Colony in the Woods

Opa

The wise leader encouraged the new commonwealth.

Girls win the flint and steel contest.

Resources for heating and fuel were established.

Opa teaches whittling.

A community college taught necessary skills.

Luke carved himself a soap-on-a-rope.

Local craftsmen received recognition.

Making mud pies, and washing up provided hours of fun.

A sanitation department was put into action. . . .

Walkie-Talkies

And a communication system established.

Pete introduced a creepy friend to a pretty girl.

A committee formed the Humane Society.

Bubble-blowing contest

A small group of citizens thought the old guy
was blowing things out of proportion.

The Grands (minus three and 3/4)

So he formed a Government of the people.

A Gathering of Heroes

Little Cottonwood Canyon

It was a pristine, verdant land.

Trailblazers July 4, 2008

Weary from their travels, the pioneers said:
This is the place.

Pete and Anna lived on the east bench.

The first dwelling was erected on the shore of the creek.

There were eight tents in all.

Soon a colony sprang up.

A two-bedroom tent

The architecture was garish against the lush green foliage.

Larsons provide the flag ceremony.

A standard was raised.

4th of July Pledge

It would be a land of opportunity for all.

Do you see the spooky images in our fire?

Unseen faces observed the settlers suspiciously.

We're Off!

♫ I love the mountains,
I love the rolling hills,
I love the valleys...
I love the daffodils.
I love to be with you
When all the lights are low,
Boom-de-a-da, Boom-de-a-da,
Boom-de-a-da, Boom. ♫

We're off to frolic in the woods.
Hope your 4th of July is a firecracker!
See you next week.

I'm Better Online

The Best Laid Plans
2008

I'm not such a great grandma. . . I'm a great planner. (The blog Oma is better than the live one.) I am the first to admit that sitting alone with an idea book is easier than picking up 500 wooden beads after a toddler drops the baggie. Some of my weekend reality checks:

1. One sick little girl just missed her mom. She wasn't the least bit interested in my button collection or anything else in my overflowing bag of tricks.
   
2. I was enthusiastically reciting my well-practiced "Once upon a time, in a nursery rhyme..." chant when three bottles of root beer spilled all over the couch. "Cha-Cha..."
   
3. After I spent two tedious, useless hours over a minuscule boondoggle instruction book, my son came and showed me how to do it in ten minutes.
4. The cookie cutters and sprinkles were silently tucked away, and I opened a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints.
5. My grandkids will remember take-out pizza instead of home-canned peaches.

I'm a wannabe.

In his office, Dee has a picture called The Salon Tiroler, by Franz von DeFregger. (He's a genre painter in the style of Norman Rockwell.) The guy in the bright green jacket is all decked out like a genuine mountain climber, in his brand-new, spotless duds, regaling the real Tyrolers with his well-researched tales. They're in worn-out leather pants, sporting feathers from pheasants they shot themselves, smoking the pipes they carved. He talks the talk, but they walk the walk.

You, my bloggie buddies, get my Norman Rockwell version of myself, while my grandkids get a stick figure drawing. I'm better in my imagination. While I totally enjoy making all my plans, the actual activity has an added measure of chaos. In other words:

I'd be a great Oma if it weren't for all these kids!

How do your well-laid plans turn out?

Don't Knock It

Oma lives the Grand Life, 2007

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Colleen
Colleen who?
Colleen all kids! It's story time!

"How 'bout some stories in the Oma Tent!"

Knock-knock
Who's there?
Paul
Paul who?
Paul up a chair and a story I'll tell.


Knock-knock
Who's there?
Lena
Lena who?
Lena little closer so I don't have to yell.

"Isn't Oma funny?"

Did you hear the story about the roof?
Never mind. It's over your head.

Did you hear the story about the skunk?
Never mind. It stinks.

Did you hear the story about Opa?
"Once upon a time, when Opa was a little boy,
he was out in the woods and decided to roast a grasshopper..."

"What's the big deal? I once ate a potato bug."

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Foyer
Foyer who?
Foyer information, it's the Big Bad Wolf.


Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Hugh
Hugh who?
Hugh's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?


The Originals, 1983

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Bea.
Bea who?
Bea afraid...be very afraid.

♫ "Little Red Riding Hood,
You sure are looking good,
You're everything that a Big Bad Wolf could want.
EWOOO!..." ♫

Knock-Knock

Who's there?
Andy
Andy who?
Andy all lived happily ever after.

Why don't shoes tell stories?
Because they have a foot in their mouth.

Did you hear the story about the germ?
Nevermind. I don't want to spread it around.

"Opa's outrageous!"

Did you hear the story about skinny dipping?
"Once upon a time when Opa was just a little boy
he liked to go swimming down at the mill race..."

Knock-knock
Who's there?
Avenue
Avenue who?
Avenue heard that story before?

Sam, I Am

Knock-knock
Who's there?
Salada
Salada who?
Salada bad jokes going around here!

I've written myself a little script so I can present a story hour at the Hero Camp Out. It could easily be broken up into 15-minute chunks (or stretched into hours if my audience begs me!) I compiled some jokes and attention grabbers from an excellent book called Storytime Stretchers by Naomi Baltuck. A few favorite fairy tales, (with new surprise endings) are condensed between silly songs with actions (I've found them in old Brownie Scout booklets and grade-school resource books) and some true stories about their ancestors (us) as little kids. It's been SO fun! But I need to go practice!

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Althea
Althea who?
Althea later, Alligator!

Picture Perfect

Pink Baby
by Oma

"Children seldom misquote you.
In fact, they usually repeat word for word
what you shouldn't have said."
--Anonymous

Water Drops

SLC Olympic Plaza

It just looks like a big patio. . . .

Until the music begins. . . .


And the water starts to dance.

It took Hannah a minute,

But McKay made a splash.

Chase, McKay, Hannah

This is how they looked this morning.

This is what happened after a day in the sun.

Chase dropped off before his head hit the pillow!

I love these water babies!

Write Away

The Calling
by
William Adolphe Bouguereau

"What is the best way to write? Each of us has to discover her own way by writing. Writing teaches writing. No one can tell you your own secret."

Gail Sher: One Continuous Mistake.

Writers are naturally introspective. It's one of the qualities that makes us write. And it seems like we're forever searching for legitimacy. Quotes from the greatest authors show that having many publications and legions of readers is not enough to give lasting confidence. Even they wonder if they've fooled people into thinking they've got something of worth to offer.

So, the questions Marta posed on her blog actually prove her status. She asked, "Is a blogger a writer?" and "Does a real writer blog?" It's a great post, and the comments are insightful, too.

I don't think every blogger is a writer, and I don't think everything a writer writes is writing. The underlying question writers ask themselves, (and anyone who will read their work) is, "Am I a writer?" Deep down, I want someone to declare that it's permissible for me to take that lofty title.

It's doesn't work that way. When somebody says, "Wow, you're a great writer!" I question their opinion. Since everybody learns to write in kindergarten, it seems presumptuous to announce that I think I'm better at it than some. But just knowing how to talk doesn't make a person a speaker. I don't feel embarrassed saying to other people who can read that I'm a reader. I know how to run, but I'm not a runner. I have to declare myself: Because I express myself through writing, I'm a writer.

Writers don't always have readers. Before I had a blog, my only readers were people I knew well, the people I could actually hand my work to in person. I didn't have the money or the backing to publish or print anything in large numbers. Now I have readers. Although I still give my stuff away, my blog gives me a sensation of authenticity.

I started my blog mainly as a journal. Now I think of it as an essay, or an article. My blog predicament has become whether I blog for readers or for myself. If it's for readers I have to give myself the right to write.

I love to read the inner thoughts of a writer. That's the art form that resonates with me. It's the essence of communication. A personal, intimate post is my favorite kind of blog. The written word gives me the feeling that I'm entering somebody's heart and mind, connecting with a soul.

I blog the way I used to write in my journal. I mentally edited the things I wrote there, because I was always afraid I'd die unexpectedly. I didn't want anyone to have their feelings hurt just because I happened to rant the day before my demise. I kept my journal, imagining the people who would someday read it. It wasn't ever meant to be totally private. I'm an audience kind of writer. For me, writing doesn't feel complete unless someone reads it.

Why do you blog? Do you keep a journal as well? Do you write with readers in mind, or is your blog mostly for yourself? Do you care about getting new readers?

Visit Marta's post for added inspiration! And give yourself permission to be a writer.

Career Army

What would you do with three extra years?

From the third month of our marriage we had known Dee would have three years of active duty in the army. We had incorporated that reality into our plans, and even talked ourselves into looking forward to it. Maybe, after Viet Nam, we'd get sent to Germany. His area of expertise was intelligence: maybe he'd become a spy! Looking for the positive in our circumstances, we imagined living in Europe, in one of the embassies, attending elegant balls and formal dinners.

Suddenly it was all gone!

I picked Dee up at the airport and he told me the story. Sleeping in the dirt had given him a near-fatal asthma attack. The medics rescued him from a fox hole and took him to the army hospital in Fort Lewis, Washington. Although he'd always had allergies, he'd never had an asthma attack, and assumed it was a terrible fluke. It took ten days of IV's and breathing treatments to get his system back in balance.

One afternoon a new doctor, who resembled Hawkeye, came in to look him over. He sat down by the bed and said, "I see you're going regular army." "Yes, Sir." "How would you like a discharge?"

Dee wasn't sure he'd heard the man correctly. The doctor said, "You've got a condition here that will let you go home." Dee asked, "Today?" "I'll sign the papers. You're out."

Certain someone would come after him with an AWOL charge, Dee hurriedly called a taxi, stuffed his duffel bag, and left the post. He called me from the airport, and, still afraid it was all a hoax, didn't explain a thing. The phone might have been tapped in case of ROTC escapees. (For years he dreamed someone from the army was coming after him.)

"So, what do you want to do?" he asked me as we drove home. "We can do whatever we want!" Well, not exactly. We had two little kids and a bunch of student loans. (The army doesn't pick up your tab if you don't actually serve.) We started rethinking the whole spy thing. Wouldn't there be an easier way to go to Germany? Like, just get a job and go there on vacation?

That summer Dee started studying for the LSAT. He later got accepted to Pepperdine Law School, but by that time he had a real job, and we were expecting kid #3. The three years we got back went by unnoticed, and it's only in hindsight that we even see them. Eventually we went to Germany on vacation many times. We lived abroad on our own terms. But we've never been to a formal ball.

Everybody says to set goals, map out your future, have a strategy. We have learned over and over again that life is what happens while you're making other plans.

Weave Me the Sunshine

The windshield wipers on the VW Bug were cranking at full speed when I left my mom's house. It was June, 1972, and I'd given birth to our second baby two weeks earlier. Dee was in Fort Lewis, Washington, for a six-week ROTC summer camp during the last week of my pregnancy, so it was my folks who took me to the hospital, sat through the labor, and got the first peek at our son. Baby blues, as they were called then, hit hard. It was a lonely time.

The Viet Nam War was going full steam, and we anticipated that Dee's active duty would start in December. When he won the draft lottery a couple of years before, he had joined ROTC in order to finish school and enter the army as an officer. He was committed for at least a year in Viet Nam. The three weeks I'd just spent without him made our future look very bleak.

While I was in the hospital with my new baby, Dee called from Washington. He reported that he was also in the hospital in intensive care. After an asthma attack in a foxhole, he had stopped breathing, and had been rushed in an ambulance to the emergency room. I worried and wondered for several days before hearing from him again. I had no way to call him; in the days before email and cell phones we often just had to wait for news.

He was in the hospital for about ten days, and finally, that afternoon, he had called with a cryptic sound in his voice. "I'll be home tonight." No explanation of why he was being sent home three weeks early. "Can you pick me up at the airport at 8:00?" I tried to coax more out of him, but he just said not to worry.

I was cautiously thrilled. Between my every-four-hour feedings I decided to make the 80-mile round trip to clean up our little home and get it ready for Dee's return. As I drove, I prayed out loud about our future, hoping for hope and peace of mind.

Timp seen from BYU Library

After I said Amen I turned on the radio. I noticed that the rain had stopped. As I went around a bend, the mist faded, and the supernal sight of Mt. Timpanogus appeared in the sunlight, sparkling with a dusting of new snow on the peaks. Peter, Paul and Mary were singing a song I'd never heard before:

Weave, weave, weave me the sunshine out of the fallin' rain; Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow, and fill my cup again.

They sang this chorus over and over and over, and I could feel my cup filling. My gloomy worries left; the sun had literally come out. I didn't know what was ahead, but I knew we were in good hands. Peter Yarrow wrote, Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow. I've always considered that song an answer to a prayer.

More to come. . . .

Do you have a special song?

A Heartwarming Story

When I hear of a new grandchild on the way, my heart skips a beat. Joy, tenderness, and gratitude–combined with a huge dose of vulnerability–fill my heart with love, and my stomach with butterflies.

I am in awe of the mothers and grandmothers (and dads and grandpas) who have faced heartache with the sickness of a new baby. Memoirs of a Mommy is a blog by Noah's mom. Born with a heart defect, he was blessed with a heart transplant when he was an infant. Someone gave Noah a new heart. And someone else's mom had a broken heart.

I just received a heartwarming award. Noah's mom created it to celebrate the first anniversary of his transplant and it's going around the Internet to raise awareness of organ donation. Mine came from my blogger friend, Miss Kris, and I'm very flattered. I get to pass it on to five folks who warm my heart on a regular basis.

Sher-endipity, Etc.

Shering Time

Nichols-Party of 3

Ink Poison

So Random

If you would like to pass the award on, just link to this site and ask your recipients to link to it, too. Noah's Adventure tells the whole story.

And, dear bloggy friends, you all warm my heart when you read my blog. Consider yourself awarded. Pass the award along to your heart's content!

Comfort Food

Top Ten Dishes from my mom's diner:

1. Olive Casserole. Browned hamburger with onions, canned tomatoes, macaroni and a can of black olives.
2. Fried Mush. Left over cornmeal mush, made into patties and fried in bacon grease, served with maple syrup.
3. Liver with Bacon and Onions. A weekly staple that I hated. I remember Dad telling me I could go up on the roof with him if I ate my liver. (I needed incentives.)
4. Spam Sandwiches. I loved these because Mom let me turn the little key to get the lid off the spam tin.
   
5. Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast. Mom made a white sauce, then added chipped beef from a cute little glass (we saved them all as juice glasses) and served it over buttered toast.
6. Hash. Hamburger browned with onion, combined with hashbrown potatoes and a can of corn. My dad made this for mom over a campfire on one of their first dates. It has always been one of my favorites.
7. Sardines on Saltines. I have the same roof-bribe memory from a time when Dad coaxed me to eat these smelly little morsels. (Maybe he spent a lot of time on the roof?)
8. Pork Chops. Browned, then baked in a casserole dish with a can of green beans, and served with baked potatoes.
9. Artichokes. My mom boiled whole artichokes and we dipped the leaves in mayonnaise and ate the soft part. Mom saved the heart for herself.
10. Thinnies. Swedish pancakes–like crepes–smothered in melted butter and sugar, then rolled up and served as fast as we could eat them.

What are some comfort foods you remember from your mom's kitchen?

Punctuation: Explanation Points

Today I pampered myself. I got a massage and a pedicure, but best of all, I re-read a book about punctuation. I know that does not rank up there on the list of 50 Favorite Hobbies, but I am smitten with commas, semi-colons, and parentheses. And I adore paragraphs.

Consider this: just twenty six letters, organized with periods and question marks, became To Kill a Mockingbird. Good prose is a matter of interior design. A few things I've learned about writing:

1. Use variety. A sentence can be a long, wordy string of words, with commas breaking things up, like this. It can actually be two sentences; just put a semi-colon in the middle. Do you see how punctuation adds visual interest? It's amazing!
2. If you want to tell your reader something confidential (like a secret) whisper it in parentheses.
3. Long paragraphs are intimidating. Without some visual space we get claustrophobic. Compare reading a magazine to reading the little warning sheet that comes inside the Tylenol bottle. The contrast is a reminder to hit the return key often. Short paragraphs make readers feel welcome.
4. Use your dictionary; spell check can only do so much. A precise word conveys the right meaning. Is your sister erratic or erotic? (The computer doesn't pick up the difference.)
5. Quote an expert. In Writing With Style, John R. Trimble said, "View your reader as a companionable friend–someone with a warm sense of humor and a love of simple directness. Write like you're actually talking to that friend, but talking with enough leisure to frame your thoughts concisely and interestingly."
6. WRITING IN ALL CAPS SOUNDS LIKE YOU'RE YELLING.
7. if you adopt a style for creative purposes, be consistent. you want your readers to know it's intentional.
   
8. Unless you're training for a marathon and have to keep going even when you're exhausted remember to put commas in to give your readers a chance to take a breath before they faint.
9. Ellipses are used to show that you've left a word out of a quotation. Rudolf Flesch said, "Punctuation . . . is the most important single device for making things easier to read." When . . . are used incorrectly . . . we wonder . . . what we are missing . . .
10. Explanation points! They can be overdone! Use them sparingly!

Any questions?

Housekeeping Tips?

I went to Target today and bought some Rubbermaid containers, like this. They are perfect for what I want to use them for. However they have a yukky smell...kind of like plastic mothballs.
I washed them with dish soap, then I filled them with water and a little bleach, hoping the smell would disappear. Still there. Now they are sitting outside, airing out. Has anyone else had this problem, or did I just get a bad batch?

Lessons Learned

Kisses adorned the mirror in the bathroom of a ritzy private girl's school. The janitor asked the nuns to speak to the students about this trendy way of blotting their lipstick, which left him a greasy mess to clean up. But even with the reprimands, the girls didn't stop.

Finally the janitor asked if he could meet with the girls and demonstrate how hard they made his job of washing the mirror. The girls giggled through his lecture, whispering about being scolded by a maintenance worker. Then he said, "This is what I have to do to get the lipstick off." He dipped his brush in the toilet and scrubbed the mirror until it sparkled. And the girls stopped kissing the mirror! Some people just know how to teach.

I learned a lesson in a visual way, too. I used to leave the radio on in the car. Whenever Dee drove my car, he'd suggest that I turn it off before I parked and took out the key. I thought it was pretty silly of him, a petty complaint. I have to admit I felt a little bit like a teenager rebelling against authority. I purposely left the radio blaring, ready to jolt me with energy each time I started the engine. When our children started driving, Dee wasn't as patient with them, and always got mad when the radio was left on. The kids learned from me that this was a demand they could ignore.

One day 16-year-old Amy jumped in her truck and the music blasted loudly as soon as she turned the key. On the way to some important high school event, she shifted into reverse and backed out without a good look in the rear view mirror.

The Banana

Dee was just pulling into the driveway. He laid on the horn. The radio was deafening and without hearing his warning, she backed right into him! Bumper cars in the front yard! Until that moment I hadn't seen the light. It could so easily have been me wrecking two cars at once. I've never acknowledged my role in the episode, but I'm taking responsibility now. (I was happy to let Amy take it all, back then!)

I knew she had a better chance of survival than I did.
Dee still pictured her looking like this.

Sometimes the lecture isn't as effective as the consequence. I don't kiss the mirror and I don't leave the radio on. And I don't shift the blame anymore.

Have you learned a lesson the hard way?