“My dear brothers and sisters, may the laughter of children gladden our hearts. May the faith of children soothe our souls. May the love of children prompt our deeds. ‘Children are an heritage of the Lord.”
President Thomas S. Monson
Stuff I’m Loving…
…right this minute—
Low fat animal cookies to share…
Yard flowers pretty enough to be wallpaper…
New stationary to write to my far-away boy on…
The perfect grin and a chicky with attitude…
The new, handsome man in my life…Truman the Treadmill…
yeah, we’re tight…
My sister’s backyard in the rain…
A crabby, old dude…
AND having two legendary characters under one roof–Big Foot and Tinkerbell—just imagine…
Tie all these up in a big knapsack and my life would be complete…
Ok, fine. Leave them all where they are and my life can be nearly complete and everyone will be happier…
and less crowded.
Sheesh.
Rose Parade
There is a ton of color in our yard these days. Most of it is coming from the rose bushes that are everywhere. They remind me…
When I was a little girl, my dad took the family to the Tournament of Roses Parade. It was a pretty big deal. However, in order to get a real spot on the curb to watch the whole thing we had to stake out a chunk of space on the sidewalk in down town Pasadena. It was so strange to be sleeping outside with a million other people—on the pavement. Uncomfortable and awkward–but exciting at the same time.
I remember there were some scary looking hippies—sorry, that’s what we called them back then—who were smoking something when we got there. They played guitars and sang nearly all night. My dad rigged up some kind of Bunsen Burner deal and made hot chocolate for us and shared some to them as well. The smoking stopped immediately because there were “little dudes around.”
My cute dad was always one for heading off any signs of trouble–at the pass–and making friend with everyone. Sometimes it scared my mom half to death–but he felt like being kind and friendly right up front, was the best way to keep us all safe.
As we kids started to fall asleep the singers’ music got softer and more lullaby-like. I vaguely remember a slow, sweet version of Puff the Magic Dragon as I drifted off to sleep. While we slept, some other group of people set up chairs right in front of us, completely blocking our view of the street. We woke to the sound of the “hippies” physically escorting the curb poachers far, far away from our space.
I’m sure it was a wonderful parade–maybe it even had something to do with roses. Sincerely, I can’t remember one speck of it. What I do remember is my dad shaking hands and patting the backs of some new, very different friends. Friends that didn’t look so scary any more.
Read about The Rose Named Peace
Photos by Jillian
Blink~The Graduate
I suppose I’ve been driving this route for some time now.
Ooooh-whoo. Seven fifteen a.m. every morning for the past one hundred years.
Perhaps I exaggerate just a tad–but you get the point.
I’ve taken this road in the pouring rain…
thick and spooky fog……
and slippery, blinding, icy snow.
Driven it before daylight savings time when it was so dark outside the streetlights were still on.
With all the windows down in the summer when the cooler wouldn’t work.
In the winter with blankets wrapped around our shoulders and heads and feet because the heater wouldn’t kick in.
Attended every football game, track event, and choir concert humanly possible.
Grumbled now and then about the caffeine-induced erratic drivers or teenage pedestrians with a “you-know-you-won’t-hit-me” death wish, and the ridiculous youngsters that really shouldn’t have a license in the first place—as we all converged here in this very parking lot—before any decent human being should even be out of bed.
Sat, crocheting in this holding space for hours at a time, doing that mama thing we call waiting, sometimes alone and sometimes while my beloved cargo spent some needed time…with their mom.
Sat, idling along with the car, staring at this tinted glass door–that far away one between the cars–looking for any sign of Daney boy, or the bald kid.
Oh, the laughing and talking and listening and teasing and heartbreaks and secrets and real earth life we’ve had at this place.
All to end up here. One. Very. Last. Time.
The bald kid thinks that I’ll be so glad to sleep in. He thinks that I’ll be relieved to save so much gas in the car. He’s sure I’m happy to see it all be finally–after 24 years and 5 kids—over.
I’m afraid he’s very…
very….
wrong.
And when that alarm clock doesn’t go off at 6:30 am any more, it won’t matter…
because I’ll already be awake…
wishing that it would…
just one more time.
Off to school—1996
Week 11 Food storage prompt:
10 lbs. sugar, 1 lb salt
Memorial…the Day
This day has always been about families. Pulling everyone together to remember those who aren’t with us right now. In a lovely way, it is also about flowers.
Bundles and bundles…
of real flowers…
to leave with a few people we love, and miss very much.
Great Grama Beck—the only doctor type person in town way back then and who sewed a neighbor’s scalp back on after a mule kicked him in the head.
My momma’s brother who took one breath on the day he was born then closed his eyes again.
My grama who once gave a kid a black eye for calling her little brother a “dirty farm kid.”
And my grampa who used to be a magician and could escape from being wrapped with chains–in 3 minutes.
My great-great grandpa who gave Orson Hyde a purse of gold for his mission to the Holy Land a long time ago.
We have spent this day remembering our family, with my mom and dad so many times–it seems impossible that now we are remembering them. How can it be?
My lovely flower bearers…
…and our tiniest blossom–so she will know the goodness that she comes from, and never forget.
I hope your Memorial Day weekend was wonderful for you all.
