Sista Weekend

Anna, Heidi, Marta, Amy, four of the seven sistas

Want a spa vacay that costs less than a massage?
Split the cost of a local Hampton Inn Suite
and do it yourself!


Bring fancy party decor, tons of drinks and a bundle of Felicity DVDs,

treats and homemade citrus scrub (check w/Marta for the recipe.)


Provide a complimentary foot bather ...

... a rainbow of polish,

deep conditioning peppermint oil,


and facial masks for all.
We had a surprise shower afterwards—

Welcome to the sistahood, baby girl!
(It's a great idea to have daughters.)

Send the Relief Society!

Chase

I'm up to my ears!

Two weeks ago I became president of our church's women's organization—the Relief Society—and I've been buried ever since. Our ward boundaries were realigned and I took over from three different presidents—everybody is new, wondering what their assignments are, and I have piles and piles of lists on my desk. I've only lived here five months, I don't know names, faces or even street names, and I already have a short list of folks who need relief.

But I've got a long list of women who are eager to help. I thought I'd be inundated with problems, and instead I keep getting calls: "I'm home during the day, and I'd love to take a meal to someone." "Is there someone who needs a visit? I'm available in the afternoon." "Let me handle that for you while you get organized." I'm up to my ears with women who are anxious to be engaged in a good cause. Wow!

And I've got a family full of support. Daughters who know the ropes are propping me up, and sons who have watched the action have encouraging words.

Dee has been practicing his new role for years—he already does all the grocery shopping, cooking and laundry. I doubt he'll even notice that I've become a negligent wife. He unloaded a trunk full of paper products, tablecloths and Christmas decorations onto the garage shelves while they wait for an official RS closet. Different group-lets of chatty women gather daily in our living room to discuss our duties, and he smiles pleasantly and heads upstairs.

The main thing I'm missing is you guys. You know how we hang out in our jammies without makeup? You don't even care if I've brushed my teeth! This gang of friends require real clothes and I have to wear shoes to visit them. And I can't do all the talking in my new relationships. I'm going to acquire a new skill—listening. Scary business.

Tomorrow I meet with my presidency for the first time, and I can't wait. (They're my new best friends and I don't even know them yet.) They're talented and willing to share their experience and expertise, and I'm anxious to delegate!

Do you wish you could be my counselor? Here are some issues I need counseling on:

1. How can we quickly develop a feeling of unity?
2. Any fun ideas for get-to-know-you activities?
3. What does/could the president of your organization do to make you feel included?

Counsel away! Advise me on anything you want to—I don't know enough to ask good questions. As you can see, I'm up to my ears!

True Love

Salzburg, Austria

It's Valentine's—time to think about falling in love.

February 1, 1969, my life started over. I met Dee . . . and Europe. What a brilliant combination!

Salzburg, Austria was the destination for a semester abroad, but our first stop was Paris.

Our hotel, a former train station on the Left Bank, (which has since been transformed into the Musee d'Orsay) had in a huge lobby where we were getting room assignments and sorting through luggage. A few of the girls decided we wanted to go to Folies-Bergere for a midnight show. It was pretty daring for naive 19-year-olds, so we decided to ask some guys from our group to go with us as chaperones. I looked over and recognized Dee and another boy getting off the elevator, so even though we'd never met, I brazenly went over and invited them to come.

Although they were older men (in their 20's) they seemed shocked at my request. Dee's first words to me were, "I don't know. I'll have to ask my companion." His companion??? Whoa. He seemed a touch on the dorky side to me. I found out later they just didn't want to spend any money, and they were intimidated by a large pack of giggly girls going to a striptease joint.

Neither of us had an inkling of what lay ahead for us. Our little worlds had collided and the universe changed course.

Think how many times this has happened over thousands of years, and yet it has only happened to me once. I still wonder how and why I was so lucky! One boy + one girl = 7 kids + 7 kids-in-law + almost 22 grandkids . . . 38 lives changed forever because I walked across that hotel room. (Just ten days later I was Dee's constant companion.)

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!

Mitt is Impressive: Part Two

I was kind of relieved Mitt didn't mention me by name tonight when he thanked his team. It would have been overwhelming to have all those reporters calling, and intimidating to have all those new readers. Still, I'm glad the voters in Florida had my input.

Just in case the folks in the upcoming caucus states need more convincing, I have additional opining to do.

Mitt may be a gazillionaire, but he's not out of touch with regular life. In fact he may know more of the nitty-gritty than most of us.

His father, George, was born in Mexico, raised in humble circumstances and never graduated from college. He apprenticed as a lath and plaster carpenter and sold aluminum paint before beginning a career that brought him to the head of American Motors and then the governorship of Michigan. A self-made man, by the time Mitt was a teenager George was able to give his family the best of everything.

Mitt grew up in a ritzy neighborhood and attended private schools. When he got married at age 22, he didn't worry about getting a student loan or paying the pediatrician—but he knew and served people who did.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has a lay ministry. That means that everyone in the congregation has a responsibility to serve as a teacher, a youth leader, Relief Society president (our women's charitable organization) organist, blood drive coordinator, whatever.

The Bishop of the ward (congregation) prayerfully chooses people to serve in various capacities for a period of time (usually a couple of years) and calls (asks) them. I've been rotated through dozens of callings, from luncheon chairman, to nursery leader, to girl's camp director to newsletter editor. We get advice from people who have had the calling before us, study the church handbooks, pray for divine help, and learn on the job. It's a fabulous opportunity to build skills and confidence.

From the time they were married, Mitt and Ann Romney served in their ward like everyone else. When Mitt was thirty-four, the father of five young sons and just starting a highly demanding career, he was asked to be Mormon bishop. The fact that he was called speaks of his character and devotion to God. A bishop must be dependable, honest, trustworthy, true to his wife and generous with his time. He also needs a conviction that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and be willing to follow His teachings.

Being a bishop is a full-time job, without pay. Bishops visit and attend to the needs of single moms, widows, the poor, sick and elderly, and administer the church's social welfare program. They listen to problems and counsel members on everything imaginable: marriage, divorce, abortion, adoption, addiction, unemployment and even business disputes. The bishop directs staffing of ward organizations, supervises youth programs, attends activities, oversees finances, records, and building maintenance, teaches, conducts meetings, and trains others in their duties. Plus, he is the spiritual leader, the confessor and confidant, helping his flock change their ways and live Christ-like lives. A bishop does all this, but still keeps his full-time job and tries to be a devoted husband and father. It's tough, and totally impressive.

In Mitt's Boston ward he confronted anti-Mormon sentiment and worked to soothe relations in the community. He directed an outreach program to Hispanic, Portuguese and Southeast Asian converts, including Cambodian and Laotian refugees whose teenagers were joining the church in droves. “I had no idea people lived this way,” he told a counselor, after visiting poverty-stricken immigrants. When kids from his ward became involved with gangs, he went into those neighborhoods regularly, offering support and friendship. Parents came to him for advice.

He was highly motivated and “hands-on,” said a member of his ward. "If somebody’s roof leaked, Bishop Romney would show up with a ladder to fix it. I remember him picking butternut squash and yanking weeds on the church’s communal farm." He distributed that food to ward members in need. The LDS church has an employment program, and Mitt coordinated training and job interviews for people wanting to hire and be hired.

After a few years as bishop he was called as Boston's Stake President overseeing a region similar to a Roman Catholic diocese. That meant he was the clergyman, organization man and defender of the faith over several wards during a period of rapid growth.

Service on school boards or city councils, through charities or churches, benefits the whole community. Time spent with troubled kids (or keeping good kids from getting in trouble,) advising out-of-work parents, helping a couple adopt a baby—these qualify as civic contributions. Mitt Romney has been involved in public service his whole life.

Thirteen years of church leadership gave him vast experience with social, economic and moral dilemmas. He is sometimes seen as a flip-flopper because he doesn't express his beliefs in unequivocal soundbites. A person of compassion might have thoughtful reasons to see both sides of an issue. Here are three situations I know Mitt Romney faced:

• A young girl close to his family had an illegal abortion, and died because of it.
  
• A pregnant woman in his congregation had a life-threatening blood clot and was advised by one doctor to abort the baby to save her life. Another doctor said she didn't need the abortion, that both mother and baby could be saved.
• A married man he served with in the church confided that he was gay.

"A man who views the world at fifty the same way he did at twenty

has wasted thirty years of his life."
—Muhammad Ali

Mitt and Ann have raised five sons who carry on the Romney tradition. Having money does not guarantee character. (Think of the ultra-rich kids we see on TV and in the tabloids, the drug-addicted kids who are infamous for their bad behavior, adultery, broken families, and prison sentences.) Obviously the Romney's gave their children more than money could buy. It's short-sighted to look at money as their only inheritance.

Like every family, the Romneys have faced hardship: Ann was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1998, and more recently fought a battle with breast cancer. She credits her husband’s unwavering care and devotion in helping her through these ordeals.

I'm convinced that Mitt Romney is, and always has been a great man. He has balanced his life well, with generous service to God, family and community. I'm impressed.

There's even more to come ...

Mitt Romney Is Impressive

Mitt Romney

I am a life-long Democrat and a fan of President Obama, but I'd vote for Mitt Romney in a heartbeat. My respect for him supersedes party politics.

Politics is my sport—I listen to every debate, watch every pundit, read every stat. Over the years I've heard Mitt slammed for idiotic things, like perfect hair, ironed levis and stiff posture. "His sons are lined up behind him like they came from central casting," Chris Matthews says sarcastically. (Handsome, supportive sons are a reason we shouldn't vote for the guy?) "He's a flip-flopper," they say, and "He's too rich to identify with the rest of us." The Demos, the Repubs, they're all taking swings. I wish everybody knew what I know about Mitt Romney. This week I'm going to highlight some reasons I'm impressed.

He started well.

Lots of people are embarrassed by their youthful indiscretions. Fraternity parties, DUIs, free love, "I didn't inhale." It was the 60s—everybody was doing it. Well, not everybody. In 1966, at age nineteen, Mitt Romney chose to set aside his education and social life to be a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Mormons) for three years, at his own expense.

Mitt Romney and his father George

An LDS mission is not a gap year experience, or a semester abroad. Missionaries are not tourists. They live in humble apartments, can't own cars, date or go out with friends. They get up early, exercise, study for a couple of hours and are out the door by nine a.m. to discover what good they can do.

Although I didn't go on a mission myself, I know many hundreds of people who have, including my brother, my husband, four of my kids, all four of my sons-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, dozens of friends, neighbors and church associates. I admire them all—it's an accomplishment.

Not just any member of our church can serve a mission. As a young man Mitt Romney had to qualify by living a certain way: no premarital sex, no drugs, alcohol or tobacco. He would have paid 10% of his income in tithing (from his allowance and part-time jobs) from early childhood.

LDS Tithing Slip

Members of the LDS church fast for 24 hours on the first Sunday of every month, and donate the money saved from those meals as a fast offering, which the Bishop of the ward (congregation) then distributes to needy families. Mitt would have paid this extra money, along with his tithing, throughout his teenage years, even though his parents would be paying it, too. We're taught from age three that charity is "the pure love of God," a quality we want to develop, and even little kids take satisfaction in contributing their nickels and dimes.

To be eligible for a mission, a person must attend church regularly. In addition to Priesthood Meeting, Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting on Sunday, Mitt attended weekly scout meetings and youth service activities. His father was the governor of Michigan, and Mitt attended private school, but he was treated like every kid in his ward. Church assignments included shoveling walks, raking leaves, cleaning the church, painting park benches, collecting clothing for charity, delivering food to the poor, helping people move, mowing lawns and lots more. I know this because it's the way every active Mormon grows up, and I was one. Many LDS kids think it's a privilege to serve as a missionary, and live to be worthy of the opportunity.

Elder Romney and his companion

Mitt went to France. In those days foreign speaking missions were three years and they learned the language on the job. The mission president (a mature man, responsible for about 100 missionaries) assigned him a companion—another young man who had been in France a few months longer—and the two of them knocked on doors and tried to convince French people to give up wine. They didn't have much success, and it was discouraging work.

LDS missionaries are sent primarily to teach people about Jesus Christ, and they do all sorts of things to exemplify Christ-like service. Because of their early training, they are comfortable helping folks with whatever needs to be done, whether it's cleaning a basement after a flood, or rebuilding a house after a tsunami. Missionaries develop tolerance and compassion for many different kinds of people of every religion, and Mitt served exceptionally. He learned to speak French fluently and developed a lifelong love of France and its culture, which enhanced his appreciation for other countries, and especially his own. He often defended the United States' involvement in Viet Nam and stood up for America.

A devastating accident changed his life while he was in France. Mitt was a passenger in a car with the mission president and his wife when their car was hit; the wife was killed. The mission president took a leave of absence to take her body home to the USA, have the funeral and grieve with his family, leaving 21-year-old Mitt and his companion in charge of the mission for an extended period.

During that time, Mitt was responsible for missionaries arriving, going home, and transferring within the mission; training new missionaries; motivating old ones; handling the daily problems of a hundred young men and women living in a foreign country. Humbled by his near-death experience, Mitt prayed to be equal to the challenge. He discovered innate leadership and organization skills, and developed great confidence in his abilities.

Mr. and Mrs. Mitt Romney

While Mitt was on his mission, Ann, his high-school girlfriend, joined the LDS church. She was attending BYU when he returned home to Michigan, so he followed her to Utah. They decided to get married ten days later, but waited three months to appease their parents. At age 22, Mitt Romney had the experience and courage to take on adult responsibilities. They got married March 21, 1969 and moved into a basement apartment.

Mitt Romney, young family Man

When Mitt graduated from BYU in 1971, they were already expecting their second son. In 1975 Mitt graduated cum laude from Harvard (in the top third of his class) with a joint law degree and MBA. By then they had three kids and Ann received her undergraduate degree that year, as well. I don't care how much money you have—you don't get four degrees and three kids in six years without a ton of hard work.

(They had two more sons by 1981.)

So—nothing humiliating, nothing disgraceful, nothing to cover up 43 years later. This is the story of how Mitt Romney spent the first ten years of his adulthood, from age 18 to 28. He definitely started well. And I think it's totally impressive.

(More of my impressions to come ... )

My Heart-Felt Response

Yesterday I mentioned my defective heart, and I've had a bunch of worried emails wondering if it's still beating. It is. But it's murmuring, too. Here's the whole story:

I had an echo cardiogram in December to see if my heart was OK in case I had to have surgery for adrenal cancer (which it turned out I don't have.) In the echo cardiogram they discovered I have a heart murmur. This was not too alarming because I've ALWAYS had a heart murmur, but I was sent to a cardiologist who wanted to know why I have a heart murmur.

Another echo cardiogram revealed that I have a thick heart and the blood doesn't leave the left ventricle efficiently. The cardiologist wondered if I had symptoms, like feeling breathless (yes, if I run, or climb too many stairs,) lightheadedness (yes, when I get up from laying down,) pain (no,) palpitations/awareness of my heart beating (yes, always.) These are conditions I've had all my life, so I've considered them normal.

He diagnosed my murmur as hypertrophic cardiomyopathy which is a genetic heart defect. (My mom had a heart murmur, too, and so does one of my daughters and one of my sons.) Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is the heart disease that makes young, healthy athletes drop dead suddenly on the basketball floor when they're 18. "Often the first symptom is sudden death," he said. Yikes!

"The fact that you haven't already died of sudden death is a good sign," the doc said. Sometimes they put in a pacemaker, or a newer device that revs up the heart in case it misses a beat. Or they do some procedure where they put raw alcohol through a catheter and actually burn away some of the thick heart muscle, or they do open heart surgery and cut away the extra tissue.

Or they just watch and wait, and tell you not to worry. He patted my arm. "There's no reason to be stressed about this," he consoled me. Right.

In order to decide my particular treatment I had to have a cardiac MRI, which was a miserable, claustrophobic event, and I go back next week to hear the news. I already know I want to do the watch and wait and die a sudden death when I develop Alzheimer's.

Now I wish I'd never gone to the doctor. I went because I hadn't been for a few years and thought I should have a check up. After 2 MRIs, 2 echocardiograms, 21 blood tests, and an eye exam, I've been told I should diet and exercise, and use Visine for dry eyes. I feel like Naman, that guy in the Bible who went to Elisha to get cured of leprosy and was told to just bathe himself in the River Jordan. It seemed too simple to actually work and Naman was unimpressed. I wanted a more exciting Rx than diet and exercise. But I have to say, it sounds better than rib-splitting surgery.

So there's the whole story—thanks for asking. I'll keep you posted.
Your concern warms my heart!

My Maturation Program

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

"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

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

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.