Category Archives: hey remember that time

My brain on ADD

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(Note: This is only the Reader’s Digest condensed version. You’re welcome.)

I start the dishwasher. I get the kids out the door. I’m going to write a blog post about the bird whisperer. I’m going to write a blog post about my trip to Heber Valley Artisan Cheese. I’m going to write a blog post about my new job. I’m not going to write a blog post. I’m going to clean out my spam (Thanks a lot, not, WordPress). I’m going to email my uncle about buying a Subaru Forester. I’m going to shop for a Subaru Forester. I’m going to do the laundry. I’m going to make soap. I’m going to make cookies. I’m going to go test drive a Subaru Forester. I’m going to go to clean off the sofa so I can fine my parents’ wedding photo and Kyle’s cell phone. I’m going to move the furniture and vacuum (and look for Kyle’s cell phone). I make breakfast. My neighbor is cleaning out her garage and is selling a love sac and giving away good hardwood doors. I go to my neighbor’s house and decide “no” on the love sac but bring home a hardwood door and agree to help her later pull down some more hardwood doors from the top of her garage. I’m going to Vineyard nursery to buy hanging baskets (will they be high enough the dog won’t chew them up?) and a couple of potted flowers. I’m going to pot some flowers by my front door. I’m going to come home and get all that stuff done. I empty the dishwasher. I’m going to go out and clip the last of the fresh lilacs so I can enjoy them for a couple more days. I’m going to pick up the fresh eggs and make sure my chickens have water. The dog jumps on me while I’m carrying the lilacs in one hand and holding my shirt which is full of eggs up with my other hand. There are broken eggs in my shirt. I wash the eggs that remain unbroken and stain treat my shirt. I’m going to make soap. I’m going to write a blog post.

the night before

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If I could scrapbook photographs of the days leading up to the wedding I would most want to capture the following:

Sunday afternoons. The entire family gathered around the dinner table, sometimes one end of it covered by scattered envelopes, lists and wedding announcements, trying to keep up with excited banter as it shoots across from one end or side of the table to another. energy. affection. humor.

Late nights. (too late of nights for my circadian rhythm) Luke and Emily dropping by–their evening just beginning, as we were winding down. love. laughter. energy.

Shopping. Meeting at a menswear shop. The bridal store. With a custom suit representative over the dining room table. Discussing colors, shades of colors, fabric; linings, bodices, beading. hesitancy. consensus. excitement.

Weather watching. Waiting for the ten-day forecast to appear. Disappointment as it first indicated stormy low 40s. Hope building as each day it improved to peak at a sunny 56. Sadness as it deteriorated to a cloudy, cold 37. prayers. hope. resignation.

Random shots of a pile of wrapping paper and bows in a room full of family and friends at the bridal shower on another cold windy day. Conversations over dinner at Brick Oven for another shower to include those who couldn’t make the first. introductions. connections. friendships.

Collaborations of beloved sister friends over the secret wedding presents and the wardrobe, shoes and jewelry of the mother of the groom. something old. something new. something borrowed. something blue.

And today: Kids off to school. Cleaning. Dishes. Laundry. Luke sitting on the sofa, headphones in his ear, studying for the third exam of this week, but the last before the wedding. Phone calls. Texts from reassuring and loving friends. People who’ve been there; done that. Finishing up unfinished business. Coming home after most all the errands to a houseful of family from here, Oregon and Idaho. A house full of energy. A house full of love.

A pile of dark brown hair on the newly mopped kitchen floor, carefully cut by my brother, who loves me just the way I am. The chatter of my nephew, who’d been car-bound for two days, from the other room. My SIL bearing good news of gifts of chips and queso and tres leches. My mom, her newly returning silver hair stylishly close to her head. My sister, who easily handled the centerpieces for the luncheon so I wouldn’t have to. My niece, who was the first to greet me before I even made it to the top of the stairs.

Lindsay towering well over 6 ft., practicing walking in borrowed heels (again with the something old. something new. something borrowed. something blue). Zack coming home from Wallsburg, asking if we could postpone the gathering of 75 chairs so he could go pick up the hide of a friend’s cow that had died. (We got the chairs first.) A last minute panic as we realized we had no black suit coat for Kyle. Relief when Luke’s old high-school choir tux fit just suited Kyle just fine.

Slowly making my way downstairs (the storm and a busy day having fun with my arthritis) to give Luke a hug goodnight. I linger for a second in his doorway, observing as he neatly packs the very last of his belongings still here away for their honeymoon. I give my sweet, tender-hearted worrier son a hug goodnight.

The realization that being so involved in the details–both significant and tiny–was a good distraction for the mother of the groom. The realization that this is different from leaving for his first day of kindergarten, for a week of Outdoor School, or scout camp, or for two years to serve a mission, or from moving into the dorms or an apartment for two semesters. This is leaving our Rowley family of six, established 1987, to cleave unto his wife–his best friend–to build a new Rowley family, established 2013.

This is the end. This is the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

Lois

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The hush that winter brings was broken Sunday afternoon by the distant wail of sirens. As the wail became less distant, we realized that the louder it became, the more likely it was the sirens were coming for one of our own.

Turns out this time they were for a widow in our ward. Her name is Lois. I don’t know her well. I know next to nothing about her family. Her story is now lost to me. I just know she died alone in the cold dark of winter. And no one knew. The abandoned newspapers strewn at her door indicate she may have been gone a day or two before anyone even realized they ought to have missed her.

This breaks my heart.

My boys used to deliver her paper. She lived in a tiny square house that sat rather isolated on its nearly otherwise empty lot. Clearly humble circumstances aside, she was one of the very few who bothered tipping. A widow’s mite, if you will.

Lois didn’t become more than a name on a neighborhood roster to me until after her husband died. He was, shall we say, not very social. So she didn’t get out much. When she did she seemed very quiet. Not withdrawn so much reserved. Eventually she started showing up to choir practice. I applauded her courage, as it was clear she was more accustomed to the back row than up on the stand. She had some condition that made her hand–I only recall ever noticing it on one–shake. One more reason to hold back, but she stepped forward to worship through song. I didn’t know her well even then, but I was so proud of her.

I’m not sure when she stopped coming to choir. Or if it was her or I who disappeared first. I just realized that at some point that instead of in the choir seats, the only time I saw her at church was back in the far left corner, one of two places in our chapel where the widows and the widowers sit. Not so much to sit apart from the rest of us, but to endure together the loneliness that even the most gregarious of them must feel.

Even though my responsibilities require me to leave the meeting a few minutes early, I watch for them–particularly the sweet sisters–as I arrive and leave Sacrament Meeting. Ever ready with a hug, a pat on the shoulder or a gentle squeeze on the arm. I generally encountered Lois in the hall as she slowly made her way past the Primary room. Her sweet smile and gentle hello always warmed by heart. Notice that sparkle in her eyes? I am drawn to people who, despite the cares of this mortal world, manage to maintain the sparkle in their eyes.

I’m still watching for the obituary. I hope someone close to Lois will know and record her story. I don’t even know how old she was when she died. I just know I am grateful to have crossed paths with her. Sadly, I’m sure Lois is not the last person about whom I will have regrets.

I wish I’d have known her better.

 

Pay it forward

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When I was 22 I attended the *mission farewell for one of my best girlfriends who was leaving on a mission. I had a great job I loved at the BYU Bookstore Sports Department, was almost ready to graduate from BYU and had been dating Shane already for a couple of years. As I sat there in the congregation as my friend spoke I had the feeling I should serve a mission. It wasn’t until that moment I recalled how, as a brand new 8-year-old I had enthusiastically exclaimed to my bishop: “And when I am 19 I am going to serve a mission!” I also remember feeling totally deflated when he told me “Girls can’t go until they’re 21.” And the thought completely left me until that day.

Once I made the decision I had my **papers in within just a couple of weeks and received a call to serve in the Belgium Brussells Mission. As I prepared to go and to leave my job, my boss called me in and mentioned to me that he would like to help support me on my mission. He committed to $25 a month towards my mission for the 18 months I would serve. It was a generous gift from a good man I had come to think of as family to me and I appreciated both his love and his support. I knew it wasn’t likely I could ever pay him back, but I hoped to be able to pay it forward someday.

About this time last year my friend Rachiel came to our house. “I finally got my answer!” she exclaimed. Rachiel had wanted to serve a mission, but also had a serious boyfriend to whom she was practically engaged. The (previous) “21″ age requirement had come and gone. She had been back and forth over her decision for the past year and had never felt completely sure of her choice. But just like that she had received the answer for which she had been waiting and she too submitted her papers in just a matter of a couple of weeks. Rachiel had been supporting herself through school and would be paying for her mission as well and at one point was planning her availability date around when she would have enough money to be able to go.

All at once I had the feeling that this was the opportunity for which I had been waiting. I made the same offer to Rachiel that my previous boss had made to me, in the hopes it would allow her to leave earlier rather than later. The timing was perfect–we had been paying for half of our sons’ missions for nearly four years, but she would leave just the month before Zack would return. Rachiel graciously accepted my offer. Some twenty-five years later I finally had the opportunity to pay forward the kindness that had been extended to me. It is a small and simple gift, but it does my heart good. I hope at some point I will find another opportunity to pay it forward again.

The true gift came from Rachiel, however, not from me. In the months before she left on her mission to Peru, Rachiel, a CNA, was hired by my mother to help provide care for my elderly grandmother. Rachiel loved and served my grandmother in so many ways that touched my heart–touched all our hearts. She loved my grandmother as her own and was a comfort and companion to my grandmother in her final days. One of my favorite stories, which I did not see for myself, but which I can see and feel in my heart as if I had, is of the time my mother arrived to find Rachiel curled up next to my Grandmother on her bed reading her the scriptures. My grandmother had mentioned that she could no longer read them due to her eyesight and that she missed that. So Rachiel was reading from the Book of Mormon to my grandmother. I know Rachiel’s heart and I love that she has this opportunity to share her loving heart and the testimony of Jesus Christ that is written upon it with the people of Peru.

Hermana Asay, second from right

 

 

 

 

*meeting at which a missionary who is leaving speaks in church (more correctly know as “that meeting formerly known as a farewell.”)

*application papers one submits when one decides to serve a full-time mission, which includes clearances by doctors, dentists and ecclesiastical leaders

Thanksgiving Day After

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This wasn’t quite our first Thanksgiving all together again after four years, but almost. Five of the six of us gathered together with some 40+ of our closest kin at the family hogan in Duchesne.

This is a glimpse of the buffet line around the counter/bar int he kitchen after the little kids went through.

Zack said that Thanksgiving in Duchesne was the only thing that made him remotely homesick while he was in England, so we made sure not to miss it his first year back.

The cousins are the bestest part.

We love those who come. And miss the ones that don’t make it in any given year.

What I love most are the traditions:

The drive to the mountain for those who aren’t needed in the kitchen.

Going around the tables to give thanks (many thanks for pie).

Little kids playing downstairs.

Older kids playing games and watching a movie at Uncle Rodney’s.

A few of the oldest kids creating Christmas gift lists while browsing the Black Friday ads. (This year most of them opted for sleep instead of shopping.)

And I remembered Thanksgivings past:

Like the one where I was so excited my aunt and uncle were coming from California, only to wake up to learn that they had to stop on the way and give birth to my cousin Jami.

How in the olden days we used to thaw the turkey on the counter.

The ones where there was wheat bread in the Harvest Stuffing or potatoes in the steamed carrot pudding.

Wanting to invite anyone and everyone who didn’t have a place to go for Thanksgiving Dinner to my mom’s house for Thanksgiving. But generally limiting it to just one or two.

The Thanksgiving weekend when I was first on scene when a friend overdosed and I was grateful to have been where I was when I was so I could help.

The Thanksgiving dinner I helped cook and serve in France, where, of course, they do not celebrate American Thanksgiving.

Getting food poisoning. (See above.)

My first turkey, which I cooked with the innards still inside. (First and last time.)

Our first Thanksgiving in our current house during which we learned that temperature was arbitrary for our totally cool and amazing antique Frigidaire stove.

The Thanksgiving dinner at which my baby brother and SIL surprised everyone with their new baby girl.

A few years until this one of Thanksgiving dinners over at the Jamestown with Grandma Jacobs and Uncle Hilton.

This year was good.

Followed today by one of my new favorite Thanksgiving traditions, getting together the day after with my friends Christy and Tressa in The Basin.

I am thankful for good family and good friends and for the understanding I have that these associations are not accidental or temporary.

 

 

Over the river and through the woods

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“Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go…”

Me at the house “in town.” Can you believe my grandparents raised 11 children–a good chunk of them tall strapping boys–in that house?

This song used to remind me of our annual family road trip from the Pacific Northwest to my grandparents’ house in Randolph, Utah. The one that, I didn’t realize till much later, always coincided with branding season at the family ranch. We went to my grandmother’s house a few other times. I remember at least one Christmas when the house was full of aunts and uncles and cousins and my sister and I wore matching Christmas pajamas. I also remember the time my father drove all night straight through (back then, the speed limit was 55 and the trip took at least 16-17 hours) so we could attend my Aunt Darlene’s wedding. I don’t think she knew we were coming. It was my first time meeting my Uncle Doug, who I thought looked remarkably like a former swim teacher I’d had. So much so I embarrassed myself, finally getting up the nerve to ask him if he’d ever taught swimming in Oregon. (Of course he hadn’t.) I remember Aunt Darlene’s bouquet of yellow roses. I remember her bouquet because I caught her bouquet. I tried to dry/save it. But it didn’t turn out so well. One time my grandpa asked me to drive the pick-up (it was stick, of course) to the ranch house to get something for him. I have no idea how old I was, but my younger sister, who was with me at the time, remembers I had a difficult time reaching the clutch with my foot and also seeing out the front window at the same time. She also recalls I killed it. (Of course I did. I didn’t know how to drive!) I also remember the time my grandmother sent me into town in her giant blue boat of a Lincoln Continental for the mail. Or some milk. Or something. I wasn’t anywhere near 16. And I still didn’t really know how to drive. But somehow I got there and back without incident. It’s a good thing those old Utah towns have really, REALLY wide roads.

I can still tell you where the floor creaked and recall the stories my Dad told about how it was so cold in the winter that his jeans would be frozen in the morning in the same shape they were when he took them off the night before.

The house in town belongs to someone else now. So does most of the ranch. The family kept part of the ranch in the family and now we semi-regularly drive our kids through Randolph and around the windy red-dirt ranch road through the sagebrush to the annual family reunion.

We made fewer treks to my maternal grandmother’s home. Because one, our help wasn’t required for branding season and two, many more miles and therefore many more hours were required to get to their San Diego home. But those visits were filled with trips to the beach, Tijuana (back when it was safe to go to Tijuana) Sea World, San Diego Zoo and, later, the wild animal park. (I’m fairly certain my sister and I rode a baby elephant in one of those places one time. I remember this mostly because some long-lost photo told me it happened. And since that was long before Photoshop, I can trust what the photo says is true.)

I never knew that house quite as well as I knew the Randolph house, but what I remember most is how my remarkably fastidious grandmother never complained (at least in front of us) about the mountains of sand we must have tracked in on our feet and in our clothes and our hair every time we came home from the beach and also how she liked to serve ice cream at the end of every day.

That house belongs to someone else now, too. And I haven’t been to San Diego since Luke was in the second grade. But it’s still one of my favorite places in the world.

 

 

 

Angel friends

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Some of you may remember when I got a phone call one Saturday morning several months ago. It was from a woman from the St. George area, whom I’d never met. She was somewhat distraught as she informed me that her son was my Zack’s companion in England and that they had been robbed. She assured me I needn’t worry, Zack hadn’t lost anything of value. But her son, who was due to come home in just a couple of weeks, had lost his wallet, ID, money, camera and was in immediate need of assistance. She wasn’t asking for money, but she was wondering if she mailed me a check if I could put the money in Zack’s account and he could make sure it got to her son so he coule replace what he needed. I told her I would be happy to help and that in fact, if she would tell me the amount she was sending, I would deposit the money immediately.

I mentioned something about the incident in social media and immediately offers to help came pouring in. Before I knew it, my kind and generous friends, neighbors and family–including many of you–had donated enough money to replace everything Zack’s companion needed. The next week, when I informed his mother I would be returning her check she was undone. Turns out their family was in the middle of some serious financial difficulties and the donations were more of a blessing than any of us could have imagined. Her gratitude was sincere and overwhelming, but I assured her that it was a blessing for those who had had the opportunity to serve.

A few weeks ago, I was debating a trip to St. George this weekend for Lindsay’s last softball tournament. Since I was just returning from a weekend in Idaho, I had decided to stay home. That evening Zack showed me a wedding announcement we’d received while I was away. It was for this same companion. He was inviting us to his wedding reception the same weekend as Lindsay’s tournament. I quickly changed my mind and we planned to surprise him by actually showing up at the reception.

The look on his face was priceless first as he recognized Zack, then as he realized I am Zack’s mother.

I got to meet his mother, who called me her angel, and his father. Both are still so incredibly grateful not just towards me, but towards all of you. It was worth making the trip just for those few moments together and for the opportunity to put faces to the names we had loved and prayed over months earlier.

Thank you again and with all my heart for being being the angels you were to this family. It was a blessing in my life to be a part of it.

Golden Jubilee

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Sometimes I wonder what happened to all the tail-end baby boomers. I do have a couple of friends my age or close to my age, but most of my friends are 10 or so years older than me or 10-15 years younger than me. The advantage is I learn a lot from watching those further down the road than I am. And I don’t (generally) feel (or act) my age.

One of the things I observed as I watched my older friends, was an almost universal avoidance of the half-century mark (which, for some reason, sounds SO much older than FIFTY). Nearly every one of them went out of town for their respective 50th birthdays. Not in a celebratory way, but quietly. They did not want to talk about or acknowledge it in any way.

And so, quite some time ago, I decided to not go quietly into the next half-century. I am going to embrace my advancing age and enter the next half century with gratitude, joy and optimism.

November kind of snuck up on me, so I missed the 50-days-to-50 countdown (oops). But nonetheless I have a few ideas in mind of several ways–maybe I can even come up with 50–to celebrate 50. Most of them are close to my heart and don’t need to be revealed. I may even accept suggestions (feel free to submit yours in the comments). One of them is being carried out right here on my blog, http://compulsivewriter.com/, as I plan to compulsively write or record 50 stories from my life experiences (thank you NoBloPoMo for getting me off to a decent start) thus far, both past and present.

Thank you for reading and for being an important part of my journey.

Little girl me. You’ve come a long way, baby.

 

Snow Day

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Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, we saw a lot more rain than snow. In fact, we just saw a good deal of rain, period. We were those towns at which Utahns like to poke fun because just a skiff of snow is cause for a Snow Day. Which was the source of two family traditions:

First, it was customary for my mother, who was always up first, to announce the snow with Christmas carols playing loudly through the house. Now that I think about it, it seems odd that it never started snowing during the day. I just remember waking up to Christmas carols on the rare morning of a Snow Day. I wanted to carry on that tradition, and I have. But it’s gotten a bit tricky in recent years. It seems (at least until this year) that snow was later and later or rarer and rarer and sometimes it was so close to Christmas I just had to start playing the Christmas music without the snow. I’ll tell you this, though:  there is no better mood setter for Christmas music than the backdrop of a winter wonderland

Second, and with great anticipation, we set about trying to ascertain whether or not the schools would close, thus making it a true Snow Day. I grew up in before we had texting, cell phones, email, Internet or local morning news on TV. We relied on the local radio stations to announce which districts would be closing for that day. We lived a good 6 miles out of town which was another good 20 miles out of the city that housed the local station (in other words, we were down at the bottom of the totem pole and couldn’t always even be sure they would bother mentioning our district). So we had all the radios on the house on and would listen unabashedly hopefully for the name of our district.

Of course now I live in Utah we can get inches and actual feet and my kids have no concept of a Snow Day.

It’s a good thing today was Saturday, so I could call the Snow Day myself!

Friday it rained, it slushed, it hailed. And then it began to snow

(Still Friday) My excitement built as the snow finally started sticking on the ground!

A hush fell on the neighborhood as the snow started to accumulate. It was a cold and quiet night, but the brightness of the snow kept the dark away. We woke up to this today!

I hearby declare it Snow Day!