Little Lessons Everywhere

One day I was sitting in my friend Julie's kitchen, watching her four-year-old through the window. Lauren was playing on the sidewalk when the sprinklers suddenly went on—she shrieked! Arms thrashing, feet slipping, she twisted blindly and howled for help.

"Just walk forward," her mom called through the window. We could see that she was only a few feet from relief, but her predicament was too overwhelming, and her wailing was too loud for her to hear. "Lauren! It's OK! Just walk!" Tears mixed with drops of water and ran down her cheeks while her older brother dashed outside to rescue her. He took her arm and steered her out of the spray.

She wiped her eyes and smiled up at her mom before she started skipping down the sidewalk. The whole traumatic episode had only taken a minute or two, and was forgotten immediately.

I can look back at times when I've been surprised by what seemed like a deluge. I've howled for help with such a racket that I've drowned out the quiet response, "It's OK, Marty, just walk forward." That's usually when someone shows up to walk with me a little way, and suddenly my tears are gone, and my path seems clear.

I love it when that happens.

Have you had a life lesson lately? Write it down!

She Made Me Who I Am

Marty and Gabi, 1970

Exactly forty-three years ago, on a July morning at 7:00 am,
Gabi made me a mom.

I wasn't quite twenty-one when she was born, and I didn't have a clue about what it meant to be a mom. I just knew it was what I was meant to be. (My big fear as a teenager was that I would die before I had kids. I wasn't afraid of how I would die, or being dead, but that my dream of being a mother wouldn't come true. I must have wished on a lucky star!)

She was born breach (and totally natural, I might add) folded in half, and she inhaled before she hit oxygen, leaving her breathless. The nurses worked on her for a few minutes and then whisked her away somewhere, without telling us anything about how she was. After over nine months of togetherness, it was terrifying to be apart. Several hours later they brought her to me. I was overwhelmed—now I was breathless!

For a couple of days I kept trying to say a magnificent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for letting me have her, but I couldn't find the words. I felt ungrateful just saying "Thank you, thank you" over and over again, but I think He may have understood.

Early days.

Gabi came into my life only 18 months after Dee did. She's known us almost as long as we've known us! In fact, she helped us become US. She lived in our first tiny trailer home, our second less (but still) tiny trailer home; she rode in the VW and the Vega, and saw Dee as a soldier. She was part of our college life, and part of our pre-TV, pre-income days. We started leaving shoes out for St. Nickolas Day, and cookies for Santa because of her. She made us a family.

I read out loud to Gabi from the day she was born. Mostly I read Dr. Spock as I nursed her, trying to figure out when she'd do something interesting. Dee laid on the floor with her for hours demonstrating how to roll over. It actually took hours of watching her for him to figure out the steps of rolling over. He practiced with her for about six months until she caught on. We figured we'd taught her, not realizing that she'd come already programmed to do every important thing. We didn't have to teach her much. In fact, she taught us.

'Noopy

I read an article about how to make your child a genius. It said to tie helium balloons to your baby's wrists and ankles, and their eyes would catch the movement. Eventually they'd realize they were pulling the strings! I tried it, and it must have worked. She became a genius, and knew how to pull all our string.

She could sing dozens of songs, say the Pledge of Allegiance, recite poems and ask questions by 18 months. By the time she was two, I was asking her questions.

Gabi 1972

Looking back, I see that she brought color into my life. She became my best friend. I'd even consult her about what I should wear! (She knew exactly what they were wearing at the laundromat, and milk depot, which were my usual destinations.) Her siblings started arriving about that time, and it was a joint project for us. I saw her as my confidant and support.

She was an awesome babysitter, first for me, and then for many others. She became a nanny, and tended kids for weeks at a time while their parents traveled. She worked at a nursery school and daycare center during high school, and then majored in Elementary Education. She taught 6th graders who were taller than she was. She also taught Kindergarten and Pre-school. She was born to teach.

She met her perfect match, they got married and worked their way through college for a few years before they graduated. Being the perfect parental candidates didn't translate to being parents. While they waited, they built careers and houses and moved across the country. They traveled and had fun together until the other shoe dropped. They did become parents . . . twice in three years, and then again with twin boys . . . and they did it with a flourish!

It's stunning to look at this woman whom I admire and respect so much, and realize she's my daughter! She sets an example of kindness, hospitality, charity, spirituality and energy that I can't come close to emulating. She changed me forever and I'll be forever grateful to be her mom.

Happy Birthday, Gabi!

Field Trip

Check out the cutest baby in town:

My Little #22

Life Lessons

Like I say, a little gray hair is a small price to pay for all this wisdom:

On Being a Kid:

1. You grow out of being the smallest.
2. Fractions are more important than you thought.
   
3. Never "joke" that you saw a neighborhood kid floating in the canal.
4. Assume that your brother will find your diary and show it to his friends.
   
5. Hope you get that many interested readers later when you have a blog.
6. Your mom will find out when you change your report card.
7. A tight curly perm won't make you look like Annette Funicello.
8. Don't ever swear at your mom.
9. Someday the mean 4th grade boys will be your sons.
10. Grandparents are nicer than parents.
    

On Being a Teenager:

1. Even the popular kids don't think they're popular.
2. Peer pressure prepares you for parenthood.
3. It's the longest six years of your life.
4. The music you love will always be the music you love.
5. It really wasn't the best time of my life.

On Being Married:

1. It really is the best time of my life.
   
2. Marry somebody you like being with for hours, doing nothing much.
3. Reminisce often so you'll remember why you fell in love in the first place.
4. Notice reasons to fall in love over and over again.
5. Laugh as often as possible.
6. Expect troubles. They come whether you're married or not.
   
7. Perfect people are very annoying. Be glad you didn't marry one.
8. Go on trips,
   
9. Or plan trips you want to go on,
   
10. Or at least watch TV together.

On Being a Mom:

1. It's harder than you think.
2. It's way more fun than you think.
3. There are lots of days you wonder why you had kids at all.
4. You can't imagine your life without your kids.
5. Kids totally take over your life
6. But you'd give up anything for your kids, so it works.
   
7. You hope your kids will someday realize all the stuff you did for them;
8. You wonder if you really did anything important for them.
   
9. Kids put you in a time warp—
10. Twenty minutes til bedtime can seem like six hours
11. Looking back, twenty years can seem like six hours.
    
12. You'll feel older when they're 8, 6 and 4 than you do when they're 28, 36, and 40.
13. They won't remember that you picked them up faithfully every day after school.
14. They'll remember the one day you got there fifteen minutes late.
15. Their most memorable present will be the one they didn't get.
16. Kids teach you more than you teach them.
17. You could be a really good mom if it weren't for all the kids.
18. Parenting books are written by people with nannies.
19. Most of us think we became functioning adults all on our own.
20. All mothers are working mothers
21. Motherhood is a multi-faceted career.
    
    

On Getting an Education:

1. School teaches you how to learn.
2. Most education takes place after you finish school.
3. Life stages are like advanced degrees.
   
4. It's possible to get several master's degrees at once:
   
5. I studied childhood psychology for 20 years,
   
6. Family relations for 43 years,
   
7. Adolescent behavior for 20 years.
8. I minored in Homemaking, History,
   
9. Creative writing, Computer science.
   
10. Continual learning keeps you from noticing senility.
    

On Life in General:

1. I am wiser than when I started.
2. Getting old is just as challenging and interesting as being young.
3. Fear is the opposite of faith.
4. Worrying doesn't do anything except make you feel like you're doing something.
5. Collecting people to love is a worthwhile hobby.
6. In spite of everything, life is fun.
7. God is good.
   

I'm glad I made it to sixty-three!

Happy Birthday to me!

Pondering Joy

An incredible experience began for me in February 2012 when I was called as Relief Society president. I thought I knew what to expect because I'd been a counselor in RS five times, but I was clueless. It's like becoming a mother—there's much more work than I ever imagined, much more time, but much more joy. I'm exhausted with joy.

I can't count the whispers of inspiration that fill my mind as I think about the women I'm responsible for. Early in the morning, when my normal self would be sound asleep, ideas wake me up. They don't drift through my thoughts like vanishing dreams, they come with details, gently but firmly, with enough time to write them down. Solutions come for problems I won't know about until later, impressions of who I should contact settle in my heart, and a sense of peace restores me: it's lovely.

I'm brimming over. In my old estrogen-filled days, tears relieved the pressure of abundant emotion, but I don't cry as easily as I used to. Instead I gush, brag and rhapsodize about my ward, my neighborhood, my presidency, my bishop. I am totally overwhelmed with love for the people around me. I want to always feel this way. A primary song keeps running through my head:

I feel my Savior's love in all the world around me,

His spirit whispers peace in everything I see.

He knows I will follow Him,

Give all my life to Him,

I feel my Savior's love, the love he freely gives me.

I can't begin to express my gratitude for this blessed time in my life. It is pure joy.

Little Lessons Everywhere

The other day I was sitting in my friend Julie's kitchen, watching her four-year-old through the window. Lauren was playing on the sidewalk when the sprinklers suddenly went on—she shrieked! Arms thrashing, feet slipping, she twisted blindly and howled for help.

"Just walk forward," her mom called through the window. We could see that she was only a few feet from relief, but her predicament was too overwhelming, and her wailing was too loud for her to hear. "Lauren! It's OK! Just walk!" Tears mixed with drops of water and ran down her cheeks while her older brother dashed outside to rescue her. He took her arm and steered her out of the spray.

She wiped her eyes and smiled up at her mom before she started skipping down the sidewalk. The whole traumatic episode had only taken a minute or two, and was forgotten immediately.

I can look back at times when I've been surprised by what seemed like a deluge (a year ago today.) I've howled for help with such a racket that I've drowned out the quiet response, "It's OK, Marty, just walk forward." That's usually when someone shows up to walk with me a little way, and suddenly my tears are gone, and my path seems clear.

I love it when that happens.

Have you had a life lesson lately? Write it down!

Results

Introducing
Kate Juniper Halverson

"Twenty-one grandchildren?" my friend gasped. "Can you even remember their names?" What a silly question! They are the result of my life's work. Let me explain.

One night 43 years ago I sat at a table in Salzburg, Austria surrounded by students. Someone asked someone else if they wanted kids and we all announced how many we wanted. I said "Twelve" at the same time a boy at the other end said "Twelve" and someone else said, "You two ought to get together." We did.

One of our first conversations was "working moms." It was a hot topic in the late 60's with women's lib and birth control offering opportunities to break traditional molds. I told Dee I wanted to be a professional mother, not a mom by default. That was what he wanted for his kids, too.

The whole Ann Romney flap has got me flapping. Stay-at-home-moms were often looked down on in my day. Some people assumed that since working moms did mom stuff, too, those of us who stayed home only did half the work they did. I won't go all defensive here (actually I just did, but I deleted those paragraphs) but I will say I worked full-time. My work was to raise seven well-adjusted, happy kids (we didn't make it to twelve) who would contribute goodness to the world.

I am totally satisfied with my career choice—
especially when I see the results!

New Persona

I'm wearing a new hat!

Remember last week when I told you about callings? Well, I got a new one—I'm the brand-new Relief Society president in our brand-new ward! I'm excited and overwhelmed and I've got a ton of stuff to learn, so I'll be back in a week or so. Wish me luck!

My Story

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

"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

"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.

Pie Night

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!

Marriage: What Brings Us Together

"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 . . ."

Being a Mother

Our family, 1970.

My biggest fear as a little girl was that I'd die before I had kids—I could hardly wait to be a mom. My dream came true July 11, 1970.

Gabi was whisked away to an incubator right after she was born (breach) and I didn't get to see her until she was four hours old. When the nurses wheeled six infants into the hospital ward (babies stayed in the nursery in those days) mine was the only one crying. The other five mothers were skilled at cuddling and nursing, and I imagined their criticism as I tried to quiet my newborn's wails. It was stressful, feeding did not go well, and I was exhausted and relieved when they took her away.

Nowadays new moms jump out of bed and go home hours after delivery, but forty-one years ago we were wimps. We stayed in the hospital three or four days, and a nurse had to walk us to the bathroom or the sitzbath down the hall. Every four hours they brought my hysterical child; I began to dread it. Motherhood was much harder than I'd imagined. Then we had to go home.

On my own, I panicked. I wondered why anyone thought I could be left alone with a baby—I didn't know what to do! Wasn't inexperience a form of child abuse? Gabi cried all the time and so did I. When she was a week old I realized I'd never even said a prayer to be thankful for her, and (I'll admit it now) I wasn't sure I was. The whole thing was so overwhelming, so demanding and so constant.

When I told this story to a friend years later, she asked, "How old were you?" "Twenty," I said. "No wonder," she said. "I felt the same way and I was almost thirty." She went on, "I should have waited a few more years. I just wasn't ready."

I'm so glad I didn't wait until I was ready. How would I get ready anyway? It would be like taking swimming lessons without any water: treading water was just a concept until the day I was in the pool and couldn't touch the bottom. Panic was my first reaction, and I floundered and went under. But then I came back up and discovered I could stay afloat. I learned to relax, and little by little the constant movement of my arms and legs felt natural and routine. That's how motherhood happened for me, too. I needed to be in the experience.

Our family, July 1982

Even as it was happening, I could see that Gabi was teaching me how to be a mother. Now, in retrospect, I am convinced that's the way it was meant to happen. If I'd waited until I was ready, I'd still be waiting. Happily, it didn't occur to me to wait for anybody, in fact I could hardly wait for them to arrive. They were already my life's work.

I chose motherhood as my career. It was never something I fit in around the edges of my life—it was my life. Like with any career, my early days on the job were daunting, and I wondered if I could really do it. Like with any career, there were times when I felt overworked and undervalued. I got tired of the uniform, the cafeteria and the people I worked with. Who doesn't? But thirty years later I retired with competence, experience and full benefits.

Fifteen of our twenty grands, July 2011

This summer has been full of benefits—we've had fun times with all our kids and grandkids, and appreciated them more than ever. This is what I believe—I believe I knew this group in heaven before I was born and had to leave them behind when I came to earth. The yearning I felt to be a mom was because I missed being with them, so I was compelled to get them all here as fast as I could. In that respect, I was totally ready.

I'm offering a prayer of thanksgiving now. I thankful to be a mother.

Bad Words

"Wash your mouth out with soap!"

When I was a little girl there were some bad words my mother never allowed: Shut up and butt. They still sound inappropriate to me. Now we have a-words, b-words, f-words, and d-words. Monday I wanted to stuff a bar of Dial into the doctor's mouth: he said the c-word.

Cancer. It's a word I haven't allowed in our home, but I guess I'll have to get used to it. Dee got the word, and for the first few hours we took it in stride. Prostate cancer. "It's the kind of cancer you want," they say. "It's a cancer men die with, not of," we read. "Every man gets it if he's lucky enough to live that long." Luck—that's it. Dee has dealt with asthma, gout, diabetes, heart failure, and zillions of complications. What's a little cancer, we thought. CANCER.

CANCER!!! NO! We don't want CANCER!

Panic set in. I pictured myself a widow and Dee pictured emptying out his storage garage. Both pictures were horrifying. I remembered everyone I know who has died of cancer. People die of cancer, I thought to myself, while Dee was thinking the same thing. Without too much effort we conjured up the worst case scenarios. Not good. Steady, Dear . . . calm down . . . it will be OK. Deep breath—when we were in a state of serenity we called our seven kids.

That was the hardest part. They are so awesome, so supportive, so loving. Tears of gratitude slid down our cheeks after each call. Full of thanksgiving for such a great family, we pulled out our faith, recharged our hope and went to bed. It was a fitful night. Dee went down to the treadmill at 4:30 am to walk off his anxiety. Ten minutes later he woke me up, white as a sheet. "I can't catch my breath!" he wheezed. His skin was clammy with cold sweat and he was unsteady on his feet. The morning of his heart attack flashed before my eyes and we left immediately for the emergency room.

Doctors take heart patients seriously and Dee was hooked up with tubes, oxygen and electrodes before we could say "nitroglycerin." He spent the whole day having his heart examined. Another round of emotional phone calls to the kids, plus our sleepless night, produced pounding headaches. Finally the cardiologist arrived with the news: it was heart failure all right, but the kind brought on by panic and stress, not by plugged up stents. We could go home.

Dee told Dr. Muhlstein about the success of his company open house during their chat. The Doc said, "Look at all you still have to do! You'll have plenty of time." Our daughters brought dinner, and we were reminded again of who we want to live for and why. These friends and loved ones have already circled their wagons around us in a protective shield. We took our worry down a notch: Cancer. Cancer. We remembered everyone we know who lives with cancer. Many, many friends and family face it with dignity and grace. As Gordon B. Hinckley used to say, "Getting old is not for sissies." Maybe the c-word is courage.

Even so: I'm shouting this from the top of my blog:

"Cancer??
Shut up!!
We're gonna kick its butt!

(Somehow these bad words seem totally appropriate!)

Share your experience!

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Hearts Turned

PJ May 2011

Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, the present and the future.

Opa May 2011

My favorite scripture is a prophesy in the last verse of the Old Testament:
"And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children,
and the heart of the children to their fathers . . ."
It's happened to me.

Our kids 1984

They won my heart when they were little,
and their kids have turned my heart all over again.
Listen in on some kidspeak from tonight:

Scott, Eliza, Jill

"Tickle us some more, Uncle Sco."
"I can't, girls. I'm old."

"But we're young!"

Marty 1965

I love having the memory of being young,


Marty, May 2011

and the perspective of being old.
It fills me with gratitude.

Today my heart is turned to the fathers who kept my world turning:

Wells, 1943

Dee's dad in England,

Jiggs, 1943

And my dad in Australia.

I wonder if all the soldiers realized the lives they were blessing.

"Think of the power of thousands of prayers of parents and grandparents,
back and back and even beyond, all requesting essentially the same thing:
'Bless my children; bless my children; bless my children.'
Can you hear it as it rolls and echos throughout all eternity?"
—John H. Groberg

My heart is turning in both directions:
Bless my children; bless my fathers.
And bless me to be worthy of them all.

♥♥♥

Who are you remembering this Memorial Day?

One Way to Make the World a Better Place

♥♥♥

I'm thinking kind thoughts about all my neighbors, all my friends, and everyone who bakes homemade bread. I found this loaf, wrapped in white paper, sitting on my doorstep, left by who knows who?

Want to make the world a better place? Do a good deed anonymously. It makes everybody look good! (And somebody feels special.)

Marty's Buttermilk Bread

This is my favorite bread recipe, although I never make it anymore. Now I rely on the kindness of strangers.

1 cup water
3 tbsp butter
1/2 cup warm water
1 package active dry yeast
1 cup buttermilk
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp sugar + 1 tsp. to dissolve yeast
1 tbsp salt
1/2 tsp apple cider vinegar
6 cups white flour

In small saucepan, heat 1 cup water and 3 tbsp butter over medium heat until butter is melted. Remove from heat and allow to cool until warm.

In small bowl, add 1/2 cup warm water and the dry yeast. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon sugar and let dissolve for a couple of minutes. Stir. Set bowl aside and continue with the next step.

In large bowl, mix buttermilk, honey, sugar, salt, and vinegar. When the butter water is warmish, pour into large bowl. Add yeast mixture.

Begin adding flour one cup at a time. When the dough is too stiff to mix with the wooden spoon, about 5 cups, turn out onto a floured board.

Knead in the remaining flour until the dough is firm and smooth. Put dough in a buttered bowl and flip dough so that the top of it is lightly buttered. Cover and let rise until double in size, about 45 to 60 minutes.

Punch down dough and turn out onto floured board. Knead bubbles out of dough. Divide dough into equal halves.

Preheat oven 375 degrees. Form dough into two loaves. Place in greased bread pans. Cover and let rise until double in size, about 30 to 45 minutes.

Place in oven and bake for 45 minutes, until the loaves are hollow sounding and pulled away from the sides of the pans. Remove from pans, and run a square of butter over each hot loaf. Let cool on a rack or dishtowel.

♥ Give away one loaf—anonymously! ♥

Heroes

Suddenly what I was going to say doesn't seem very important. I just heard that US forces killed Osama Bin Laden.

President Obama said this mission had been in the works since August. "Finally, last week, I determined that we had enough intelligence to take action, and authorized an operation to get Osama bin Laden and bring him to justice. Today, at my direction . . . a small team of Americans carried out the operation with extraordinary courage and capability. No Americans were harmed. They took care to avoid civilian casualties. After a firefight, they killed Osama bin Laden and took custody of his body."

President Obama probably had a lot on his mind last week while Donald Trump was taunting him about his birth certificate. It reminds me of the 8th grade bully teasing the smart kid or the rich kid taking the poor kid's lunch money. How easy to noisily dismiss someone who might be silently facing something huge.

The Donald has a flaw most of us have at times. He thinks he should be the star of everyone's reality show. To get the attention of the audience, he blows spit wads at the hero who's heading off to slay a real dragon. Have you ever done that? Felt that another so-called life couldn't possibly be as weighty as your own? That yours trumps theirs? Or have you wondered why you have to fend off spit wads as you face a fiery foe that you haven't told anyone about?

In case you have a dragon to slay, do it with courage, patience and intelligence. Ignore those who doubt your ability. Be a hero.

(And when your show is in reruns, don't blow spit wads at the other guy.)

Postcard: Mountain Top

Some vistas inspire poetry.
Anna, my daughter-in-law, sees the earth through loving eyes.
When you read her words, you will, too.
Give her my love!

Favorite Sunday

LDS Conference Center

Twice a year our church throws a party.

LDS Conference Center

Members from all over the world gather in Salt Lake City for workshops and meetings,

LDS First Presidency

And to listen to a prophet's voice.


Conference Packets

Families all over the world gather and watch it on TV.
Even though Temple Square is only a block from my house,
I choose to be a home viewer,



Because there are some spiritual moments I'd hate to miss.



Our traditional Conference Trail Mix is a bucket of sweets with a few nuts,
kind of like the group that eats it.

First we say the blessing,

And eat delicious food.

Then some of us act out messages that the rest of us just listen to.

Messages like "How Do I Love Thee"

Today was my favorite kind of Sunday.


I used my new iPhone 4 to take these photos.
I got it last week, and there's just one problem:
I can't figure out how to set it down!
(Please suggest your favorite apps.)