Poppy

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-John McCrae, May 3, 1915, written on the battlefront in Belgium

Yesterday was my dad's birthday, today is Veteran's Day. Such it has always been. I think of my dad, my beat-all-odds, handsome, silly, steady dad, and then I think of him again in uniform. Year after year two dad days stick together.

Because I am a daddy's girl, because I am proud to be an American, and because I have a unique religious perspective in how I view the land which is my land from California to the New York island, I well up during patriotic songs and blink away the blur caused from "In Flanders Fields".

"In Flanders Fields" turned 100 this year and remains one of the most celebrated war poems in history, but fathers have been fighting and dying for their children since time began. They fought for the future, they fought in hope, they died standing for something.

My America the Beautiful, founded on God in whom we trust and fertilized by so many lives over the centuries, has become a raucous battlefield botched by individual indulgence. Nobleness once stood on the shoulders of forefather giants, its biceps bulged from holding the torch of liberty high. Are the newer generations too lazy to lift? Many sputter and spit fire at anything blocking their cruise-controlled route to Easy Street.

Who will hallow the soil our founding fathers rest in? Who will catch and carry the torches flung from Flanders? Who will bravely sing like a lark above the deafening buzz of current contention? Someone has to, or America will soon awaken from her glorious American dream.

Photo of my 23-year old dad in Vietnam, 1967. I'm proud that my daughter calls him every year to thank him for his service. One other written piece I love, especially today: 

I've just been told that over 3,000 of our American boys died in the first eleven days of the invasion of France.

Who died? I'll tell you who died.

Not so many years ago, there was a little boy sleeping in his crib. In the night, it thundered and lightninged. He woke and cried out in fear. His mother came and fixed his blankets better and said, "Don't cry. Nothing will ever hurt you."

He died...

There was another kid with a new bicycle. When he came past your house he rode no-hands while he folded the evening paper in a block and threw it against your door. You used to jump when you heard the bang. You said, "Some day, I'm going to give that kid a good talking-to." He died.  

Then there were two kids. One said to the other, "I'll do all the talking. I just want you to come along to give me nerve." They came to your door. The one who had promised to do all the talking said, "Would you like your lawn mowed, Mister?"

They died together. They gave each other nerve...

They all died.

And I don't know how any one of us here at home can sleep peacefully tonight unless we are sure in our hearts that we have done our part all the way along the line.

From the essay "Who Died?" by Betty Smith, who also authored of one of my top five novels, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Superheroes

I was once taught a valuable lesson with hamburgers, although it started with an unanswered phone call and reminded me of carpet.

When Greg and I were first married the word got out we knew how to clean carpet. We cleaned a lot of carpet because everyone in our circle was renting and needed their deposit back. We also cleaned a lot of carpet because we owned the machines, we rocked at pretreating stains, and we fluffed pile like nobody’s business. Two years ago our bishop asked us to list the skills we could bring to the ward storehouse and I totally wrote CARPET CLEANING with zero feelings of sheepishness. Greg and I are boss at carpets. Period.

MONDAY 3 DEC 2012

When our initial IVF failed I went into shock, then into hiding. Minutes after posting "Not Pregnant" on facebook my phone rang. It was Matt McMullin. I didn't answer. Matt was an ex-neighbor farmer-type who always had good sense, good music, and time to chat. He’s the kind of guy who fixed busted pipes and busted ipods for free and left peaches and yogurt-covered cherries on porches. My friend Michelle and I called Matt "Bubble Boy" because he needed a plastic bubble around himself to maintain personal comfort. He hated neighborly pats on the back and a hug almost killed him once. It spoke volumes he was willing to exit his bubble to inquire after me. Then again, maybe he was calling for something unrelated and had no idea of the timing. Or maybe Candi was calling me on his phone. I’ll never know. However, as a younger version of Charles Funke, I think Matt was just being his own brand of nice. That ring signaled the beginning of a long round I’d have to fight alone, but someone was already cheering beyond the ropes.

TUESDAY 4 DEC 2012

The first person I let in was Frenchie and I'm glad I did because she brought me a roast beef and tomato sandwich on blue china with a bird card. I had forgotten to eat since the bad news; sometimes sadness masks hunger. I remember fake smiling and rambling on with a mouth full of meat until my voice started to shake. Then came the ugly crying. I was so sad. I remember her telling me sad was okay, sad was part of grieving. She was sad for me, too. Everyone was.

WEDNESDAY 5 DEC 2012

The next day Tiff sent the perfect email from three houses away. Perfect like she took a class on how to email people at rock bottom and aced it. I decided to come out of hiding to attend the church Christmas program Tiff spent hours making homemade angel wings for. Feathers galore hanging from the ceiling, no Tiff. Her husband was out of town and her kids weren't up for church nursery that night. Camille Baxter gave me the "mom hug" I desperately needed, stroking my greasy hair while I made a wet spot on her blouse. Then Charlotte Carson, age 90, whispered "mom things" in my ear with her unique vernacular. Who will be my mom when you are away? Relief Society will.*

THURSDAY 6 DEC 2012

A late knock on the door. It seemed late, then again, the sun sets an hour after school is out in December. It was Jonny Poole, Tiff’s fast-talking, witty husband who happened to be managing several Smashburger locations at the time.

When Tiff called and told me we were both so sad for you.

We were talking and we just didn't know what to do for you.

We were like, WHAT CAN WE GIVE?

And then we realized...

WE CAN GIVE PROTEIN.

Jonny handed me a shrinkwrapped stack of 52 meal vouchers for Smashburger, enabling me to eat a Beehive Burger with bbq sauce and fried onions once a week for the next year if my broken heart so desired. He stayed a few more minutes, cracked jokes until I’d laughed a few times, and quietly left.

Greg and I went to Smashburger often. The burgers in January and February were still sad burgers. Spring burgers were looking up, we had booked Paris. Birthday burger in May tasted bittersweet; I was 37 and not pregnant. Anniversary burger and end-of-summer burgers had anticipation aftertaste; we suspected a second IVF was in our future. September burgers tasted like hope and October burgers were swallowed whole by a hungry giant because I was on fertility drugs. November burgers tasted like victory; I was 37 and pregnant. Ooh la la! And on New Year’s Eve 2013, minutes before they expired, Greg, RE, and I used the last three vouchers, added on three Haagen Dazs salted caramel milkshakes, and ate It’s-a-Wonderful-Life-George-Bailey bliss burgers.

I still repeat it in my head every now and again. And, scene: WHAT CAN WE GIVE? WE CAN GIVE PROTEIN. So awesome. Jonny once lamented he missed his shot at being Batman when he stayed in his warm bed during a thunderstorm instead of driving to the Thornton’s siding-free home in the dark of night. I, too, have blown opportunities handed to me on a silver platter. But Jonny was Batman for us. His sonar sensed a need and saved the day…with protein.

Interestingly enough, Blue-eyed Becca (whose house did not wash away despite Jonny’s slumber) became Batwoman when she simply texted “You will know what to do” on

FRIDAY 26 APR 2013, 12:34 PM

I recorded the time in my journal because it’s always been my “lucky” time since I was a kid. She sent it following a heart to heart disguised as a butter-pounding croissant demo. I hid her words in a safe spot and pulled them out countless times as I bumped into question marks over the next year.

Some lessons are slowly learned because we have to live all the way through them before we can turn around and see with ease. I was taught over and over (and 52 times over) everyone has something to give, so just GIVE WHAT YOU'VE GOT be it reaching outside your bubble, a roast beef/listening ear combo, emails, hugs, or hamburgers. I still give the gift of cleaner carpet, it remains one of my many superpowers.

*Julie B. Beck, Fulfilling the Purpose of Relief Society, October 2008: My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Announcement: there is now only one essay not crossed off of my “Lessons from 12 Years of Infertility/IVF1/IVF2/Archer Miracle” list. One more go to. One more! I can do it! I will write my record with my own hand!

Satisfy

Someone said thank you to me with a Kneaders eclair. They gave it to me last Monday while I was on the go; the eclair sat beside me in front seat of the Honda. To be honest, I wasn't very excited about the eclair. One, I overdid it with eclairs when I worked at BYU Catering twenty years ago, and two, I hardly mess around with milk chocolate or pudding. Two hours later I was still in my car, Archer was hangry, I was hangry, and all we had was the eclair.

Eureka.

I'm pretty sure a ray of light was shining down from the sky directly on my sunroof while angels sang as I bit into that eclair with my eyes closed. Chantilly cream wrapped in a cream puff envelope sealed with a sloppy ganache kiss. I was converted.

I thought about that eclair the rest of the week. I even tried to get the ladies from my Wednesday Card Club to abandon Michelle's table in favor of heading out for eclairs. No takers, although J made eye contact with me and looked like she knew what I was talking about. Saturday night at 9:32 I was twitching; RE looked up Kneaders' hours online and called ahead to make sure eclairs were in stock. Affirmative. I had 28 minutes to make it happen. A confused but loyal Greg drove me eight minutes north, I ran inside to beat the serpentine drive-thru wait. Unbeknownst to me, Kneaders sells their pastries half price from 8-10 pm on Saturday nights. This explains why the customer in front of me bought the last seven eclairs.

Outrage.

Greg and I drove up to our lot, rolled the windows down, and silenced the engine. We ate subpar cream cheese brownies in the dark, crickets beside us, Fling Days fireworks snap-crackle-popping in the valley below. It's weird how two places can feel like home.

Yesterday RE had ortho, which usually takes 15 minutes but ended up taking 80. I’m a fan of teeth and smiles but going to the orthodontist in Orem has turned into The Errand of Dread. I'm incurably sleepy on Dr. Graf’s couches. Archer consistently dirties his diaper in Dr. Graf’s lobby. Frozen has been blaring from the kids’ movie room our last 20 appointments. As I drove the newly-wired, newly-diapered gang home via State Street I passed Kneaders, flipped a U-turn, and found my ortho silver lining in the form of two eclairs to go. I tucked the twins night-night in their clear clamshell and told them I’d wake them up after the human kids were in bed. Greg and I ended up being too tired to stay up and talk about neglected adult topics; we hit the hay early. This is one of the sad things that can happen when you are an adult: you can be too tired to eat an eclair.

Greg worked out early this morning and considered eating his eclair before breakfast. He opted out because he wanted to save it to eat with me tonight. Greg isn't addicted to sugar like I am so the setback didn't bother him in the slightest. He can always postpone rapture. It drives me crazy. I didn't appreciate Greg reminding me about eclairs so early in the morning. How much longer is this story about eclairs and where on earth am I heading with this?

Stable Greg left for work, RE was staining a lady's fence, Archer fell fast asleep. I heard the eclair whisper EAT ME from inside the fridge. I tried to drown him out by baking bread and cranking my Kitchen-Aid to speed 10. He just yelled louder so I took one teensy, tiny bite. Lethal? Yes. Playing with fire? Yes. I need a magnet with Benjamin Franklin’s quote IT IS EASIER TO SUPPRESS THE FIRST DESIRE THAN TO SATISFY ALL THAT FOLLOW IT on my fridge. It might have saved my eclair, which I finished in three desires.

Now that my eclair was history Greg’s began to scream at me with Sammy Hagar shrills. I’d already blown couple time; I was not going to rob him of his own taste of heaven. All I could do to stop the madness was open my jade leather scripture quad silently resting on the kitchen table. (sidenote: Lately I’ve been reading Archer the BabyLit board book The Jungle Book and the panther page that says “Bagheera’s eyes were hard as jade stones” conjures an immediate mental picture of my jade-colored “stone tablets”.)

Our family is currently reading the 30th chapter of Alma in the Book of Mormon, one of the best accounts of the arguments of Anti-Christs in ancient times. Korihor, a smooth-talking Anti-Christ, was hopping mad people believed in Christ despite there being no proof of His coming. He insulted religious traditions, holy ordinances, hope, and belief. Alma countered by bearing simple personal testimony of his convictions God exists and Christ shall come. Alma asked him, "What evidence have ye that there is no God?" and then added his memorable line, "All things denote there is a God." My bookmark was on top of this newspaper snippet:

I re-read the snippet (originally obtained in college, click HERE for a printable close-up) and immediately felt satisfied, the opposite of crazed craving. The turnover felt good, like Christmas morning + a nap + a hug from an old friend + a gold star + a postcard from Europe + a pancake cooked in bacon grease all smooshed into one giant warm fuzzy. Truth always satisfies me, even during silly scenarios like a weekday alone in my kitchen battling self-control for frosting. There is a God and I love Him.

Can't get no satisfaction?

2 Nephi 9:51 Wherefore, do not spend money for that which is of no worth, nor your labor for that which cannot satisfy. Hearken diligently unto me, and remember the words which I have spoken; and come unto the Holy One of Israel, and feast upon that which perisheth not, neither can be corrupted, and let your soul delight in fatness.

Ecclesiastes 5:10 He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this is also vanity. (You're so vain, you probably think this verse is about you.)

Isaiah 58:11 And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.

p.s. I started this in July, finished in October. BOOM! That's my current pace in case anyone was confused about Highland Fling Days being in October.

Hidden Pictures

One of the harder things I’ve dealt with in my marriage is Greg working on Saturdays. Retail = Saturdays. People don’t want to go to the dentist on Saturday so my dad was always home. I grew up believing Saturdays were made for dads to mow, watch college football, wax the car, help make peach jam, and cross honey-dos off mom’s list. Even though I’ve had 18 years to get used to “retail weekends”, a little part of me still dies when I drive past Saturday dads sweeping out garages, playing catch, or hanging Christmas lights.

Saturday is when dads sit on mall benches guarding strollers and bags. They chew freshly roasted pepita seeds while moms secure Easter dresses, tights, patent leather shoes, and coordinating hair bows.

Saturday is when dads shift VW Rabbits all the way to Ace Hardware. They manually crank the sunroof open, squint behind Ray-Bans, and sing along to Don McLean. They explain to their daughter riding shotgun what a levee is. (No wonder it was dry!) Dads never lock the car and always leave their wallets under the seat.

Saturday is when dads take their leaving-for-college-soons to St. Louis Bread Company (pre-Panera) and in total seriousness teach about making covenants with God. Over bread bowls of chicken and wild rice soup (still my favorite) they say things daughters will remember 20 years later. Saturday is when dads show off how well they can flick bottle caps at unsuspecting people.

Greg shared with me something he read in President Monson’s biography. I guess an apostle visited President Monson in Canada when he was a young mission president in his 30s. The apostle essentially told him, “You’re only a mission president for three years. You’re a dad forever.” This struck Greg, who always prepares and gives a ton to work and church. He told me he wants to redirect his focus to make sure he is giving his best sermons, best efforts, and best self to his kids.

I’ve thought all night and day about what he gives and how it is received. I’ve thought about my own dad and how much I miss Saturdays with him. I realized something which forced me to put my gloves down. I can’t fight Saturday anymore. Saturdays are not alright for fighting, Elton.

Retail may be a weekend curse but it allows for long mornings at home. Greg has played board games with RE an hour each morning for most of her K-6 years. He has seen her from Memory to Candyland to dominoes to nines to Lumosity. He has also given her a solo ride to school nearly every day of her scholastic life. He conducts a father’s interview in those few precious minutes. He always gives her the same counsel. When he was sick last week I had to chauffer and did my best to say all the stuff he would say:

DON'T CHEAT

BE A BEACON

HELP SOMEONE IN NEED

DO YOUR BEST

RETURN WITH HONOR

She quickly corrected me, "Dad doesn’t say RETURN WITH HONOR." She knows what he says. They also have the same taste in annoying music and repeatedly blast their pop anthems on the drive to school.

Greg may work Saturdays but RE still knows how to throw a football, kick a kickball, toss a Frisbee, and sprint; he just had to coach her after dinner on school nights until it was way past dark. She also knows how to ride a bike, buy apps, and wrap her ankle because of him. He has been there for every night of math homework and I’m sure he will teach her to drive. (I sure don’t want to.)

Greg may get home after 7 but we still eat a (late) family dinner where important teaching can happen. Greg’s big soapbox is doctrines, principles, and applications. He has gone blue in the face trying to instill them in RE. After weeks of blank stares and deaf ears there came a night when RE wanted a homemade strawberry milkshake and Greg wasn’t biting. She got right in his face and said, “Dad, the doctrine of a milkshake is IT’S MADE FROM MILK. The principle of a milkshake is IT’S DELICIOUS. The application of a milkshake is WILL YOU PLEASE MAKE ONE FOR ME?” He made her that milkshake and felt pretty victorious about his parenting.

Our yard still gets done and we still date every week, just not on Saturdays. We still repair our roof and wash our cars (well, not me, I only wash my car three times a year…a huge waste of money in my opinion) and go to Costco and make jam. Just never on Saturday. Saturday has become the day I have adventures with my kids. They will remember Saturday as THE FUN DAY WITH MOM, nevertheless, they will have bountiful dad memories.

I guess what I’m trying to say is Saturday or No Saturday for dads who try it all comes out in the wash. I believe there are several focus groups who fear they are short on quality time and cross their fingers daily their best is good enough. I have the utmost reverence for single moms who do it all. I don't know how they do it, but I believe the Lord can make depleted cruses of oil and tiny handfuls of flour endure like everlasting gobstoppers.* The Lord can magnify anything, especially the willing. I feel for married mothers who have to work when their hearts are at home, but I believe good things can happen at odd hours in strange schedules and by the end of the pay period more than the financial ledgers will be balanced.

What Jen Vawdrey said in church last month is true, I’ve seen it again and again: IF IT'S IMPORTANT TO YOU, IT'S IMPORTANT TO THE LORD. It is important for me to have a house of order, to have my kids know their dad and vice-versa, and to have happy family memories of love at home. I was looking for all of that on Saturday because that's where it was when I was a kid. After lengthy focus and deliberate staring I found everything I wanted hidden in plain sight on the non-Saturday illustrations of my life.

*the miracle of Elijah and the widow with her cruse of oil is found in 1 Kings 17

Scratch-n-sniff sticker circa 1986, still smells minty! In honor of my dad, Dr. D, who only ever used and still continues to use original mint Crest. I also gained a love of hidden pictures from reading Highlights magazine at his office after school.

More stickers from my sticker book, still rocking their smells:

Big Bertha

Every time I'm about to catch up with my life one of two things happens to me:

1. I get a free Shutterfly book offer

2. Stuff needs to be canned

Both things happened in the last two days, so in between boiling tomatoes down and placing photos I'm trying to figure out dinners and whether or not showering is worth it.

I love homemade spaghetti sauce. I will never not ever eat Prego or Ragu if I have any say in the matter. My favorite part of making sauce is sticking labels on the jars. I name my batches to differentiate the flavor discrepancies. I know LABOR DAY is more balsamic-y, LAST BATCH is kind of garlic-y, and FIRST FRUITS is perfectly neutral. Today's batch shall be named BIG BERTHA because four huge romas the size of real grocery store tomatoes are included in it.

My homegrown romas tend to look like mini anemic pears. They are never ovals! Hence the newsflash/blog post. When I was harvesting this morning I found a rogue cluster of Big Berthas all the way under my zucchini plant. Now, I have eight tomato plants and I love them equally. Same water, same sun, same fertilizer. Why on earth would the tomatoes growing under my prickly, stay-away-from-here zucchini leaves be so full and voluptuous?

The answer is obvious. Tomatoes must need bodyguards.

Big Bertha, I will always love you. You are the queen of the night(shade). I wanna run to you (and stuff you through my saucing device). I'm every woman but I have nothing, nothing, nothing if I don't have you.

1992. Junior year. Stake dance. Last song. DJ picks "I Will Always Love You", the number one slow song request after "Everything I Do, I Do it For You." No one is asking me to dance. Come on, come on! I must dance to this song! I've worn this soundtrack out for months on my boom box down in my basement bedroom! I see my dad's silhouette walk through the gym doors. Odd, since my parents were never on time (let alone EARLY) to pick us up for anything. Dad strolls over and asks me to dance. Yes, I will dance with you! The best part is how he howled the big, long note along with Whitney. People were looking at us. I didn't care. I love my goofy dad.