my experience and never say a naughty, mean, rude thing all their lives. I'm sending the PDF to the printer in the morning and hopefully I'll have a cute little Oma book to give for Christmas. I'll show it off to you sometime this week!

Tomorrow it's Christmas card design, print, address and mail, plus design and send my scrapbook page for my kids, for our round-robin exchange. I'm psyched to be getting it done, but I'm freaked because I only have a few more days! It's all fun stuff though, so it feels like a party all day long every day. And now, although I've never been drunk in my life, I feel totally drunk on words and I feel spacey and I need to go to bed! Or you'll really see my writing skills go wild—when my ambien kicks in I'm out of control.

Merry Christmas week and I hope you finish all your projects and still have time to sit down by the tree and just look at it and remember important, touching Christmases past.

Do you have time to comment on what your big plans are?

I'm anxious to hear!!!

Christmas Scenes

2011-12-16T01:47:00.005-07:00

The Griswold's House

How do you picture the perfect Christmas?

I loved this talk by Dieter F. Uchtdorf:

"Sometimes it seems that our efforts to have a perfect Christmas season are like a game of Jenga ... each of those little wooden blocks is a symbol of the perfect Christmas we so desperately want to have. We have in our minds a picture of how everything should be; the perfect tree, the perfect lights, the perfect gifts and the perfect family party. We might even want to re-create some magical moment we remember from Christmases past, and nothing short of perfection will do.

"Sooner or later, something unpleasant occurs; the wooden blocks tumble, the drapes catch fire, the turkey burns, the sweater is the wrong size, the toys are missing batteries, the children quarrel, the pressure rises; and the picture-perfect Christmas we had imagined, the magic we had intended to create, shatters around us. As a result, the Christmas season is often a time of stress, anxiety, frustration and perhaps even disappointment."

"When we set aside our expectations of perfection, we will see Christmas in details around us. It is usually something small; we read a verse of scripture, we hear a sacred carol and really listen, perhaps for the first time, to its words, or we witness a sincere expression of love. In one way or another, the Spirit touches our hearts, and we see that Christmas, in its essence, is much more sturdy and enduring than the many minor things we often use to adorn it."

You must hear the rest of his talk!
To watch this Christmas devotional, click here.

Here are a few details from scenes that have lit up the Christmas season for me:

Long-lost cousins.

My own personal St. Lucia.

Displaying old decorations in a new place.

Elves.

Plays, recitals and Christmas concerts.

Meeting the stars after the show.

What are the Christmas scenes you'll remember from this year?

(Here's some ideas of where to look:)

The dreaded family Christmas party will be better than you think.
Drop in on a grade-school program and you'll leave jolly, I promise!
Send a note to a friend from your past and remind him (and yourself) what was special about your friendship.
Listen to some old Christmas CD's (Oakridge Boys, John Denver, Peter,Paul and Mary do it for me.)
Bake that cake your mom used to make and tell your kids how you got your tongue caught in the beater.
After you hear the whole Dieter F. Uchtdork talk, consider how you'd react with love if your darling four-year-old set your house on fire Christmas Eve.
Look up Luke chapter 2 in the Holy Bible. Read it out loud to someone, or have them read it to you. Listen for the words, but notice the majesty of the language and feel the Holy Ghost testify that the story is true.
Write a letter to a teacher/friend/frenemy? who you could thank for something.

Leave us an idea to make someone's Christmas' better
(which is guaranteed to make ours better.!)

Random Musings

2011-12-15T02:19:00.002-07:00

Els Mere Village

I've spent a lot of time in a foreign land lately. Kirby Puckernut lives on WordPress, and they speak a different language over there. After I post on Kirby's blog, I come back to Blogger whispering "There's no place like home, there's no place like home . . ." The icons along the top of the page are familiar, the publish post button is colorful, and save now is easy to find. Images don't jump randomly through the text, but land neatly where I want them to go.

My website is on Square Space, and I feel like a stranger there, too. It's a different culture. I love Blogger—plain old Blogger, not the new version. Why do they keep updating everything? Gmail changed things around just after I got comfortable, and Google Reader has a disappearing navigation system now. I'm an old dog and new tricks are confusing.

I'm getting tired of my ghosting gig. Writing is its own reward and I love putting words together, but it's difficult to write in another person's voice and wonder the whole time if I'm getting it right. Because they get the feedback, I never know. So far, however, people are more willing to pay me when my name's not on it. Just like William Porter—he was an ex-con and nobody wanted his name on stuff either. So he signed his work O. Henry. I guess Kirby Puckernut can work for me.

Since I pose as an elf, I did a little elfing myself today.

Oma's traditional Open Me Now package,
filled with trinkets, activity pages, stickers and bubblegum,
hit the assembly line.

Opa hit the post office line.

Back to my original theme: I love Blogger, I love blogging. And I love you for reading my blog, (even when it's totally random.)

Visit Kirby's blog
(See how music saved one family's Christmas.)

Our First Christmas Morning

2011-12-14T02:40:00.004-07:00

Our 8' x 35' home, and our VW Bug, 1969

As newlyweds we never noticed how cold it got in our trailer at night. Christmas morning we woke up to find our shower curtain frozen into it's folds. The moisture had turned to ice! To save money, we left our coal oil furnace off, so Dee jumped out of bed to light it while I stayed snug under the covers. I told him to open his first Christmas present before he lit the fire: his new extra-long matches (in a decorative box) took up residence on top of the "fireplace" as objects d' art.

When the room warmed up, we made hot chocolate with candy canes, and freshly whipped cream, and Dee lit the candles on the tree (which was dry and a huge fire hazard.) A tiny stash of presents was piled underneath. Although we'd set a $10 budget, both of us had overspent. Dee gave me a book of Bruegel art, a slip of ivory lace, and a small hymn book. Besides the matches, Dee got some 4711 Cologne, a collage of our memories, and a red flannel nightshirt that I had made. (He only wore the nightshirt once because it stuck to the sheets, and turned them red.)

Our first Christmas, 1969

The opening ceremonies took about five minutes. Part of me wanted to rush home to my parent's warm family room where a giant tree glittered and a real fireplace roared. Dad would be passing out presents for an hour, and Mom would be fixing a lavish buffet, and I could be a kid in receiving mode. But this year I was not a kid anymore—I was a wife with a home of my own and it was our first Christmas as a family.

Dee's enthusiasm for all our firsts made them fun: I cherish that about him. He has always put our family above anyone or anything else; since the day we were married his goal has been to strengthen and unify our little (now big) family. At first I would have been happy to play house, but return to my parent's home several times a week to enjoy their TV, refrigerator, and full-size tub. About a month after we were married I remember thinking, "Well, this was fun, but I want to go home where Mom does the dirty laundry, and Dad makes the scary decisions." I realize that we would have stagnated that way. It would have diminished our shaky self confidence, and kept our fledgling abilities unnoticed and unnecessary. I'm glad it was only a fleeting thought, because those attributes needed opportunity and reason to grow—too much supervision or hovering would have smothered them.

One of our great thrills has been to watch our kids start their own holiday traditions. It's fun to see which ones they include from their childhood, what their spouse brings into the mix and what ideas they come up with together (Anna). (Click the links to see their versions of our traditions.) I love hearing that somebody celebrates St. Nickolas Day (Gabi) and that somebody else remembers our George Bailey Award (Marta). They also incorporate new traditions such as the Nutcracker Ballet, sleigh riding or cooking their own fancy dinner on Christmas Eve.

We decided long ago that we would never put pressure on our kids to split their time equally, or keep track of on and off years. Now they have extra sets of parents, grandparents and even great-grandparents they want to fit around the traditions they're trying to establish in their homes. Our main gift is to take the pressure off, support their decisions, and enjoy being together in whatever configuration works best that year. Our old traditions have served their purpose, and now there are seven unique families we try to strengthen in whatever way they need—by being there, having them over, or giving them space.

Someone said, "Your traditions must not mean as much to you as mine do to me." I answered that as fun as our traditions have been, they have evolved over time. I want the tradition to work for the family, rather than the family have to work for the tradition. Although Swedish thin hot cakes were our favorite tradition for Christmas breakfast, trying to wedge in a thinny between breakfast and brunch (at three different houses, hauling three babies) seems ridiculous. The thinny won't have its feelings hurt and neither will I! "We'll be thrilled to see you anytime" has become our new holiday tradition.

Memories are worth making. I'm so glad our stubbornness in establishing that first Family Christmas in our trailer overrode my mom's heartbreak, my homesickness, and Dee's granny's disappointment. We established some traditions that year that have lasted 42 years—mainly that our marriage made us a family, and no matter how inexperienced we were, strengthening our family was our main responsibility as long as they were ours. Some year we would see them leave to establish their own family, and we would stand back and let them go. We each get our own turn—the Christmas of 1969 taught me that.

St. Lucia Day

2011-12-12T14:15:00.002-07:00

Marty's Rice Pudding Recipe
Salt Lake Tribune, 1980

Tomorrow is Lucia Day, which (as all Svenska tjejer know) is the beginning of Christmas. Rice pudding is traditional with an almond tucked into the creaminess. (Whoever gets the almond will have good luck in the coming year.) Once I won a newspaper contest with this delicious baked version.

TravelinOma's Rice Pudding

6 eggs
3 Tablespoons honey
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon nutmeg
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup heavy cream
2 cups milk
3 cups cooked rice

Beat eggs until lemony in color. Add honey, sugar and spices; mix well. Stir in vanilla, cream, milk and cooked rice. Pour into a two-quart casserole. Bake at 325 degrees for 45-60 minutes until a knife comes out clean. (A custard rises to the top.)

Saint Lucia could serve the warm pudding with rolls and cocoa. She's another Swedish tradition.

Heidi as St. Lucia 1986

Every December 13th I made a crown out of a paper plate, clipped on little red candles, placed it on the head of one of my precious daughters and LIT IT ON FIRE! Little Swedish girls have done it for centuries—singed hair is the price of our heritage. There are many versions of the Lucia legend. This is the one I've passed down:

Saint Lucia and the Star Boys

Lucy was a young Christian girl martyred for her beliefs centuries ago in Rome. She was made a Saint, and remembered as St. Lucia in the Scandinavian countries. One especially dark and hopeless December the people in a poor village were starving. From across the lake they could see a blaze of brightness coming toward them. It was Lucia, her blond hair encircled by a halo of brilliant light, wearing a white robe with a red sash, bringing them bread. She was accompanied by young boys, their faces also illuminated as if by the stars, hauling sacks of food.

Since then the day has been celebrated as the Festival of Lights in Sweden. In some families the oldest daughter wakes up before dawn, and prepares a breakfast tray for her parents. She dresses in a white robe with a red ribbon sash, and wears a crown of candles. Her younger brothers play the part of the Star Boys, also wearing white, carrying pictures of stars. This is the start of Christmas festivities in their home.

For me, St. Lucia symbolizes the light Jesus Christ brings to the world, and the Bread of Life He provides for us. He gives a dark world hope. It's a lovely way to remember the reason I celebrate Christmas.

(Eventually we got a safe replica of a St Lucia Crown. It had fake candles lit with batteries.)

God yul!

Yes Mom, There is a Santa

2011-12-08T03:34:00.004-07:00

Art by Norman Rockwell

Today my alter ego, Kirby Puckernut, wrote a post answering the question "Is Santa Claus real?" (Personally, I've never doubted.) I love the true story of a little eight-year-old girl who wrote to the New York Sun in 1897 asking the same question.

“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus," said Virginia O'Hanlon. "He had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.

“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.

“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.

“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”

And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.

Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.

Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.

“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

By Francis P. Church, first published in The New York Sun in 1897.

Dear Editor—
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see . . .

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment . . . the eternal light of childhood that fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world . . .

Santa Claus! He lives and will live forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Kirby said that Santa is as real as you want him to be.

I want him to be very real!

(I can't imagine getting Christmas ready without him.)

What do you think?

How do you answer the question

"Is Santa Claus real?

Meeting Santa Claus

2011-12-07T02:16:00.003-07:00

Marty and Santa Claus 1951

I sat on my dad's shoulders in a long line outside a tiny pavilion (near the statue in Sugar House) waiting for my turn. Cars and buses honked, surrounding our little island, and animated Christmas scenes decorated the Keith O'Brien store windows across the street—it must have been nighttime.

My coat and leggings were made of itchy red wool, and I sucked on the black velvet ribbon that tied under my chin. Santa Claus seemed scary and I cried at first, but the lady with the flashbulb held a candy cane that would be mine if I smiled for the camera. Meeting Santa Claus that year is my earliest memory—I was two. He must have made a good impression!

Do you remember meeting Santa?

St. Nicholas Day

2011-12-06T01:06:00.001-07:00

Some folks are just naturally merry.

Take St. Nicholas, for instance. Can you imagine him complaining about the cold? Or feeling sorry for himself because he works 24/7? He's a jolly old soul whose main goal in life is to make us smile.

Today is St. Nicholas Day. Children in Holland and Germany (and lots of other places) know that St. Nick is out and about, so they leave a carrot or apple in their shoe as a snack for the reindeer. When they wake up, the carrot has been replaced with a tiny thank-you surprise, and the season of giving is ushered in.

In honor of St. Nicholas Day, I'm thinking of people who always live life as if it were filled with twinkling lights, inspiring music, exciting adventure and endless promise. The ones that make my life better just by being part of it. Optimistic people, merry people.

A cute lady I know brightens a room whenever she enters, not because of her appearance but because of her attitude, her smile and her friendliness. She has lots of interests and is very interesting, but she still seems genuinely interested in me! Another friend always asks about everyone in my family, laughs about funny things I said years ago, and finds the best in any situation. Her enthusiasm is contagious; it's a gift I get whenever we're together.

A wise man said, "Like all human behavior, optimism is learned. No one is born with it or without it. You learn it. You practice it. You try it out until it becomes a habit. And then you can't imagine behaving any other way . . .

"Begin with a smile. Take a real interest in what others are thinking, saying, and doing. Get outside yourself. You can (and do) change everyone with whom you come in contact. The question is whether you add to or subtract from the day's experience." (Don Gale)

As my St. Nicholas Day gift to you, I asked the jolly old man his secret. "I wink a lot," he said. Mmmm . . . maybe that's why he sees only the best in us. (Haven't you always wondered why he leaves presents whether you're naughty or nice?) He looks at the bright side: maybe that's why he's so merry!

Merry Christmas!

Long-Distance Grandparents

2011-12-05T00:55:00.001-07:00

Homemade donuts

There are perks to having out-of-town kids.
For one thing, when you visit, you get in on breakfast.

Saturday morning treat.

The women in our family are fabulous cooks,
so we go from house to house and sample their specialties.

"Has anybody noticed you guys are twins?"

Micah's birthday was a perfect reason to drive to Denver. It's so fun to see our kids in their natural habitat! Although we love to have them at our house, at their house they're most comfortable being the people they've become.

I was chatting with Candice this morning while she made a meatloaf (wrapped in bacon!) The kids were upstairs getting ready for church and from the kitchen I could see each one go into their parent's bedroom and come out with Sunday outfits draped on a hanger. "Micah is the ironer," Candice said. "Every Sunday he presses everybody's clothes." This was their family in action, and we saw the details.

There are tons of advantages to having kids in town. I can watch the progression of a loose tooth, go to kindergarten programs and see Halloween costumes in person. We can bring each other soup, pop in to see the Christmas tree and know there's emergency help just a few minutes away.

But there are advantages to having faraway kids, too. Visits are condensed and intense--for a few days we see it all. Not only did we see Lauren's play, we saw her chattering nervously for hours before, and acting like a diva for hours after. Three kids have a piano recital tomorrow night and not only will we see the performance, we've enjoyed practice sessions all weekend. The boys shoveled a neighbor's driveway as a good deed, and were thrilled when she gave them $20. Their dad reminded them that a good deed is its own reward, and they willingly took the money back. These are details we don't see with our in-town kids, although I know they happen in their homes, too. Observing life close-up is compensation for missing out on the day-to-day.

The Colorado Cousins Club

Long before our kids grew up we imagined them living far and wide. Dee said we'd sell everything, buy an RV and travel around the country visiting one kid or another. In our old age we realized we prefer indoor to outdoor plumbing, and nobody wants us to live for months at a time in their driveway. So the RV idea was scuttled (grandkids and grandparents are preferable in small doses anyway.) But we're friendly with some faraway places because they've lived there: Minneapolis, Seattle, Yardley PA, Cleveland, Toledo, Denver, San Diego, Boston, St. Louis, Idaho Falls, Fountain Valley CA, and Phoenix.

It's great to be a traveling Oma!

How do you stay close to faraway loved ones?
(Here's an idea.)

Any long-distance Christmas ideas?
(Here's an easy one.)

I've already done all mine. Tell me some of yours!

Children's Nativity Play

2011-12-02T01:34:00.002-07:00

Kids Nativity Play

(I'm repeating myself here—this is a post from 2008.)

I'm making a new Oma Kit. It contains everything necessary for the grandkids to act out the first Christmas at the family Christmas party: a simple nativity script in rhyme, no-sew costumes, easy-to-store props and scenery. (It all fits in a $7.00 Rubbermaid box from Target.) Here my how-to for a children's nativity play.

I've assigned the kids their parts ahead of time. At the party, while a couple of moms help them get their costumes on, the adults are divided into two groups—choir and scenery.

Kids are the stars of Christmas

The Nativity Scenery Committee gets a tri-fold display board (it's like three sides of a cardboard box, navy blue, and I got it at Michael's Crafts for $8.00) plus a baggie full of star-shaped foam stickers. (I got three bags of 30 multi-colored, multi-sized stars for $2.00 each and picked out the yellow ones.) The committee will stick on the stars to make scenery that looks like a night sky. Two of the scenery people will hold up the scenery during the play.

The Impromptu Nativity Choir will practice singing Away in a Manger and Silent Night.

Shepherd costumes for one, or a whole herd.

No-sew nativity costumes: At the fabric store I searched for very cheap remnants. I got a couple of yards of several different fabrics (a black and white cow print, gray fuzzy wool, white terry cloth, light blue silky something, tan jersey knit, striped drapery stuff, etc.) I've cut the material into 45"x 45" squares (roughly, depending on the width) and then cut a hole in the middle for a head. Everyone will just slip them on like a cape, and tie them around the waist with a length of rope. Or they can be draped over their heads and shoulders like a shawl.

Because of a great deal on cow fabric, I asked if any little kid wanted to be a cow. Now we also have a camel, a donkey and two lambs in the cast!

We're short on short people in our group, so a few adults will take some extra roles. From year to year we could add or subtract animals, shepherds, angels, wise men and shift around the speaking parts. Hopefully the kids full-length costumes can be adapted to a shawl or shoulder drape on a bigger actor.

Left over strips of material are for head coverings and ties to hold them on. Mary will wear a silk scarf draped over her head. I twisted some gold pipe-cleaners together and made a halo for the angel. She will wear white and carry a star, made by gluing a large yellow foam star to a dowel.

All illustrations by Wendy Edelson from One Baby Jesus.

Props include some fake jeweled pins, two boxes wrapped in gold and silver foil, an empty perfume bottle, a broom-stick for a staff, a few stuffed animals (lambs, a camel, and a cow) and a doll. This year we have a real baby, so I'm bringing a fleece to cover his car-seat for the manger.

So, when everybody's dressed and standing in their places, with the artistic scenery behind them, we're ready. I wrote the lines in rhyme so they're easy to remember; no rehearsal necessary. (Please feel free to use or adapt my poem for your own nativity play.)

Short and Sweet Nativity Script

(Choir sings "Away in a Manger" to set the mood.)

Joseph: My name is Joseph. I've been walking all day. In Bethlehem I hope there's a place to stay.

Mary: My name is Mary. I'm tired and worn. I need a place for my babe to be born.

Donkey: I carried Mary until she could lie down. There is no room in this whole town.

Innkeeper: No, no. I haven't a place. In the back with the animals there's some space.

Camel: We have a place where it's safe and sound, with loving animals all around. "Can my baby sleep there?" Mary said.

Cow: Let my manger be his bed.

Baby Jesus: (Sleeps peacefully.)

Shepherd 1: I am a shepherd watching my sheep. I think I hear singing in my sleep.

Shepherd 2: There's an angel above us. I'm filled with fear. But peace is the message that I hear.

Angel: Jesus is born today. He's sleeping in a bed of hay.

Lamb 1: Let's follow the star.

Lamb 2: It's not very far.

Wise Man 1: I'm a king from far away. I've looked forward to this day.

Wise Man 2: In the east a star shone bright, on that sacred, holy night.

Wise Man 3: Gifts of love we all can bring to worship Jesus Christ, our king.

Reader: The Bible tells the story like this: (Reads Luke 2:1-16.)

Choir sings Silent Night.

"Sleep in heavenly peace."

PUI: Posting Under the Influence

2011-12-01T10:57:00.002-07:00

Ambien Side Effects

About half way through today's early-morning post my Ambien took effect.

The result is TravelinOma unplugged! Can you tell the difference?

Extended Family Christmas

2011-12-01T04:02:00.000-07:00

Glancing at each other with sucked in grins, we tried not to giggle out loud. Our feet didn't touch the floor as we left the doctor's office that December 11, 1969, and burst out laughing, hugging each other before the door closed. It was true! Next year we would be known as Santa Claus to someone! We were going to have a baby.

We'd been married three months, and it was our first Christmas together. We were still kids ourselves, 20 and 23, and we were over the moon with excitement. Our own family. How could we celebrate such an eternal occasion? With an evergreen tree!

It fit in the corner of our 8' x 35' trailer (we're talking a pretty skinny tree) but it was green and crisply frozen; when it thawed out we swooned with the smell of fresh pine. We couldn't afford lights or ornaments, so we were creative. Strands of popcorn, and tissue paper snowflakes were hung, along with Christmas cards held on by fat red yarn bows. Even the cost of a package of cranberries stretched our budget too far, so Dee surprised me by stringing red pyracantha berries from the bushes near our mailbox. They shriveled within hours, so every morning he threaded new ones for fresh garlands.

Over our forty two Christmases we've had a forest of Christmas trees, but no tree stands out in my memory like our first one. It was like our marriage: it represented love, hope, effort, dreams and new traditions.

Christmas Eve we announced our good news by singing at the family party:

♬For unto us a child is born; unto us a son/daughter is given. ♬

(We each sang our own prediction.) It was snowing, so we left early and drove home for our own cozy celebration. After reading the Christmas story in Luke 2 we hung our brand-new, home-made stockings on the knobs of the stove and went to bed.

I'll admit, I wanted to stay at my mom's that first year, until I saw Dee's enthusiasm for our own Christmas. I couldn't imagine being away from my family on Christmas morning. Mom's Christmases were something from a fairytale, and Dad always had surprises on top of surprises. It took us a couple of hours to open our presents, and then our grandparents arrived with more. There were fires in both fireplaces, Mom made a lovely buffet in the dining room and Dad gave away cash prizes during football half-times.

I felt torn. I was the first kid to leave home and miss the big family event, and my parents were urging us to stay overnight. (Urge is a mild word—it was somewhere between insist and command.) They didn't support my new family when it upset their old family traditions. I felt traitorous choosing my little family over theirs, and I resented them for making it awkward to choose. I don't think that was their intention, but it was the result. Their lack of enthusiasm for our humble celebration encouraged me to resent Dee for hauling me away from their warm hearth to our chilly coal-oil hot plate.

I'm sure many newly-weds experience the same tug-of-war between childhood memories and adult responsibilities. It's easier to stay in mom and dad's Garden of Eden, than venture off into the cold and dreary world and work to plant a garden for ourselves. But it's a main part of the plan of happiness.

I love the quote that advises parents to "Hold your loved ones to you with wide open arms." It was our turn to start traditions, and Dee was anxious to have our first year together as just a couple—we'd never have it again. My folks were hurt and mad, as they often were when we began "tearing their family apart," (mom's words.) During those years we wondered: Why do we have to debate and defend our efforts to strengthen our marriage and home to our own parents, who ought to be thrilled we're trying to do that very thing!

I had wonderful parents, but they viewed me as theirs, even when I wasn't anymore. It caused a lot of stress, sapped my confidence, created conflict between me and Dee, and resulted in hard feelings that were difficult to overcome. From that first year we started setting goals for when we had adult children, hoping to avoid adding pressure and anxiety to our kid's lives.

We will be enthusiastic and support their choices, always, and congratulate them on making tough decisions, never second-guessing.
We won't throw cold water on their dreams with all our supposed wisdom.
When we tell them they're so awesome, they could do anything, we'll actually let them do the thing they choose to do.
We'll remember it's their life—their chance to make decisions (even wrong ones,) their chance to set priorities, their chance to learn it all line upon line, here a little and there a little, and our chance to stand back and enjoy it all from a distance.
We will plan for and develop interests that will keep us occupied so we don't have tons of free time to try to live their lives for them. We'll be available when they want us, and thick-skinned when they don't.

I started stressing over next-year's holiday the day after Christmas. How could I explain to mom how we felt, and not have it turn into a debate or a lecture? Or worse, hurt-feelings and comments like, "Grandma said she hopes she dies before you stop coming to the Christmas Eve party."

There was no understanding of the difficulty of dragging seven kids away from their Christmas whatever and keep them entertained (during the most hyper time of year) and well-behaved in a beautifully appointed house full of valuable keep-sake decorations, surrounded by a bunch of adults the kids don't know and who are annoyed by the chaos kids live in.

I've gotten carried away. It's 4:00 am and I'm leaving for Denver at 8:00 am! You're going to have to carry on this discussion! What do you think? We need opinions from all sides of the issue. Comment!!!

And, on a more festive topic: Where do you find Christmas magic? I'm ghostwriting a blog this season—my pen name is Kirby Puckernut and I'm one of Santa's elves. Click here for a sleigh full of fun Christmas ideas! Please visit—Kirby's more light-hearted than me today!

The Season of Light

2011-11-30T11:14:00.001-07:00

The snow was glistening in the sunshine when I sat down by the window with my book. I got so caught up in the story, and it happened so gradually, I didn't even notice the sun going down, and the shadows that crept into the room. Mom walked past a while later and asked, "Why are you sitting here in the dark?" and then she flipped on a light.

The action and suspense of my everyday drama sometimes takes over and I lose sight of the Son. Shadows creep in and I start to dim out. Luckily Christmas comes along and turns on the light.

Everything looks brighter!

Thanksgiving with Relatives

2011-11-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

After hours of togetherness,
Mary thought for just a moment
about flipping her family the bird.

(Now, now . . .
you are not related to a bunch of turkeys . . . )

Thanks for Everything!

2011-11-25T23:10:00.007-07:00

The Opi's went south for the holiday.

First Stop:
Trump International Hotel Las Vegas.
Luxury room--$108--no casino,
directly across the street from Nordstrom's front door.
I was thankful.

The next day we crossed the desert, passed Joshua trees,
and arrived at a grand oasis--

a place to be restored!
(We were thankful.)

Opa buttered up the turkey,

Emmie buttered up the table,

And Sam buttered up his Oma.
(I'm always thankful for butter.)

All four grandparents had a personal server who filled our plates,
replenished our drinks and cleared away our dishes:

Jake

Emily

Sam

Luke.

After dinner we all just kicked back for the weekend
and felt thankful.

Thanks for everything!

Pie Night

2011-11-22T02:50:00.012-07:00

Coconut Cream Pies

Yep. I made 'em—homemade pies by OMA.
I'm a little proud as you can see.
I've never thought of myself as a pie maker.

Grandma Bagley

Grandma Bagley was the pie maker. Dad stopped to check on her every night on the way home from work. There was always a banana cream, a lemon meringue, peach, apple, chocolate or custard pie. Dad was a dutiful son, but grandma employed a secret method to encourage devotion. When I worked for my dad during my teens I got in on the visit and my favorite was coconut cream.

My kids have a tradition called Pie Night. It happens the Sunday before Thanksgiving, a get together to celebrate the sweetness of family. With 7 kids, 7 in-law kids who all come from big families on every side, it's never been a goal to get us all together for Thanksgiving. Little groups meet up and have Thanksgiving—the eastern families met at an Amish cabin for a few years, a group made a trek to St. Louis last year. One of our families gets a condo in Sun Valley with the in-laws every other year. We Opis family hop—we've been to Boston, Pennsylvania, Denver, San Diego, and this year we're in Arizona for the big day.

I have a family of event planners. Any occasion deserves a name and a theme, a game or two and some spectacular food. A great joy of this phase of life is visiting our kid's homes as guests. We are treated royally. Today one grandkid is assigned to each of the four grandparents coming to dinner, as their slave. They will serve us our food, clear our plates, replenish our glasses and be our dinner companion. It's so fun to watch Luke make place cards, and Sam light candles. Emily helped me tear up bread for the stuffing while Jake went off to play (officially) in his first turkey bowl. I LOVE seeing Gabi and Brad on their own turf, totally in control of the whole day. It is a treat beyond anything . . . even beyond pie.

Which brings me to my perfect pie recipe:

Old Fashioned Coconut Cream Pie

One can coconut milk, and enough half and half to make 3 cups liquid.

3 egg yolks

1 cup white sugar

1/2 cup cornstarch

1/4 t salt

1 cup flaked, sweetened coconut

1 baked pie shell

1 cup sweetened, whipped cream

In a medium saucepan combine eggs, sugar, flour and salt. Slowly stir in coconut milk/cream mixture. Bring to a a boil over low heat, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in 3/4 cup coconut, 1 teaspoon vanilla, and 1 T butter. Pour into pie shell and chill 2-4 hours.

Toast 1/4 coconut on ungreased pan in a 350 degree over 5-7 minutes until golden brown, stirring often. Cool. Sprinkle toasted coconut on top of pie. Serve with a dollop of whipped cream.

Stand back and wait for compliments!!!

Gotta go and taste-test some rolls!

Happy Thanksgiving!

P. S. I'm thankful for you!

P. S. P. S. Kirby Puckernut wants you to visit his blog! Click here!

Interior Design: Playroom

2011-11-21T00:45:00.002-07:00

Amy's an artist.
Always has been.

She was just a kid when she started drawing on my walls. I remember a little house sketched next to the light switch in her bedroom, and some crayon designs on the closet door. A few years later she painted life-sized stick figure kids playing on our basement walls, complete with flowers and trees. It was darling!

The other day she arrived at my door with brushes, masking tape and a few cans of paint. "Want your Christmas present early?" she asked. "I'm here to paint the Cousin's Clubhouse."

That's what the grandkids named the closet under the stairs when they recognized its possibilities. I hung a full-length mirror at the back (next to a basket of dress-ups) and tucked in a toy train, but it still needed some personality.

Amy brought it! Keeping with our travel motif, she sketched a scene from Amsterdam, then taped off the buildings with masking tape and painted every other one. When the second coat was dry, she removed the tape from one building and re-taped its neighbor, so the colors wouldn't blend at the edges.

She cleaned up her gear and left it to dry overnight.

The next day she came back with black markers to add some details, and outline the buildings freehand, in her trademark style. Her girls inspected the work, and gave it high marks.

Tile corkboards were set in the painted frames, and members of the Cousins Club took their place on the official roster. The moral of my story is this:

Let your kids draw on the walls.
It's good practice!

Ghost of Christmas Present

2011-11-17T01:48:00.000-07:00

Kirby Puckernut and the Christmas Surprise

I'm the ghost of Kirby Puckernut. He's a real guy—a real elf, I should say—and Santa Claus put him in charge of a blog this year. (They're trying to put the North Pole on the map, I guess.) Anyway, Kirby got hold of me and in a very high-pitched squeak asked if I was really a ghostwriter. I assured him I was, and he squeaked, "Will you be mine?" How could I resist?

It turns out Kirby is the star of a darling new Christmas book about Christmas magic, and Santa has received zillions of letters from folks asking for tips. With the Christmas rush and all, there just wasn't time for Kirby to learn the intricacies of blogging, so I've been entrusted with Santa's secrets. I'll be posting them on Kirby's blog every Thursday from now 'til Christmas.

But I'll let you in on a secret—I need your secrets. Do you have unique ways of creating Christmas magic? Here are some questions for you to mull over with your cider:

What is Christmas magic?
What unique Christmas traditions bring magic into your home?
What do you say to "Is Santa Claus real?"
What about the Christmas when everything went wrong?
What's the most stressful thing about Christmas?

I'd love to hear your secrets! Since I'm just Kirby's ghost, I can't give you credit for your ideas on his blog ("The secret of creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."—Albert Einstein) but you'll get full credit here on mine!

Leave a comment, or a link to your post.

And go meet Kirby!

Taking the Grand Tour

2011-11-14T00:02:00.009-07:00

"Write what should not be forgotten."

—Isabel Allende

One of my Oma goals was to take my grandchildren to Europe. Who better? I've been "over the pond" twenty-five times, and lived there twice. I wrote this goal in my journal twenty years ago, planning the trip for when they each turned ten. Of course this was before I had twenty grandkids and when I assumed I'd be rich in my old age.

Several grandkids have turned ten (and eleven, and twelve . . .) without me, but finally I have a local grand old enough for her Grand Tour. We just took it the other way around.

Chloë in the lobby of Grand America Hotel, Salt Lake City

We pretended Chloë was from Paris, meeting her long-lost Grandmama at a fancy schmancy hotel—the Grand America in Salt Lake City. A valet parked our car, and we walked past a long, white limo, so it was easy to imagine we were traveling first-class.

Catching her breath.

Chloë took almost a hundred photos as we explored the hotel. She loved the tapestries, the fountains, and the statues of deer in the gardens. One room caught her eye—the Grand Ballroom. Even with chairs strewn all over and tables only partially put away, it made her shriek with delight. I reminded her she was from Paris and had probably been to Versailles, but this was still the swankiest room she'd ever seen, and she pirouetted around like Cinderella.

There were little cubicles off a long hall, each with a built-in desk. "There's an old-fashioned telephone in there! Is this where people sit to take their calls?" she asked. (The old-fashioned telephone was just a regular phone that had a cord.) "That is so cool."

The bathroom blew her away. Real cloth towels, gilded mirrors and two posh sitting areas, plus "each toilet has its own miniature room!" A bit classier than the 4th grade lavatory.

Chloë is overcome at the Grand America.

Seeing a place through ten-year-old eyes, with a ten-year-old imagination was absolutely grand! I was reminded that to kids, everything is new. Even just a trip downtown can be an adventure—it's all in the presentation.

"Look up, Oma!"

Chloë pointed out every chandelier and every ceiling decoration; she appreciated all the little touches. "The salt and pepper shakers match our dishes!" (At home her salt and pepper shakers match her dishes, too, but I think she expects little paper packets at restaurants.) The waiter "brought bread automatically," crusty sourdough, with a "personal dish of butter," and she got to figure out which of her three knives was especially for spreading. Afterward we stopped in the little French bakery and drooled over gelato and chocolate truffles before we each chose a macaroon to eat at a tiny wrought-iron cafe table in the corner.

"We're making a memory," I told her over lunch. "Do you think you'll remember your first Grand Tour?" "Maybe," she said, her mind on the waiter bringing her lemonade.

Lunch at Grand America

Not to worry, Chloë. I don't remember all the things I did with my grandmas, either. But somehow I knew they loved me and recognized my individuality. Although I was one of 13 on one side, and one of 24 on the other, I felt appreciated for myself, even as I took pride in being part of a large group.

Those are the memories I cherish, and the ones I hope to recreate—a deep, down, inner conviction for each grandchild that we know they are unique and love them because of it. I'll share my vast wisdom if they are interested, and if I have something to teach (that they want to learn) I'll pass it on, but most of what I want to give my grandkids is confidence and faith that they're here at this time with inborn traits, abilities and spiritual gifts that are needed. I want them to have the courage to follow their promptings to go where they can make their contribution to the world.

My true goal for them is to take their own tour of life, find personal adventures and a repertoire of experience that will prepare them for each successive tour of duty: school, mission, college, army, marriage and stops along the way I don't know about yet. That's the Grand Tour I'm most interested in. But I'm glad to be part of the training tours along the way!

DIY Scrapbook Papered Bookcase

2011-11-09T22:37:00.001-07:00

1 old bookcase + 12 sheets of scrapbook paper = proud Oma

The old bookcase looked pretty tired in the new bedroom, but if I wanted a new one I had to do it myself. My DIY projects have to be cheap, quick and easy, and this one was. I chose paper that was easy to match on the edges, then measured and cut the sheets to fit the back of my bookcase.

Dee sprayed the adhesive,
Benji manned the door,

And I quickly stuck the paper on the bookcase.

In typical fashion, I had measured wrong and didn't have enough paper for the bottom shelf. No worries. I just filled in with a different pattern.

The whole project took less than an hour, but it needed some finishing touches: I turned a wooden utensil box on its side to display miniatures, and glued a collage of scraps on two boring hatboxes.

Oma's reading nook

A showpiece for my showpieces!

Office Tour

2011-11-07T00:48:00.001-07:00

"I'll see you in my office now."

This is where I spend my time.

Writing on the Wall

On one side of my office is my library. Reading, writing and research books, stories for the grands, old letters, maps and travel books (stashed in the suitcases) and file boxes along the bottom with tons of family history info.

Office Suite-y

You've already seen my computer.

My Bibles

If I turn my chair the other way I'm facing my work table. Between the bookends are resources I need at my fingertips. The loose leaf holds research I've done for my work in progress, aka The Widow's Waltz. It's a great example of my new catchphrase, "Planning is the enemy of finishing."

Since last November I've compiled almost three hundred pages outlining setting (Vienna, just before World War II) plot (American businessman is murdered) and character back-story (based on real letters) but not a sentence of the actual book. It's time to stop planning, so I can start finishing.

Editor's Desk

But I have finished a couple of big editing projects recently. Right now I'm working on a manuscript by a surgeon who served several tours of duty in Afghanistan. It's serious and funny—a little like Hawkeye's life on MASH.

Office Accessories

Little details: I use my pewter collection to hold office supplies. The IKEA Lazy Susan gives me instant access to red pens, blue pencils, scissors, chapstick and my back-scratcher. It suddenly seemed nutty that these pretty pieces were hidden away in a cupboard. What was I saving them for??

Check books

Here's my bill paying station. I chucked my ugly brown accordion folder and now I stash the bills that need attention in one fake book, and the others hold receipts, stamps and envelopes.

File It

These space-saving filing cabinets came from TJ Maxx. Since the folders are on display, I bought a package of cute blue ones to match my decor, and put them in front. They hold everything—address labels, greeting cards, newspaper clippings and blog ideas.

Inspiration Board

When I was packing up my stuff to move, I found some handmade paper we bought in Italy ten years ago. Apparently I was saving it. For what? So I cut it up into squares and used it to line a bulletin board. Postcards and old calendar pictures of women reading and writing inspire me.

Scraps

A rusted, yellow mailbox begged for old letters, but the slots were too deep for my stationery. I cut some scrapbook paper up and taped a few pieces together so they'd be exactly the right size, and then stuck on some vintage-looking stamp stickers to make them look authentic. Old postcards added color.

Anything for me?

Voila! A cool in-and-out box for my desk. (I stash the real letters-to-be-mailed behind the fake ones—a check being sent to the phone company doesn't seem as cute.)

Speaking of letters . . . Nancy emailed these questions:

"How do you preserve what you've written, photos and all?
Do you have a backup system for memoirs?"

Actually, my blog is my backup system. A few years ago I accidentally deleted my archive of photos. The pictures I had used on my blog were the only ones I could find again, because they were floating around the Internet. That's why I've written a lot of my memoirs on my blog—I can access those memories from anywhere, anytime. (And so can all my descendants who can't wait to read every word Great-grandma Oma ever wrote.)

So, how do you preserve what you've written?

I loved your comments about why you blog. Now you need to write about where you blog. Leave a comment and we'll come over and tour your office.

Congratulations to Grandma Cebe!
(She won a copy of my book!)

Buy it here!

Ten Reasons to Blog

2011-11-02T01:35:00.004-06:00

Here's where I blog.

I've been asking myself—why do I blog? TravelinOma is five years old next week, and this is my 5,000th post! Each post takes me at least two hours to write, so that's over 10,000 hours I've spent working on this little hobby—not counting all the prepping, designing and linking. Since I don't have ads, there's no money-making involved. So is blogging worth it?

Ten Ways Blogging Has Paid Off For Me

Blogging introduced me to one of the great loves of my life—Mac. You can read about him in a post I called An Affair to Remember.
Blogging is it's own reward—I'm becoming a better writer. I've got three shelves of books on writing that I'm always studying, and I use my blog to practice the techniques I'm reading about. Looking back at my early posts, I see improvement, and that's satisfying to me.
Because of my blog I take more pictures, download them that day (in case I want to use them on a post) and label them immediately so they're easy to find.
All my old photos are now organized in iPhoto. At first I was searching through boxes and scrapbooks for pictures to use on posts, so I started scanning them in and making digital albums, labeling them with names and dates. (Another bonus from blogging.)
I learned how to scan—and create files to store scans in. And color code my files. Initially it was just for my blog, but my eyes were opened to a world of possibilities. (You have to remember I was raised during the Dewey Decimal decades, and this is all new to me.)
I learned to cut and paste, and then to copy and bookmark and explore icons, which taught me to add images and make italics, and change fonts. That gave me confidence to try other writing programs like Pages and Scrivener. Now I can create my own templates for newsletters—and novels!
I haven't even mentioned what I've learned from your blogs. You find humor in the mundane and miserable moments, and you relish the joyful ones. Reading what you write encourages me, and I feel refreshed by dipping into your day. (Even though I hardly ever comment anymore.)
When something interesting pokes my mind, I think, "Blog." It's a great motivation for research. I wrote about Anne Frank once, and that post alone has had 51,000 hits!
Blogging has given me a new outlet. Even the bleakest of days can turn into a memorable post.
Finally, I love blogging! At the beginning of my blogging career the prevailing attitude (of non-bloggers) was that it was a waste of time. I felt defensive. One of my most popular posts is called Wear Your Paper Bag With Pride, and after I wrote it, I settled into my blogging grove—with pride.

"When I sit down at my writing desk, time seems to vanish.
I think it's a wonderful way to spend one's life."
—Erica Jong

How long have you been blogging?

Leave a comment before Saturday November 5th at midnight,
and you'll be entered to win a copy of my book!

Buy it here!

Grandmummy Halloween Party

2011-10-31T00:01:00.000-06:00

Mummie Parade

There's nothing better than being a Grand-mummy. Real mummies have to sew costumes, go trick-or-treating and deal with sugar highs. Grandmummies get to prepare for parties without boo-hoos, howls or shrieks in the background—it's a hoot!

We had cheesy cracker pumpkins, ghostly bananas and sliced lips
(two apple slices spread with peanut butter,
and baby marshmallow teeth in between)
plus a cup of blood . . .

to dippy our mummy dogs in.
(Wrap refrigerator crescent rolls around a hotdog.
Bake 20 min at 350, dot with mustard eyes.
Dip in ketchup.)

The scariest part of dinner was when I choked on an apple. A Grandmummy should not turn blue in front of her boys and ghouls! After I was revived and calmed, we proceeded with the planned party activities.

Mummy Wrap

Who wants to be a mummy? Each mummy is given a roll of TP and a team of wrappers. The first team who finishes a roll wins applause.

Spider Web

Sit in a circle with a ball of black yarn. Toss it back and forth saying "I'll catch Benji (or whoever) in my web." Each person holds on to the yarn when he throws it and a web is created in the middle. When a little ghoul steps in the middle because she's bored, the game is over.

What do spiders catch in their webs? Flies!!

"I know an old lady who swallowed a fly!
I don't know why she swallowed a fly . . .
Perhaps she'll die."
Each kid stuffed something in the old lady's mouth
until finally she swallowed a horse.
"She's dead of course."

Ghosties
Pass out tissues, cotton balls and rolls of tape.
Place a cotton ball in the middle of the tissue, wrap it with tape
and you've got a ghostie. Put them everywhere.

Dance in the Dark
Everybody gets a glow-in-the-dark bracelet.
Then turn out the lights and dance to Monster Mash . . .

Zombies!

. . . and Thriller!

Ghost Stories
While the lights are out, hold a flickering candle under your face
and tell a few spooky stories.
"In a dark, dark wood, there was a dark, dark house . . ."

"And the gob-e-lins'll git you
Ef you don't watch out!!"

Each little goblin picked a spook off the tree,
shivered,
and flew off into the night.
The Grandmummy Halloween party was all wrapped up!

Sibling Relationships

2011-10-28T00:55:00.001-06:00

Cowboy Brothers

I love writing about family relationships. In Son of a Gun some of my favorite scenes explored the relationship of two stepbrothers. This excerpt depicts how young teenage boys show affection. I based it on the interaction between my own sons as they were growing up.

Son of a Gun
by
Marty Halverson

“You lowdown mavericker! You thievin’ my cattle, agin, boy?” With a whoop, JJ leaped on the back of his brother’s horse, attacking MJ in a Texas wrestle. They had the common knowledge that they were tough, but who was toughest on a given day depended on who could pin who.

Sliding to the ground, MJ had trouble putting down his younger brother, and might never have made it if Trespass hadn’t leaped in and begun licking JJ’s face and nipping him in the side til he hit his ticklebone. That got JJ to giggling so hard he couldn’t fight, and MJ was glad to press the boy’s shoulders flat into the dirt of the trail and quit while he could.

They got up, knocking the dust and twigs off themselves to cover the awkward spell that was bound to set in when big boys had carried on too catnippy for their ages. As always, it was JJ who got to talking first. As they walked toward the barn with Trespass yapping at their feet and pawing for attention, he babbled a blue-tailed streak, as if they’d been separated for a month instead of just a few days.

“Ain’t you had nobody to talk to, Jage?" MJ asked. "That cowlicked filly a’ yours stopped listening to your chatter?” JJ faked a scowl but went right on jabbering, letting his brother lap up the family news.

It's fascinating to create characters—they actually come to life! As I got to know these brothers, I loved the relationship they had.

Do you have young sons, brothers or nephews?
I'd love to hear your observations about how boys show affection for each other.
How is it different from girls?

Leave a comment!

Son of a Gun!

2011-10-25T23:21:00.011-06:00

Ruby Barlow, heroine

"Please release me . . ." Ruby cried. And they did!
Tate Publishing released my book today. I'm a novelist!

(It's available on Amazon!)

"You can quit staring," Ruby told the cowboy. "I've known men like you, and I'm not interested." Her voice was kept low, but she had no shyness about her.

Jack tipped back in his chair and ogled her. "You've known men like me? What are you . . . about fifteen? Too young to be so sour on love." He reached out and grabbed her around the waist. "Some schoolboy pull your ponytail too hard?"

"Laws! I'm eighteen, and I can rope a calf and break a colt better than any schoolboy. I support a household and work a farm, so don't toy with me, mister." She refilled his coffee cup and twisted away from his grasp. "Aren't you that pile of dust and whiskers with the red mare? That horse won't know you, all spiffed and shiny."

Left alone to raise Jack's son, Ruby is rescued from life as a soiled dove by a young widower who sees past her desperate bravado and recognizes courage. Together they face a devastating grasshopper plague, a tornado, fire and persecution while raising two young sons on the Texas plains. When a murder takes place on their ranch, the Barlow family is almost torn apart.

Meticulously researched and historically accurate, Son of a Gun shows how values of the Old West are still important today.

OK.

I'll give you a second to order your copy.

(Click here)

Now you're all invited over to my brand-new website to celebrate:
martyhalverson.com

Bring your friends!

Click here for excerpts from Son of a Gun.

Scary Business

2011-10-25T00:55:00.007-06:00

"What's cooking, Oma?"

I've got a Halloween party brewing, but some little ghouls can't come.

So I invited them over a few days early to spook up the place.

Martha's mice on the stairs. See how they run!

With silhouettes, stickies and squeals they created a rat house.

I'm no dummy!

Since a real pumpkin head was too heavy, this spook's a light-weight with a styrofoam noggin. The ghoulies crumpled newspapers to stuff his shirt, and pieced his squishy parts together with elastics and duct tape. In no time our house was haunted and party-ready.

Oma Superior

Thanks, ghouls!

Now, want to stir up something spooky?
Here's a recipe that haunts me:

Ghost Cake With Glowing Eyes

Bake a cake in an oblong pan.
When cool, dump out of the pan carefully onto a tray.

Now cut off two pieces to create a rounded ghost shape.
The two extra pieces will become arms.

Use white meringue type frosting from a box to glue the arms on the sides of the cake.
Frost the cake.
Use black licorice for the mouth.

Now the spooky part:
Break an egg, dump out the insides, and place each 1/2 eggshell (open side up) for eyes.
Soak two sugar cubes in lemon extract.
Place sugar cubes in egg shells, and light them with a match.
The eyes will glow.

Ghost Cake

Boo-ti-ful!

Marriage: What Brings Us Together

2011-10-20T14:15:00.000-06:00

"Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday.
Mawage, that bwessed awangment,
that dweam wifin a dweam . . .

wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva . . .

So tweasure your wuv."

I love being married. Last week we were talking to a Social Security guy over the phone (Helen and Morty style: both of us on the line) and he asked, "How long have you been married." "Forty-two years," I said. "To the same person???" "Yes," we said together. "Forty-two years!" he gasped. "God bless you!" Then after a pause he continued, "You must be experts at it. What are your secrets?"

I have learned a lot about marriage over these past four decades and I'm going to share some marital secrets.

"Mawage is wot bwings us togeder." Dee and I stick together. Our first hours together were spent walking and talking. That's literally all we did during our courtship. We met as students on a semester abroad in Salzburg, Austria—no money, no car, no TV, no friends, no family, no place to make-out—we just talked. Quickly we became friends, best friends, and we wanted to officially become bff.

That's a secret: talk. After we were back home with a job, a car, TV, friends, and family there was competition for our talking time. And finally we had someplace to make-out, so babies started coming and the din in our tiny trailer made chatting a challenge. But we've kept talking to each other (about anything and everything, all the time) a high priority.

And the bff thing? Another secret. Best friends don't blab about each others faults, frailties, foibles or flaws. They're loyal. I'm certainly not perfect at this but I must be nearly perfect, because lots of folks think Dee is perfect! (I'll leave it at that.) It's not a totally selfless thing to speak highly of my husband: I think it makes me look better to be married to an awesome guy. Why would I tattle on his quirks and make myself look like an idiot to be hooked up with him? When I do talk about his eccentricities, I try to do it with love and humor, because that's the way I decided to feel about them. (I see it as a choice.)

Beauty experts say to focus on the good stuff to take attention away from the bad stuff. If your eyes are pretty, play them up to take attention away from your double chin. If your ears are huge, don't wear huge earrings, and if your hands are expressive wear rings and bracelets. When you're looking for beauty in your spouse, don't focus on the warts! I don't want Dee looking me over with a magnifying glass—"Hmmm, you spilled coke in your car again . . . I still don't have any clean towels . . . you deleted BEAR GRILLS???" I love it when he says, "I'll make my own dinner. Just keep putting stickers on the grandkid packages. That's the important stuff." He compliments me and I compliment him on our tiny, unique attempts to improve the world, and we both feel good about ourselves. Which makes us feel good about each other.

So what are you thinking right this second? Are you thinking, "My husband NEVER does that. If he'd just change, our marriage would be happy." Or are you thinking, "I ought to do that. If I changed, maybe our marriage would be happy." I've learned that I can't change Dee. Trying makes me miserable—it focuses all my energy in a negative direction. The ONLY person in the whole world I can change is myself, and doing that focuses me in a positive direction.

If my marriage needs more empathy, I can provide that empathy—towards him. If my marriage needs more fun, I need to become more fun to be with. If my marriage needs more forgiveness, I can forgive. If my marriage has too much stubbornness, I can eliminate mine and there won't be as much. When my marriage is stagnant, I need to get out of my doldrums and become interested and interesting. It will be at least 50% better when I make a change.

The "bwessed awangment, this dweam wifin a dweam" sometimes becomes a nightmare. Having interests and hobbies in common, dating for years, living together first . . . none of these things can prepare couples for marriage. Marriage is life, and life is unexpected. You can't practice it first—you learn it together. Couples I know have lost jobs, children, houses, health, money, limbs, eyesight, hearing . . . they weren't ready for these nightmares to snuff out their dreams. But every one of the couples I'm thinking of learned how to be happy again. New characteristics were developed individually; they supported each other as they each learned to live with broken hearts, and then learned how to be a couple again. Being willing to learn is the definition of humility. Marriage is a continuing education that demands humility.

Buttercup's pastor said, "wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva . . ." I disagree with this part. Love is not a noun (person, place or thing) that follows you around, whimsically disappears and shows up somewhere else. Love is a verb, an action word; it's something you DO. That's why people say marriage is work. It takes effort, energy, enthusiasm—it's an endeavor. Think of something you're proud of in life: graduating, raising your kids, running a marathon, growing your bangs out, whatever. It took time and patience, you got discouraged, it was the pits, you thought you'd never make it, but you did. The reason you're proud of that accomplishment is because it was hard. A happy marriage is hard—fun and hard—and it's my proudest accomplishment.

"Tweasure your wuv," the wise old man said. Definitions for treasure are: value greatly, prize highly, hold dear, adore, cherish. To be happy in marriage, I've learned to value, prize, adore and cherish not only my husband, but the marriage itself—our couple-ness. When I'm making a decision, I often boil it down to Will this strengthen my marriage or be divisive? Since my marriage is my top priority, the choice is usually clear, even though it involves a sacrifice. (Secret: don't expect gratitude when you make a sacrifice. Most of the time, nobody even notices you made it. Just revel in the fact that you're becoming a wonderful person.)

Like I said before, I love being married. In fact, we've just moved in together full-time! Dee's office is now in the loft above mine and we can hear each other think. It's not a 24/7 situation—we still have places to go and people to see, but it's fun calling up to him with a geography question and have him ask me how to spell something. We're still learning from each other and about each other. That's our secret.

"wuv, twu wuv . . ."

Tales of Spiderwoman

2011-10-20T00:12:00.003-06:00

Drawing by Joel Schick
The Gobble-uns'll Git You

It was chilly in the basement bedroom. I turned on the heat, kicked off my shoes and closed the door before I saw him hiding in the corner. My shriek echoed throughout the house and Brad pounded down the stairs to my rescue. I looked away while he killed the intruder . . . a giant, hairy spider.

Gabi and Brad left on vacation the next day, leaving me to protect their kids. I was walking down the hall when I noticed another large, black spider on the floor. Shivers ran up and down my spine as I realized there was nobody to help. Keeping an eye on the hairy beast, I walked backwards to the kitchen, put on some boots and got the telephone book. I was terrified.

With all the force I could muster I threw the book on the spider with a squeal and then jumped on top just to make sure it was squooshed to bits. Jake heard me yell and ran in to see what was going on.

Illustration by Judy Love

I was shaking as I lifted the phone book off the offensive creature, but I could see it was still big and fat. Jake leaned over to look closer, and picked up a black leg. "Why are you jumping on my plastic spider?" he asked, as he tucked it in his pocket. Duh, Oma.

Jake and Oma, 2009

Thanks for the memories, Jake!

Another of my favorite Halloween memories is the spooky re-telling of

The Gobble-uns 'll Git Yer!

James Whitcomb Riley.

It lends itself to lots of expression and when you're into it, you'll find that comes naturally,

along with a little accent of some sort. It's as fun to read as it is to hear.

Tell it by ghostly candlelight.

Any Halloween tricks or treats you want to pass out here?

(Nothing involving spiders, please!)

Cleaning For a Reason

2011-10-18T23:18:00.003-06:00

Sick and tired.

I got a good squeeze today. Being up close and personal with a mammogram machine reminded me of the many women who are sick and tired of being sick and tired, while working hard to get well again. Hanging on the wall of the dressing room was a flyer that made me smile:

"Cleaning For a Reason is a service for women with cancer who are currently undergoing chemotherapy. They can have a free housecleaning once per month for four months with a doctor's note to verify treatment."

Maybe someone who reads my blog is sick and tired and needs this service, or maybe someone who reads your blog knows someone who does. Link to this post and spread the word!

Click here for more info:

www.cleaningforareason.org

Scary Stuff

2011-10-17T23:32:00.001-06:00

Pumpkin Heads by Wendell Minor

"I'll bet living in a nudist colony takes all the fun out of Halloween."

Any cool, easy ideas for costumes?

Share or you'll be haunted for life.

Being a Mummy

2011-10-15T16:41:00.001-06:00

Jake and Emmie 2009

Being someone's mummy is scary stuff!
(I have forty-one years of experience.)

I was recently asked for my best advice on Motherhood.
It's in an essay I wrote years ago called—

Colonial woman dipping candles.

Wax Strong

Into the hot wax; out of the hot wax. Into the hot wax; out of the hot wax. I watched as the woman dipped her candles. She held a dowel with ten pieces of string looped over it, and repeatedly lowered it into a vat of melted wax.

Wicks

The first time it looked like nothing stuck to the strings at all. Another dip, and they still looked clean. Patiently, the woman dunked them again, and again, and eventually I could see a film of wax building. Time after time the thin layers adhered to each other, and slowly the strings began to look like candles.

After countless dips.

I've watched other women engaged in an old-fashioned art that also involves patience and repetition. It is mothering. Time after time they dip their kids in character building experiences—"Say Please," "Thank you," "I'm sorry;" share your toys; pick up your coat; mind your dad; love your brother; don't whine; feed the dog; say your prayers—over and over again, the same admonitions. At first it seems nothing is sticking. The kids are still the same. But eventually they begin to wax strong.

A work of art!

Each experience a child has in character building is like one more dip of the candle.
It is repetitious, it can become wearisome.
But it's worth it.

Art by William Adolphe Bouguereau

"Be not weary in well doing,
for ye are laying the foundation of a great work.
For out of small things proceedeth that which is great."
---D&C 64:33

It's a good season for Mummies.

Treat yourself!

Bathroom Decor

2011-10-11T06:17:00.001-06:00

Dee is always planning to go somewhere.

Now he can plan where he's going,

Even when he's going.

(Get it?)

Click here for a treasure map to cool maps!

Souper Idea

2011-10-06T16:30:00.000-06:00

"I think I can . . ."

Our new kitchen is bigger than our old one,

but we have less cabinet space and our pantry is smaller.

Stuff It

So I read a hundred blogs, magazines and books on kitchen storage ideas

to prepare for the big put-away.

Indispensable IKEA Lazy Susans: $7.00

With lazy susans from IKEA, and spice stackers from Walmart, I hit the shelves about 11 p.m. the night after we moved in. The lazy susans were great, but I could only fit one on a shelf, and there was wasted space above the cans. I unloaded the pantry and started again from scratch at midnight.

The second round worked better using tiered stands on the shelves, but there was still stuff out that needed to be stuffed in. In my pile I found a hanging wire shelf that hooked onto the shelf above it, but I couldn't reach it unless I put it low, which would hinder access to the cans. If I didn't redo it now, I'd never do it, so I unloaded the pantry again and started over at 1:00 am.

An hour later I was sitting on a stool, staring at my cans. They still didn't look quite right. So I rearranged them by category (soup, fruit, veg) and then again by height. Dee wandered down about 2:30 to see what I was doing. By then my head was swimming with obsessive thoughts of canned goods. I invited him to view my efforts.

"Have you been Sleeping With the Enemy?" he asked, referring to Julia Robert's freaky soup-can controlling husband in the movie. "Can you remember him?" "I can," I mumbled and stumbled off to bed.

I must have been obsessing even in my sleep, worrying that my cans weren't as cute as they could be. I dreamed I sewed them all little clothes.

"That's weird."

Dee-Day

2011-10-05T00:10:00.001-06:00

Dee, three.

This is a War Baby, born 9 months (plus a few hours) after his WWII soldier dad returned to his waiting wife. A true Boomer. And he's mine.

You could not meet a more interesting guy. That's a direct result of the fact that he's interested in EVERYTHING. By the time I met Dee when he was 22 he was already an expert in European History, World Geography, the British Military, photography, German philosophy, politics and US current events. He collected coins and stamps, knew diverse things about music, Rommel, Hubert Humphrey and art. I was fascinated.

He'd worked in a pizza place, hoed sugar beets, stocked fabric bolts, and managed a pro-shop at a golf course, saving for college from the time he was 13. He'd lived in Germany, met Bobby Kennedy, been a boy scout, worked at Grand Canyon, skinny-dipped in the river, hunted pheasants, and made fires to roast grasshoppers for a picnic. He'd tracked trains, then put nails and coins on the tracks to watch them get flattened. He had a Tom Sawyer type childhood, a hard-working, studious youth, and was smarter than anyone I'd ever met.

We'd been married a couple of years when he received a triple degree in German, European Studies and History from BYU (he had planned to go into foreign service, the CIA or the Intelligence field) and with a wife, a daughter and a son on the way, he continued a job in real estate as a developer and builder. He built about 50 homes, a subdivision, some condos, office buildings and a business park and was involved in the politics of water rights, irrigation feuds, and building permits. He arbitrated, negotiated, and stagnated. It was time to move on.

After reinventing himself with a year at The King's Manor in York, England he received another degree in Architectural History and Preservation. Dee's first business venture after returning home was to sponsor a three-day, world-wide conference on retro-fitting historic buildings with hydraulic springs to prevent damage during an earthquake. The Salt Lake City and County Building was the first building in the world to benefit from the new technology and Dee's conference was well-attended by architects from all over the world who wanted to observe and learn first hand.

Salt Lake City and County Building, World Wide Symposim

He began writing books on historic buildings, and architectural styles and features, which led to books about towns, individuals, businesses and families. He's now written over 50 privately commissioned books, becoming an expert on each new topic, spending months, even years, studying the various subjects.

It's fun to watch Dee immerse himself in a new interest. When he wrote a book about a Jewish Rabbi in Seattle, it led him to 1860's silver mines in Colorado and the beginnings of a rabbinical school in Cincinnati. The story of a San Francisco bridge building company took us to an ancestral winery in Germany, as well as a study of the construction of the Channel Tunnel between England and France.

Early logging in Ontario's rivers, and the establishment of Quaker Meetings in Pennsylvania, pirates settling Newfoundland and ghost towns in Southern Utah have become a few areas of expertise for Dee. He loves to dig out the stories behind the stories and he becomes well acquainted with people long gone. He knows people's businesses and ancestors better than they do themselves, and he appreciates the hard work and sacrifice of unknown heroes. His research skills are superb. He can find everything that's been written about anything, consolidate and unify the information, add to it, and then condense it to a form that's factual and entertaining. He would find the history of dirt intriguing, and you would, too, if he wrote about it!

Dee has an incredible memory for dates and places involving anyone else, and when he gets going on a little historic recitation he's thorough to the point of . . . well, thoroughness. But it's almost impossible to get him to talk about his own memories. He's foggy on the details.

We got married 42 years ago in September, and a few weeks later on his birthday I baked him a cake. He came home from school, saw it on the table and was overcome. "I've never had a birthday cake before," he told me emotionally. He hadn't? Where was his mother? What kind of deprived childhood had he come from? I vowed to make it all up to him. I'd give him memorable celebrations that would overwhelm his past disappointments.

The next year, true to my promise, I baked him a triple decker. When he walked in, his eyes misted over and he whispered tremulously, "Oh, my gosh, Dear. I've never had a birthday cake before."

Like I said, he's an interesting guy. The best part is that he's interested in me!

Happy Birthday, Dear!

Home Decor: Sing Your Own Song

2011-10-04T16:30:00.002-06:00

TravelinOma:

singing the same old song.

I had great plans of developing a new persona when I moved to Daybreak. I'd start over: instead of being a reclusive writer I'd be a community organizer. I'd enhance my full-bodied look and wear leopard driving gloves with huge glitzy bracelets; my ever-present bandana sweatband would be my signature roaring-twenties headpiece.

The basis for my persona was a new house. My decorating style would make a clean, classic statement ala Pottery Barn. Blue, white and red would be updated to blue, white and yellow--fresh, unadorned cream colored walls would soothe and calm my frenzied friends. A neighbor once told me, "Marty, your house makes me dizzy." My new interiors would put her to sleep like a lullaby.

NOT.

I've discovered that a month of planning does not trump 62 years of living. And 42 of those years I've been married to a collector who loves color and pattern as much as I do. Geometric straw balls placed strategically on bookshelves are for people who don't have 23 boxes of books! Elegant framed swatches of Marimekko fabric are for folks who don't collect coats from the Tyrol. Sad to say, the new persona died in the move. The old persona is sitting at her computer, wearing a bandana, surrounded by a patchwork of dizzying hues.

Our bookcases fit perfectly in a little nook by the entry.

We showcased the books we've written, plus collections of books that reflect our interests.

The suitcases on top are decorated with travel labels of places we've been.

IKEA magazine files on the bottom shelves hold projects in progress.

Someone once said, "You were born an original. Don't die a copy." Sing your own song! Designer shows I've been watching all summer emphasize decorating for your eventual buyer. They have rules for color choices, art groupings, and furniture placement. According to these experts, too much personal stuff detracts from the neutral wall space, and the universally featureless artwork the home-stagers promote. Ridiculous!

Our new townhouse in Garden Park is just over 1600 square feet.

It has two bedrooms and a loft, which we converted into Dee's office.

Half of the Living Room is living room, and the other half is my office,

with a long dining table for a layout table.

When company comes, I'll clear off the writing gear and pass the potatoes!

This is what my office looks like from the staircase looking down.

I used a collection of pewter pieces on an IKEA lazy susan to hold elastics, paper clips, pencils, etc.

(Handy for writing with grandkids coloring on the other side,

and easy to relocate at the dinner bell.)

Here's how the two spaces work together.

(From the kitchen . . .

. . . from the entry.)

A home should be a reflection of those who live there. Where else can you showcase your personality, interests and accomplishments better than your home? If kids are part of the decor, their fingerprints should be all over (both literally and figuratively.) School pictures in the bedroom (hang them on a clothesline with tiny clothespins) birthday invitations on the fridge (create a section for each kid to display their stuff and let them decide what to take down when something new comes in the mail) and towels hanging low in the bathroom (give everyone their own color and their own hook at a reachable level and they might not land on the floor!)

I love to troll decorating magazines and websites, and pinterest is my newest obsession, but if an idea appears too often I run the other way. Ideas are for inspiration, not to replace creativity. I'm wary of trends. If somebody tells you green appliances will spice up your kitchen, decide if guacamole is the look you love before buying the whole avocado. (I speak from experience.) If a trend sings to you, you'll still love it when it's out of style in five years, but if you choose it because it's all the rage, you'll be singing "It's not easy being green" long before the avocado turns brown.

In one house we had gorgeous oak paneling. Gorgeous, I tell you! Plus a rock fireplace. A decorator came in to help us choose fabrics and she informed us that the room looked dark (ja, und?) "Cover this wood up with burlap. The rock fireplace could be redone with Naugahyde and stud nails." She was so confident, so sure future buyers wouldn't like the old-fashioned cabin charm, that we actually thought about it . . . until we remembered we loved the warm, cozy feel we had, and WE were living there! Let your home reflect you.

Letters to and from our family while we lived a year in England

captured our experiences. Here they are displayed on a staircase wall,

available for reading and remembering.

The ambiance of your home is the most important element: the feel, the gemutlichkeit, the atmosphere. Decide which part of your personality to emphasize (elegant, sophisticated, casual, comfortable, colorful, artistic) and look through your drawers for stuff that tells that story. Pieces that represent your talents, interests, memories or heritage can be displayed in unique ways to prompt conversations or recharge your batteries.

Dee's inspiration board is a collage of former projects,

and projects to come. The pictures tell his stories,

which he happily shares with clients and grandkids.

Creativity is the best part of home-making, from my point of view. I love taking an idea and tweaking it with a few grace notes of my own. I've fallen flat with a few looks, but some are pretty sharp.

What tune is your house singing?

Share a description or a link!

Home Again

2011-10-03T13:19:00.000-06:00

Oh my gosh! There it is!

I think I found it!

(A mind is a terrible thing to lose.)

After a summer we'll always remember as mind blowing,

things are finally falling into place.

Of course, they really didn't fall there.

It took a team to help them land:

Amy did the balancing act,

while others directed.

And a miracle happened:

all our old stuff started looking new!

The TV cabinet from the bedroom turned into a hutch in the kitchen,

and the dishes that didn't fit in the cupboards

got stacked on top in a display.

It was like playing with a Rubik's cube. I discovered where something should go, and then I had to mess up everything I'd done everywhere else to get it there. There was always a pile of left-over stuff to move to the bedroom or the garage, and then the next day I'd be out searching for whatever had seemed unnecessary yesterday.

It's home. It didn't take a month or even a week. Our first night felt right, in spite of the mess around us. We're like the TV cabinet in the bedroom--we just needed a new spot, new surroundings, and we feel brand new! We're loving it!

This week I'm in St. Louis tending grands, with no boxes to empty or closets to organize, so I'll be giving home tours and tips on moving and decorating. Come on over . . .

TravelinOma is home again!

Moving Observations

2011-09-07T01:14:00.001-06:00

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most.

I know it's in a box somewhere. Tomorrow I'll start looking. Tomorrow! Actually, it's already tomorrow—we're moving TODAY! The china looks dishy in new cupboards and the towels look swingy on new bars; books stand ready to be stacked and each knick-knack is hoping to be picked for the top shelf. Blankets can't wait to cozy up to the bed—no sheet!

There were so many details somersaulting through my head already today, and then I found out that when we sign out of Comcast (tomorrow) I'll lose ALL my email! I frantically set up a gmail account (martyhalversonatgmail.com) and finally figured out how to import my address list just in time—in spite of the empty boxes towering next to my desk, waiting to be filled. But I can't lose you guys! You understand me—you don't mind that I've lost my mind.

My phone number, address and email are all changing and I have to unplug my computer and wait days and days for a new internet connection. I feel adrift. I haven't had time to read blogs or call friends or even say goodbye to Sir John (the British knight who lives next door) and tomorrow my life as I know it will be over. It's exciting and exhausting and sad and traumatic and invigorating and scary. And right.

I only have six hours to sleep before the movers come, but I don't want to go to bed. Although I can't wait for my new life to start, I don't want to let go of the old one quite yet. It's been a good one.

But I've got to find my mind!

(I hope I'll be back soon.)

Perks of the Purge

2011-08-23T00:02:00.003-06:00

(Linens I hadn't ironed in two years.)

In an effort to balance myself,
I had a purge.

(Extra stuff I never use.)

What was I saving this for?
The great bowl shortage?

The grands sift through my odds and ends.

So, I had an Oma Giveaway.
Craft paper, purse mirrors, pill boxes and stickers . . .
The little kids scored mini-sized lotions, notepads and bags,
toys I don't like to clean up, games I don't like to play, books I don't like to read—
they cleaned house!

Amy discovers a gift she gave me.

The big kids were a bit more choosy.
But hey, who doesn't want a new Christmas cookie platter?
Fake fruit anyone?
After my customers left,
the remnants were packed up and hauled off to a thrift store.
(I'll probably buy the red pan again when I find it there!)
Perk of the purge:
Living with less lowers my stress.

My long-lost fondue pot!

Another perk of a purge is the discovery of forgotten treasures.
After the Oma Giveaway, Dee whipped up his specialty:

Swiss Cheese Fondue

1 lb. cubed Swiss cheese (we like half Gruyere and half Emmenthal)
3 T. cornstarch
1 clove fresh garlic
2 cups white wine (we use white grape juice)
Nutmeg
Pepper

Spray saucepan with Pam and rub with garlic. While heating wine on stove, toss cheese with cornstarch and add it by handfuls to the wine, stirring constantly until cheese is melted. Transfer to a fondue pot to keep it bubbling, and sprinkle with nutmeg and freshly ground pepper. Spear bread cubes, vegetables, sausage, apples, olives, pickles and dunk and swirl.

I love the simple life!

Organization

2011-08-17T01:02:00.000-06:00

Organizing is my homemaking chore of choice, so I was thrilled to find Jen's blog: IHeartOrganizing. I've been reading her old posts for three nights now. She is fabulous!

Pinterest has also caught my interest. Do not go there if you're not prepared to be addicted.

And tomorrow I'm getting balanced! (This post by Bernice Wood is inspiring.)

Why Are You Moving to Daybreak?

2011-08-13T10:23:00.020-06:00

I've been buried with questions!
Underneath it all, I've got an answer.

Our new digs in Garden Park at Daybreak, Utah

Ever since I announced "We're moving," I've been asked

Why Daybreak?

Let me tell you. Daybreak is a planned community below the Oquirrh Mountains in the southwest corner of Salt Lake Valley. It's four thousand acres and will eventually have 20,000 homes—it's already a thriving village after just a few years, and growing like crazy.

Houses of different design, price range, size all mingle together—like neighbors!

There are biking and hiking trails, a town square with shops and restaurants, and over a dozen parks, all built around a lake. Residents can use sailboats and canoes for free, fish and play on the beach; we can rent garden plots for $35 a season.

From our house everything is within walking distance: the TRAX Station (our local public transit) is a block away; there's a hospital, bakery, hair salon, florist and dry cleaners five minutes down the street. Plus a major shopping center just a mile away (movie theater, grocery store, Office Max and all the regulars—after ten restaurants I stopped counting.)

Oquirrh Lake in Daybreak

So what's Garden Park?

Garden Park is a 55+ neighborhood within Daybreak, "for grownups," the ad says. The idea is we've worked hard and now it's time to say no to yardwork, stairs and maintenance, and yes to anything we want!

Garden Club

The clubhouse is at the end of our street and is exclusive to the Garden Park residents. It's gorgeous, with a huge kitchen designed for parties, receptions and cooking classes. The work-out room offers aerobics, yoga and dance classes, personal trainers, treadmills, weights, etc.

(Plus a pool and hot tub.)

We were part of a focus group the other day, and Randy, (the guy focusing in on us) had us do an activity that couples or families could also use to help decide where to move.

How Much Would You Pay?

We listed things that were important to us about where we want to live: transportation, space, floor plan, neighborhood, yard, architecture, etc. and he wrote them on ten separate pieces of paper, which he spread out on the table. We were each given $100 in small bills (fake money, unfortunately) and we divided it up among the categories. It helped us see what matters most to us. I put my money on stability of Ivory Homes (the builder,) square footage (little but big enough,) and small town feel.

In reality, none of the many reasons I've listed is why we're moving to Garden Park in Daybreak. They are all perks of our decision. The real reason is the spirit of the place.

Back in 1970 my dad, a man of vision (he was an eye doctor) invested in some real estate and sold it quickly for a profit. He was anxious to repeat the experience, so he bought some more land and hired his brand new son-in-law (Dee) to help him develop and sell it. It was next to the Oquirrh Mountains. Dee got to know every well-wisher (people who search for wells) and sheep rancher for miles around—they were the folks who owned the land.

At the foot of the mountains is the Bingham Copper Mine, and there were several ghost towns (Lark, Copperton, Ragtown) where the miners had lived. Dee loves ghosts, and got to know them all. (Have you heard of Ivy Baker Priest, the humble copper miner's daughter from Bingham Canyon who became President Eisenhower's U.S. Treasurer from 1952 to 1960?)

Anyway. This summer our life was turned upside down and we decided it was time for a new chapter, a change of scenery, so we took a thirty-five minute drive to see what had happened out west. The surface had changed, but we could feel our roots—there was still a spirit of hope, vision, history. We felt energized when Lane (our great realtor) showed us through a few houses—it was like coming home.

Immediately I googled Daybreak, looking for bloggers who could give me the real scoop on the place. The official website came up with (interesting) sales-pitch-type-jargon, and a few private posts from 2009, but nothing current from a real, local Daybreaker. I had to do my research the old-fashioned way: by telephone, car and on foot.

I need a blog about Garden Park! There's stuff I need to know: Who's moving in? Is there a book club? Can anyone recommend a handyman? Who did your drapes?

I'd love to hear from any of you who live (or know someone who lives) in my new neighborhood.

My spirits are soaring because I'm moving to Daybreak!

(Now, maybe I'll be the one who pops up on Google!)

My Book: Son of a Gun

2011-08-05T00:01:00.000-06:00

You can pre-order my book! I am over the moon!
Click here to see it—or buy it!

The Story Behind the Story

On New Year's Day, 2010, my Uncle Mel went into the hospital to get new knees for his 86th birthday. Instead, they gave him a staph infection, and he took up residence there for over a month. Uncle Mel has very poor eyesight, but he can see stories inside his head. He entertained the doctors and nurses with tales he spun from experiences he'd had with people he'd known (who were real characters!)

On March 5, 2010 he called me from Nevada. "Marty Ann," he said, "I've got a story in my mind. Do you think you could turn it into a book?"

Five days later I received a digital recorder with his ideas locked inside. It took a few days to get it transcribed into fourteen pages of text, and on March 15th I read Son of a Gun for the first time. A western, complete with gunfights, saloons, love scenes and fallen women, it was set in Texas a few years after the Civil War. Uncle Mel came up with the main characters: Jack, Indian Joe, Ruby, Sam, Leo, JJ, MJ and Big Red. The plot was roughly outlined with details that didn't hang together, and there was no ending. It was like having a list of random spelling words with the assignment of fitting them all into a story. I didn't know where to start.

I'd done a lot of historical writing but not historical fiction. My challenge was to get familiar with a new computer program to help me organize, study up on the American West and find out what Texas looks, feels and smells like. The children's section of the library is a great starting place to learn geography and history quickly. I read every book they had on Texas. Then I checked out books on horses, saloons, soiled doves, and guns. Real life research was going on, too: my son-in-law took me shooting, I explored a pioneer village, and a local smoke-shop owner taught me how to roll a cigarette!

Uncle Mel and I talked almost every day, and we thickened the plot. I began to picture the setting; his characters came alive and introduced me to new characters. As I wrote their dialogue, they told me in their own words what happened and how—writing a novel is an incredible experience!

Six months to the day, September 15, 2010, I sent Uncle Mel his manuscript. That night I emailed a pdf to Tate Publishing on a whim. Within a week I got a thumbs up from both of them!

Writing a novel is only half the job of publishing a novel. These are some of the post-writing steps:

Copyediting
Conceptual Editing
First Edit
Proof
Final Draft
Cover Design
Final Proof
Marketing

There are other little chores, like acknowledgments, bio, dedication, back cover matter, design, layout, color choices, etc. Luckily, all the folks at Tate Publishing know what they're doing and moved me from department to department without a hitch. I've now worked with several people and they've all been encouraging and supportive. It's been more work than I expected, but more fun than I expected, too.

The book releases to bookstores on Oct 28, 2011, but it's being pre-sold by the publisher at the same price. It's also available as an e-book!

Now comes the scariest part—someone will read it!

A fictional Marty Ann Halverson writing fiction.

“For those who can do it and who keep their nerve,
writing for a living still beats most real, grown-up jobs hands down.”
—Terence Blacker

See You in September

2011-08-04T00:05:00.000-06:00

I've got a lot on my plate right now.

Finishing a book.
Publicizing a different book.
Building a website.
Moving to a new house.
Giving a talk in church.

I've always admired the ability to bite off more than you can chew,
and then chew it.

Süsse

Life is particularly sweet right now,
but I've got some serious chewing to do!

(Excuse me while I take a little blog break.)

Interior Design: Welcome Home

2011-08-03T00:02:00.001-06:00

Carl Larsson's art captures a spirit of Gemutlichkeit.
This still life says, "You're home."

Supernal Way Family Room

This corner of our family room said the same thing.

Carl Larsson's Bedroom

I love bright color with white walls,
(Notice the lace ceiling of the bed.)

Supernal Way Bedroom

Our brass bed had a pedigree!
We could trace ownership back to the 1700's.
(Now we're just another former owner on the chart.)

Can you smell pot roast?

Supernal Way Big Room

Our old stove didn't cook anything.
(We kept board games in the warming ovens.)

Supernal Way Dining Room

This table had enough leaves to seat 24 people!
(Our space only worked for twelve.)
To make a room seem timeless, there should be at least one antique.
(Does an Oma count as an antique?)

Carl Larsson' study

I like studies that look like there's some studying going on.

Dee's Office

Dee's study is open until his eyes close.

Choosing colors and pieces you really love (rather than the latest trends) makes your home unique, personal and warm. It will express you. Right now my challenge is to make new spaces say the same old thing, "You're home."

Spotlight on Lighting

2011-08-01T02:20:00.003-06:00

In the dark about your interior design project?
Lighten up!

Libby Langdon, author of Small Space Solutions, says, "Not lighting your space effectively makes it look smaller. If you can't see an area in your room it's as if it's not there! Capitalizing on natural light and bringing in artificial light is imperative."

There are four main types of lighting.

Ambient: The room’s overall splash of light—sunshine, overhead fixtures, chandeliers, floor lamps.
Task: A desk lamp, an under cabinet light, swing arm lamp for reading.
Accent: Lighting that draws the eye to architectural or decorative aspects of a room. Track or recessed lighting, lamps over artwork.
Mood: Dimmer switch, flickering candles.

Layer these types of illumination in a room for phenomenal effect.

Figure every room needs an average of 200 watts for every 50 square feet. The older you are, the more wattage you need to be comfortable. As we age our pupils have less flexibility and demand greater brightness—an average 50-year-old gets as much light from a 100-watt bulb as a 20-year-old gets from a 50-watt bulb!

A small living room could include four table lamps or a triangle combination of floor and table lamps to form plenty of welcoming pools of illumination. The bottom edge of the lamp shade should be at eye level of the person seated near it. If you want a standing lamp to function for reading, stand it behind the chair. Large lampshades create the appearance of greater space and more height. No more wimpy lamps!

Mirrors are great accessories. Angle one with a window, or behind a lamp to double your light source and brighten dark corners. Put a mirror on top of an armoire, bookcase, or above kitchen cabinets to reflect the light from ceiling fixtures. Dazzle everyone!

I can hardly wait to switch on the lights in my new house!
Do you have any brilliant (budget-friendly) ideas?

At home, think big thoughts, but relish small pleasures.

Divine Designs

2011-07-29T01:12:00.008-06:00

Heidi and Chelsea play Cat's Cradle 2011 Campout

Life is like Cat's Cradle—predictable and fun for a while, then suddenly everything gets tangled, impossible to figure out. Onlookers stand around saying, "Grab that string," "Take hold of it with your thumb," "Pull it the other way," but it looks like total confusion from your angle. Miraculously, it all shakes out and you can start over fresh.

We started our summer with a familiar design.

Two months later it's way more complicated, but more interesting, too. Have you ever noticed that something can start out as a problem and end up as a solution? We've had it happen several times.

A terrifying asthma attack (in a foxhole) put Dee in the hospital for a week, but kept him out of Viet Nam.
We put money down on a perfect house, then felt compelled to cancel the deal and buy an imperfect house. Three of our daughters met their husbands because we lived there.
A miserable assignment a few years ago taught me computer skills I would never have learned otherwise.
Job disappointments kept us available and we were able to move to England for a life-changing year.
The diagnosis of cancer has twisted our life in an unexpected new direction. Huge new financial concerns convinced us to move (after ten years of saying we'd never move) and new opportunities have opened up.

God sets solutions in motion before we are even aware of our problems. Even though I know this, when a new challenge comes along, I get very specific in my requests, certain I know best. "Please bless me this way," I pray. When the answer comes from a different direction, I might not recognize it, and sometimes it looks like a whole new problem.

Looking backwards I know the Lord designs solutions better than I do, so why does my faith falter when I look ahead?

Miraculously I see a pattern emerging, and it looks exciting!

Has life got designs on you?
Share!

Have you had a problem that became a solution?
Share!

Congress: Cut the Crap

2011-07-26T06:30:00.012-06:00

Benji

I know you won't believe it, but I witnessed this guy with a little road rage yesterday.

It started with a diaper change he wasn't ready for—who wants to deal with all that crap? Pretty soon he was in such a state he couldn't remember what his point was. There were tears, screams, and lots of "NO! I DO IT!" Compromise was just a big word he didn't want to learn. It was a lively scene, and a messy job, but eventually he relaxed his stand, and reached his goal:

Photos and child provided courtesy of Marta.

Joseph Fielding Smith said,
"Don't stand up so straight you fall over backwards."

Benji is learning that concept. When he relaxed his rigidity, the never-ending crap was dealt with, and everyone was more comfortable. That might be why his mom often says, "C'mon Benj, you need a change." Doesn't everyone?

Here's a group that needs a change.

They don't want to deal with all the crap. The tantrums we're watching are all too familiar to those of us who know two-year-olds. "NO! I DO IT!" sounds ridiculous to grown-ups everywhere. Compromise is a big word these kids should have learned by now!

"So dry your tears, guys, try to get along. Share the glory, share the blame, you can do it. Stand for your principles, but don't stand up so straight you fall over backwards. Relax your rigidity and we'll all feel better."

Maybe there will even be cupcakes!