The Great Pumpkin

We have an odd Thanksgiving toy/decoration/thing I didn’t know what to do with for years. It’s a soft-sided pumpkin house that unzips to reveal a scarecrow family of four plus pet turkey. RE hasn't played with dolls in ages and the poor pumpkin has been neglected year after year as I've put up fall decor. I saw it this year and loved it! It is obviously housing Greg, me, RE, Archer, and Lucy. We finally became the pumpkin toy! This is the best decoration ever! All those years of wanting a baby but secretly hoping it wouldn’t be a boy and now my boy is here and boy am I glad he was a boy. Boys are not turkeys. They are spunky and fast and delicious; they look at their mamas in a way that beats all else.

We bought a plot of land on the side of a mountain when I was pregnant. I told Greg I didn’t want to work on house plans during my last trimester or the newborn phase because I had waited years for them and wanted to savor them in the present. We slowly eased into designing a home. Having never done so we shot for the moon and included every whim and fancy ever desired. The Trapper Keeper I’d been stuffing with dream house ideas for a decade (take that, Pinterest, and yes, they still make Trapper Keepers) didn’t diminish the effect. Before we paid for structural and civil engineering on the dream plans we felt we should get a rough bid from some builders to make sure we were on the right track. Boy were we on the wrong track, unless that track was for billionaires.

After killing some whims, wounding some fancies, and settling for a half-finished basement we came to our senses and paid the architect for affordable final plans. With a huge roll of officially stamped blueprints we began the quest for bids.

I have deep roots in my current house and adverse reactions to change so it didn’t bother me in the slightest to be ignored by busy builders all summer. We did meet with one guy whose bid made me wonder if it might be more plausible to just live in a pumpkin with a pet turkey.

The thing is, in the meantime I’ve been soaking up my life at 416 North because I’m not sure when it’s going to end. I assume every season will be the last. The last time I watch cartoon Ichabod and make BBQ chicken pizza (WITH the cilantro, McBrides) while trick-or-treaters ding the doorbell. The last time I rake my lilac leaves on Thanksgiving morning...from the bucket-sized lilac bush we planted on our 5th anniversary that now covers RE’s 2nd story bedroom window. The last time I’ll squeeze an Ault's alpine fir in our tiny parlor with a labyrinth of sofas around it.

I’ve even started to get sappy about my outdoor trees.

Our Colorado blue spruce was a housewarming gift from my parents in 1999. It was 8’ tall and the eighth foot was a single spike. It is currently 20 feet tall; Greg still races out to smell it when rain falls from our dry Utah sky. I rub the new growth between my fingers each spring; it is soft like a Pink Pet eraser and and bluer than a Smurf. It has been slow growing, solid, sturdy, and noble. Just like Greg.

We planted a pear tree for Greg’s birthday the following year (it was such a relief to not buy him fishing junk). It dressed my kitchen window and masked State Street effortlessly. We got a bird book to identify the many species seen on the branches. (I love Western Tanagers!) Yesterday, for the first time in 16 years, I saw two quail in my pear tree. Quail, like partridges, have plumes. I think it’s the closest I’ll ever get to a partridge in a pear tree! Robins swallow pear berries whole and I thank them for picking the tree clean by Christmas. Yes, pear tree smells like pooberry in the spring but I forgive her because she also pops popcorn. Once we took a fall trip and I specifically prayed to not miss the changing of her color guards.

Pink thundercloud plum was planted in honor of our first child and daughter’s birth in 2001. Plum’s razzle-dazzle, pinkalicious mass blocks the westerly sunset from melting the façade of our home. The day plum blooms she wins Mother Nature’s “Best of Show”. Plum always has a bird nest in her lower fork, low enough I can peek inside. The designer in me appreciates the autonomous color schemes God created; Robin’s egg blue, desaturated pink plum petals, and weathered brown twigs were surely the original shabby chic.

If this is how I feel about my trees imagine how I feel about my neighbors. The salt of the earth is unquestionably sprinkled on all the latitudes and longitudes but my life here has been perfectly seasoned. When I think about leaving the people who have become familiar to me I honestly lose it. I feel like I’m exchanging three square meals a day of soul food for a good view I'll look at all alone. Wah, wah, wah.

But to fear the next step is to lack faith. We know our lot is where we are supposed to go. It was years in waiting and years in the making; the way it unfolded made a beautiful shape clearly pointing to Draper.

I’ve loved everywhere I’ve ever lived, including Crown Apartments at BYU with its one functioning toilet, slow-draining sink, and bleached tiger shag carpet. Because of that rentable gem I found the guy I wanted to marry a hop, skip, and jump across the street.

I loved my tiny newlywed apartment with its microscopic, ventless bathroom. It was where Greg and I studied our majors on free couches while eating McFlurries from Freedom Blvd. It is also where we learned to not flock a Christmas tree indoors.

I have LURVED (lurve is greater than love) 416 North, although I almost threw up when we wrote our non-refundable $3K deposit check for this starter house. This house has been better than good to me. Its backyard pond and running stream have made a boxcar children dreamscape for my kids. Its ceilings have contained love, a few arguments, airborne grease droplets from frequent homemade chip-making, and lots of music pumped up with bass. It has welcomed two babies and two dogs, three of which I never thought I’d have and all of which have left smears on the front window. (In fact, I only washed off Max’s nose smears a year ago. After he died I couldn’t bear to wipe away the last proof of his existence. Oh, Max. He was my watchman on the tower. He would have eaten the mailman for me. Lucy, on the other hand, would lick a robber. She’s worthless in the protection department.)

I choose to believe our next home will be lurve-worthy; I just don’t know in what ways yet. I’ve made up my mind to love wherever I’m at and adopt Old Nauvoo’s motto: WHEN WE’RE HERE, WE’RE HERE. Our nest is best, no matter what tree it’s in. Home is the people inside the pumpkin, not the great pumpkin itself.

Photo of the cover of my 1st edition I Capture the Castle Frenchie gave me. It's also one of the letters "D" in my blog's logo.

Lovey Dovey

Thanksgiving night I asked RE what she would do if she only had three weeks left to live. She told me she would go skydiving and then make sure she was sealed in the temple. (I'd do it in reverse order! Yikes.) Cristall and I had a long conversation ruing the dichotomy between living providently and living like you're dying. They say we hold our future in our hands. What if those steady hands occasionally want to throw the future, and all caution, to the wind? Planning ahead and being smart doesn't always feel like LIFE TO ITS FULLEST. Clipping coupons and exercising isn't as fun as flying first-class to eat overseas pastries.

On the one hand I should live every day as if it were my last, diminishing my bucket list one check at a time. If today were my last day I wouldn't cook dinner for my family, go to Walmart, or iron Greg's shirts. I wouldn't gas up my car in the freezing wind or clean the cursed high chair. (All I want for Christmas is to drop kick that piece of cheap plastic from my roof and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces. However, it is the only item in my house with a harness and sometimes I need to know Archer can't move.) If today were my last day I would breakfast a Bruges' liege waffle with extra dark chocolate and strawberries, lunch Thai Siam's pad thai, and dinner a heinously expensive wagyu beef steak with peppercorn cream sauce. Then I would unbutton my pants, kiss and hug everyone I loved, and fade out mid-massage on Ruth's massage table.

On the other hand, today probably isn't my last day and living like I'm dying will either ignore, destroy, or bankrupt my household. It's hard to find the fine line between living sensibly with self-control and riding life's horse with guns blazing. My fine line is to scrimp via self-denial and thrift stores so I can splurge with a massage every other Wednesday. Ruth gives me one Dove dark chocolate after every massage. The chocolate has a fortune inside the foil. I save all the fortunes because that's what tiny desk drawers are for.

Today being Wednesday I already splurged. This was my fortune:

I wholeheartedly agree; good thing I had a chocolate chip peanut butter open face and massage for breakfast.

At a church social I played a get-to-know-you game with my female peers and one of the questions was IF YOU HAD ONE FREE HOUR WHAT WOULD YOU DO? Every single woman said TAKE A NAP except for Keri Heath, who said READ A BOOK IN A HAMMOCK NEXT TO A RIVER. (I knew I loved Keri Heath.) It made me sad that every woman I know, including Keri, seems to be exhausted. Why are we so tired?

Early last December I wasn't feeling very Christmassy with my life in total chaos, my hair falling out, my pooch still poochy, and my psyche not meshing with the new norm of life with a baby. I called my friend J with a random question; ninety minutes later we hung up. I remember her telling me about buying Christmas village houses at the dollar store and spraying them black to use on the mantel for Halloween, but other than that I don't remember what we talked about.  I just know the call eased my misgivings and transformed me from Scrooge to Tiny Tim. It felt like Christmas after I hung up.

However, in late October I texted Michelle a picture of my canner on the hot stove at midnight and she texted me right back. We text-lamented how lame it is to can alone since we used to can together in our ruffled aprons...one of us blanched while the other sauced, one of us wiped floor splatter while the other wiped wall splatter. I love a good call but in general I have less time to talk and more time to text.

I prove I am alive by posting a digital heartbeat to social media of some form. Technology has made it easy to keep a pulse on my inner circles. Sometimes all the scrolling and liking is akin to fool's gold; it's shiny but not valuable. Social media is connection but I don't want to get caught in the trap of mistaking edited details or #nofilter glimpses for friendship. Hugging someone tight enough you can smell their shampoo is friendship. Walking in someone else's house without knocking is friendship. Ruth, my massage therapist whom I neither text nor friend on social media, is one of my best friends. It's crazy how close you can get to someone when your only method of communication is talking face to face. It's crazier how close you can get without it. What a world we live in; I sure hope I'm living it well.

It's All About the Benjamin

I personally don't know anyone with negative feelings toward $100 bills, bifocals, or pilgrim buckle shoes. Therefore, I conclude we all love Benjamin Franklin.

Many years ago I read his autobiography. I love to see where a great man comes from. I was surprised to learn he was a gifted swimmer. Never pictured him as a swimmer. He's not exactly built like Michael Phelps. Then again, Michael Phelps didn't write an almanac, so I say Ben wins that duel.

Two Franklin quotes that surface often:

"LOSE AN HOUR IN THE MORNING AND YOU WILL BE HUNTING IT ALL DAY." (I think of this every single day due to my mattress addiction.)

"IT IS EASIER TO SUPPRESS THE FIRST DESIRE THAN TO SATISFY ALL THAT FOLLOW IT." (I think of this every time I open a bag of Cadbury minis or those light blue Ghiradelli chocolate sea salt caramel squares.)

Young Benjamin was firmly shaped from what I surmise was a mild and completely average childhood experience. I'm going to directly quote the section of his autobiography I refer to as "Ben Franklin Rocks" but ask that you prepare yourself; colonists of yesteryear loved the comma and the run-on:

"There was a salt-marsh that bounded part of the mill-pond, on the edge of which, at high water, we used to stand to fish for minnows. By much trampling we had made it a mere quagmire. My proposal was to build a wharf there fit for us to stand upon, and I showed my comrades a large heap of stones, which were intended for a new house near the marsh, and which would very well suit our purpose. Accordingly, in the evening, when the workmen were gone, I assembled a number of my playfellows, and working with them diligently like so many emmets, sometimes two or three to a stone, we brought them all away and built our little wharf. The next morning the workmen were surprised at missing the stones, which were found in our wharf. Inquiry was made after the removers; we were discovered and complained of; several of us were correct by our fathers; and, though I pleaded the usefulness of the work, mine convinced me that nothing was useful which was not honest."

I love that last bit. I'm so glad Benjamin Franklin's dad was resolute even though the other dads applauded the muscle and ingenuity involved in solving the muddy beach issue. I'm glad Father Franklin taught his practical son hard work is useless if you are not honest. 

When I became a parent I decided I would never ask my child to do something I myself was not willing to do. I would not have a rule for her that I did not also obey myself. I figured she would respect me more if I wasn't a hypocrite. Of course, like countless other parents, I have taught my daughter we do not steal. We don't steal homework answers, pens from the bank, or bites from the bulk section at the grocery store. If a trick-or-treating house has a bowl that says PLEASE TAKE TWO we only take two. Not stealing is simple, right?

Bueller?

It has never been easier to thieve because the things we are stuffing in our pockets are digital, weightless, and invisible. I love how society calls it "sharing" when really it is "stealing." There is a lot of hard work going on to beat the system, cheat the system or avoid the system. Here's a tip: if it has a copyright then copying it is wrong. Just save up and support the artist. Don't borrow it if you aren't going to give it all back. As an artist who had her work illegally copied, printed, and resold let me assure you violation was icky and felt sadder than the time my beach cruiser was stolen.

Sometimes food for thought takes time to digest. The rock story tugged and pricked at my conscience. Was I an art-stealing jerk, the very person I loathed? I profess to be an honest Christian but my moral compass failed its safety inspection after I poked around my possessions. Let me just say there were some stolen rocks in my font suitcase, movie drawer, and music library, none of which were taken with a conscious, iniquitous effort. 

I decided to throw away my stolen rocks and buy new ones from a rock store if possible. There was some cost involved, especially on iTunes, but my compass works again. It is polished and shiny and pointing to Honest North. Some might mistake this as piety; I'm merely trying to be aware.

It's never too late to return a stolen rock. I personally know a lady in her 60s who felt badly for 50 years over a stapler she stole in grade school.  Even though the store she took it from had long since closed she made restitution by mailing a new stapler and note of apology to the business in the original location...FIVE DECADES LATER.

Rock on, rock out, and rock and roll. But be careful with rocks.

Archer's wooden Pinocchio from Firenze, a gift from my EuroAunt. She did not steal it.

Goodness Gracious

Two of my BYU roommates just had babies three weeks apart! This is exciting because birds of a feather flock together and what I mean by that is I'm 39 and they are 38-ish. Heather had a boy whose name has not gone public yet; Mary had her first girl and named her Grace, for whom I printed my four favorite "grace phrases" on the tiniest newborn-sized onesies you ever did see.

  

The onesies have two quotes from U2's "Grace" and two from hymns.* If I hadn't been limited on space I would have made a 5th onesie proclaiming O TO GRACE HOW GREAT A DEBTOR DAILY I'M CONSTRAINED TO BE! from "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing".

When I was pregnant with Archer I collected this quote:

“But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after - oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”  

I would wager Heather and Mary are nursing their last babies. Due to the decade+, medical, and spiritual interventions necessary to bring him to earth I assume Archer is my last baby. I therefore set up a strict plan to not let his babyness (made up word) slip through my fingers.

I should interject an important fact at this point in the story: I yearned for a baby for 12 years so the Lord sent me the most awesome, least snuggly baby ever born. Excepting his first two months Archer has fallen asleep in my arms twice. Ever. He will rest his head on my shoulder for half a second and tolerates being held “like a baby” the same way a cat tolerates a bath. The best I get these days is a full force body slam hug or a bulldozed head into my thigh if I’m sitting on the floor. He does sit perfectly still on my lap if I read to him, so we read a lot. Like more than Harry Truman read as a kid. But back to him being a baby.

The highlight of my baby-getting-bigger days was bottles because I could hold him tightly without defiant, dream-killing wiggles. Every milky ounce helped him tiptoe to The Edge of Big (not to be confused with The Land of Nod) but I stuck to the plan and absorbed all bits of infancy he flagrantly tossed away. Archer turned one, I stopped buying formula, and ignored my pediatrician's advice to only serve milk in sippy cups. I gave him five bottles of warm milk a day, rocking and cuddling my nonstop boy shark who only stayed still for Milkfest. By day he was Tasmanian Devil, by night he was limp with thirst for rocking chair darkness.

At my own pace I whittled him down to one bedtime bottle. RE wanted to kill all the bottles because bottles were clutter; I told her it was my house and to pipe down. Every night I held him I'd tell myself THIS IS THE LAST BOTTLE but the next night I couldn't face the end and would frantically heat up another 4 ounces of milk.

Weeks passed; some nights he was too full from dinner to have an additional bottle. Then he had a bottle more than sometimes but less than usually. Then he hardly had a usual bottle and after some time I forgot about them.

The day I painted my red kitchen back to white I felt liberated by openness. I needed less clutter. RE was right all along, darn that smart teenager. I remembered there was one rogue Dr. Brown bottle in the cupboard I could pack up (because one less bottle in a closed cupboard would solve my clutter issues, ha). I decided THIS would be the REAL last bottle and prepared for closure. I heated the milk and followed my pigeon-toed Boy Man up the stairs to his room. I closed his roman shade, scooped him up, and put the bottle to his lips. He rejected it, Hulk smashed it down to the carpet, crawled off of my lap, and started stacking Fisher-Price rings in the dark.

Archer doesn't mince words; he ripped my baby band-aid off quickly. It hurt. (No wonder there was a line out my front door of people willing to hold newborn Archer, and no wonder parents get excited about becoming grandparents! It's the heart to heart snuggling! Stuff of life, I say!)

Since his blunt announcement Archer has learned to run, somersault, do the actions for "Once There Was a Snowman", jump in leaf piles, ride piggyback, and take Lucy's toy out of her mouth to taunt her. He can stomp his feet in a tantrum while simultaneously signing "please" across his chest if he spies the marshmallow canister and hears NO. He can identify every item on every page of his favorite book, Goodnight Gorilla, but especially loves the pink balloon, mouse, banana, moon, and keys. He can open the pantry, unload the dishwasher, unroll toilet paper, and disappear in half a second. He tells me the stove is "HOT!" 328 times a day and looks left-right-left when I wear earrings.

Grace’s onesies were 6" wide. I’m sure Archer was that small once but he looked like Andre the Giant after I visited her.

Loving his newfound independence but missing my Grace-sized snuggles I snuck in his room last night and peeled him off the crib sheet. He scarcely stirred; there was no break in his heavy breathing. I tucked and folded his big boy body across my chest, ran my fingers through the coarse blonde tuft on his nape, and rocked ever so softly. I held him until I had recharged, till my collarbone was hot from his sweet, sweaty head.

He still sleeps like a baby. While he dreams my bottle-free butterfingers pry open the back door to babyhood and we sneak in for a minute. As long as there is night my baby lives another day.

*Emma Lou Thayne's "Where Can I Turn For Peace" and Eliza Hewitt's "There Is Sunshine in My Soul Today"

This is a really good speech about grace. It helped me understand grace better, not that I'll ever understand it all the way. The other thing that helped is when Blue-eyed Becca compared grace to a big waterfall, like Niagara Falls. That is how powerful and unending the gift of grace is. Peace flows like a river but grace flows like a waterfall!

Quote by Barbara Kingsolver

Pencil drawing made for and given to me by a nice boy at BYU whom I did not marry.

Egg On My Face

I'm having another "life cluster" as I call them.

Saturday night I painted the last of four bookcases in our living room. While the paint dried I went through one of the zillion stacks of papers in my zone and discovered a quote I've long loved:

In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil, and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike...you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. -Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

Unearthing something treasured was the equivalent of finding five dollars in a jean pocket while sorting laundry. Just a little bit of unexpected oomph. Plus I love the phrase CHARIOTS OF FIRE. One, I think of the Egyptians coming after Moses; we know how that turned out. Two, I think of the movie. Saw it as a kid and thought it was boring except for the scene where he ran around the courtyard square barefooted. Three, I think of the soundtrack. Chariots of Fire was the only cassette in our VW Rabbit for most of my childhood. It's likely the reason I asked Santa for a synthesizer in 3rd grade. In the opening ceremonies of the London 2012 Olympics a children's choir sang "Jerusalem" and I rushed down from the kitchen screaming, "This is from Chariots of Fire!"

We met with a builder yesterday at his home. I tried to pay attention to his spreadsheet but was distracted by five canvas portraits on the living room wall. Nice hair and nicer teeth, his five sons looked well-mannered, like the kind of boys who would carry in my groceries before politely grabbing a bottle of Sunny D from the fridge. Stop checking his kids out. Play with your Kirkland water bottle label. Above the collage sprawled this phrase in vinyl: HE WHO HONORS GOD, GOD HONORS. I loved it. It seemed familiar. Scripture? I made a mental note (a dangerous move with my brain these days) to teach this to Archer. Remember the thing about honor.

Today, after three especially hard weeks of burning the candle at both ends, being ticked I no longer have a wick, and discovering how poorly I act without wax, I wanted to blog about how tough it is to be cheerfully good when life is hard. A quip my old stake president (an ecclesiastical leader) used to say kept surfacing: HOT WATER HARDENS EGGS AND SOFTENS CARROTS. Without a doubt I hardened in the last three weeks of hot water. I felt myself morph from supple to solid in the worst of ways. A starched stone would be softer than my current boiled state. I was a bad egg gone hard.

I've had a nagging feeling since I found the bookcase quote to google Elaine Dalton (my hero) because I vaguely remembered her mentioning the movie in a speech once. Ba-BAM! And I quote:

The movie Chariots of Fire is the moving story of Eric Liddell, the gold medal winner in the 400-meter track event in the 1924 Paris Olympics. Liddell was not only a gifted athlete who held to his convictions, but he lived out his faith to the very end as a Christian missionary in China. He was such an incredible athlete that his goal was to get to the 1924 Olympics in France and run in his best race—the 100-meter race. He trained hard to get in top shape, and his country of Scotland was sure that he would win a gold medal for them. There was just one problem. The heat to decide who would make the Olympics was on a Sunday, and Liddell would not run on Sunday. Due to this conflict he chose not to run in the 100-meter race. Instead he qualified for the 200- and 400-meter races because those heats were not held on Sunday, but no one expected him to come close to winning. Just prior to the start of the 400-meter race, he was given a piece of paper on which was written words from 1 Samuel 2:30: “Them that honour me, I will honour.” Liddell ran with that piece of paper in his hand and held onto this promise tightly. And, to everyone’s surprise, he won the gold medal and broke a world record. Listen to what his character in the film Chariots of Fire said after winning a previous race:

You came to see a race today. To see someone win. It happened to be me. But I want you to do more than just watch a race. I want you to take part in it. I want to compare faith to running in a race. It’s hard. It requires concentration of will, energy of soul. You experience elation when the winner breaks the tape—especially if you’ve got a bet on it. But how long does that last? You go home. Maybe your dinner’s burnt. Maybe you haven’t got a job. So who am I to say, “Believe, have faith,” in the face of life’s realities? I would like to give you something more permanent, but I can only point the way. I have no formula for winning the race. Everyone runs in her own way, or his own way. And where does the power come from to see the race to its end? From within.     

After I read this I:

1. Remembered I was supposed to remember something important for Archer.

2. Knew it was a scripture!

3. Went on an all-expenses-paid guilt trip about my poor actions this last month.

Losing my cool when life’s water gets hot is not honoring God. Choosing to harden halts the chariots of fire hastening my way under His outstretched hand. A hard-boiled egg is nothing more than an egg with a hard heart, and hearts harden quickly when they forget God (and his commandments). Carrots, on the other hand, come from a long history of being firmly rooted, standing strong and immovable despite the darkness around them.

Eggs are over easy in the best of times; carrots are soft and sweet in the worst of times.

Elaine S. Dalton, Prophetic Priorities and Dedicated Disciples, BYU Speech given Jan. 15, 2013.