I’m not sure I can write it one more time.
[Day 164 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
My sister visited me this week as she brought her son down from northern Idaho to attend BYU. I was sitting here in my handed-down cream leather chair with my foot elevated on to the adjacent sofa watching my sister just a couple of feet away from me and seeing my mom.
We both are very much Rex women, but my sister also looks like my mom. And never before as much as she does now.
I once mentioned how my mom’s lips disappeared when she is unhappy with you. My friend told me my lips disappear when I smile. Which makes me sad, really. Because I want my smile to be open and welcoming, not disapproving. And I want to my smiles to be way more abundant than my frowns.
I have my father’s eyes. I see my eyes in the eyes several of my aunts and uncles–his sisters and brothers. They are hazel. And the color green sets them off like nobody’s business.
On numerous occasions I’ve had people interrupt me mid-conversation to make a statement about my eyes.
One time, as a new missionary in Belgium, I earnestly told the story of Joseph Smith to the frite man selling frites from the frite cart and he interrupted both me and the spirit with “You have the most beautiful eyes.”
I can take no credit for this fact. They are my dad’s eyes. I hope I manage to keep the twinkle he often managed to keep in his eye, even through hard times.
I remember when we were first married and had insurance and I could go to the dentist again. I was having my teeth cleaned and the dentist told me, “We can fix that gap in your front teeth.”
“I have a gap in my front teeth?”
I didn’t know. But I refused to see it as a defect–something that needs to be fixed. It is what it is and it’s part of my smile, which, disappearing lips or no, is still my smile.
My skin is somewhat oily, but, like my paternal grandmother, that keeps people guessing about my age.
Like my mother and my sister, I have some degree of alopecia where my eyebrows are patchy (I rarely have to shave my legs as well), but I found a wonderful powder–meant for covering roots if you cover up your greys (which I refuse to do)–that, at least for now, fills in what’s there enough I still have eyebrows.
I used to tease my daughter about how funny it was that all that effort girls made in my day to perm and otherwise curl our hair seemed wasted as we watched our girls spend an equivalent effort to straighten their hair. In any case, and as stated in a previous post, I can’t be bothered with hair. I like my color. Embrace the greys. And, on most days, simply want it up out of my face.
[Day 163 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
I have a postcard lying about the house somewhere, scrawled in my own hand, from the International Rose Test Garden in Portland, that I sent to my mother one of the times in recent years I visited my brother Keith and his wife Heather and their son Gavin.
It was because of my mother, that the first time my husband and I flew to Finland via Minnesota and Amsterdam, I rushed through each airport to purchase and scrawl out a quick greeting to each of our kids–who were scattered about several house in our neighborhood (so as to prevent fighting) while we were gone. I purchased stamps and then posted them before boarding each new leg of our flight.
Once in Finland, I repeated the same routine through most–if not all–of the cities we visited. At Santa Claus Village at the Arctic Circle, however, I purchased a single “message in a bottle” inclosed in a pale blue plastic bottle, complete with an address label and wrote out my home address before purchasing the proper postage and sending it on its way. Of course we were all reunited at home before that one arrived.
I put a hook through the cork at the end of it and hang it on our family Christmas tree every year.
It was my mom who started it.
I don’t really recall that she went anywhere without us very often. But if she did–I remember Hawaii, in particular–she was always mindful to send each one of us our own postcard from wherever she was.
It could have been part not wanting us to forget her or for one second think she had forgotten about us, and part wanting to share with us the wonder of her rare trip away from the six of us.
In any case, for the longest time I kept them all.
Along with the occasional postcard from my grandparents Jacobs. (Perhaps this tradition originated with them? Although they traveled even more infrequently than my mother–only going to Hawaii once and because a good friend of my grandfather’s lived on a military base and had his own guest cottage, so all they had to pay for was plane fare.) Most likely from somewhere in San Diego.
As I got a bit older, I would purchase a postcard and a shot glass from anywhere I had the rare blessing to visit. Mostly likely also either Sea World or the San Diego Zoo. And occasionally Salt Lake. I’m sure there was a shocking lack of tourist postcards and chotchkies to be found during our annual trek to Randolph during branding season.
And I’d long grown tired of looking for my actual name D-a-l-e-n-e on the signature license plates of various locals on could find in tourist traps.
So postcards and shot glasses it was.
The shot glasses are long since lost or broken.
But every now and then the occasional postcard turns up in some long lost pile of memories.
(I forget to label them as such, but I’m trying to keep up with the occasional writing prompt provided by Ann Cannon on her Facebook page. You will find them tagged under the category cannonball run, for no other reason it seemed more interesting than “prompts by Ann Cannon.” )
Good and Evil.
Light and Darkness.
Happiness and Sadness.
Yin and Yang.
I don’t understand how it works, but what I know is that we are both strangers risking (and, sadly, sometimes losing) their lives to help strangers in Texas and white supremacists spewing unimaginable hate at their brothers and sisters in Virginia.
Even though I often find it overwhelming, I want to see the world as it really is and not deny the duality, while still finding a way to seek all that is lovely, praiseworthy and of good report.
So while I mourn and protest the expected rescinding of a humane and compassionate program meant to help law-abiding children of immigrants in good standing who were brought here by no choice of their own and who have been working and pursuing an education free from fear of deportation and with our blessing, I choose to take a moment to also acknowledge acts of charity and kindness that have brought me to tears over the past few days.
My son’s 2nd grade teacher nearly 20 years ago recently messaged me on Facebook with an offer to help my dear friends the Cuells as their home was flooding from the incessant rains of Harvey. She sent me her phone number and offered to open her home to them, even though they had never met (she married and moved away well before their kids went to school).
Let me restate. Upon learning their cars were in standing water and they didn’t expect to be able to get out, she offered to go get them as soon as safe passage was possible.
This is my cousin on my dad’s side who fell 35-40 feet off an oil rig and landed on face on a 6″ steel beam and is in a world of hurt in North Dakota away from family (family on my dad’s side is huge and primarily in Utah) and friends. His wife, Jody, has had to leave their 4 kids and is staying in a hotel somewhere near the hospital in Minot. She is extremely worried over Will and missed her daughter’s 12th birthday the other day.
In the middle of the night I saw a comment one of my cousin’s wife (from my mom’s side, which is much smaller and spread out all over) left on my Facebook post informing me that my cousin David and his wife Jenny live in Minot. They are just reunited after months apart while Jenny and the younger kids have been caring for Jenny’s mom, who has ALS, in South Carolina.
I PM’d Jenny to see if I could send her some money to out together a little “living in the ICU” care package and take it to Jody. Because little kindnesses in the ICU make a BIG difference.
Jenny responded with an immediate concern and an enthusiastic Yes! and informed me that my cousin David, who is an eye doctor, examined Will just yesterday. Jenny refused any form of payment and went about doing everything she could today to find out more and offer whatever help they could. In short, Jody and Will now have family in Minot and my heart is so grateful. ❤️
The reality is there are GOOD people in the world and every day we get to choose whether or not to be counted among them. Sometimes our efforts may not be noticed or anything to write home about. But there are no small things or kindnesses in my book. I can and want to do better.
[Day 162 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
Natural disasters make me rethink my life choices and wish I’d been trained in emergency management (which, incidentally, happens to be in my college at UVU) or didn’t work full time so I could volunteer with the Red Cross. Or had some amazing skill and/or super human strength or didn’t pass out at the sight of blood because all I really want to do is help people!
This was the view outside one of my best friend’s house in Dickinson on Sunday.
When I talked to her Thursday she was dealing with the hurricane barreling down upon her family alone because her husband–who moved them to Texas to take a job helping rebuild after natural disasters–has been commuting between Texas and New Jersey for months on end rebuilding after Katrina.
I was wracking my brain trying to figure out how to get her out of there. I offered to crowdfund an evacuation for her and her kids. I even offered to fly in to wherever I could get to and help her drive if she needed.
When I checked with her on Friday he had told his boss he needed to get home to his family and had caught a 6am flight out, making it home just hours before the Harvey hit.
When I talked to her Sunday morning their home had flooded–you can see how deep the water is on their car–and her husband was out helping people who needed rescuing from their attics.
My 26-year-old son’s 2nd grade teacher saw my comment about Becky’s situation on Facebook and sent me her contact info with an offer of a place to stay if Becky could get out. She even offered to come pick her up whenever the flood waters receded enough to make safe passage possibly (which they still haven’t). I cried with gratitude at such a generous offer for a stranger.
Today the water has soaked in a bit, but they are still socked in by flood waters.( Unless someone came to pick me up in a boat, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere.)
Tonight there is a tornado warning.
I will send money, of course, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I want to go feed people and hug people and let them cry on my shoulder and help them find clean clothes and play with their kids so they can take a nap and forget about how awful it is even if for just a few minutes.
[Day 161 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
I don’t do yard sales. Too much work. And I’d rather donate to our locale thrift store–Deseret Industries. When I was working with the young people of my congregation, I had an opportunity to go up and tour my church’s welfare facilities about an hour or so north of my house. It was the first time I had the tiniest glimpse of our humanitarian efforts and outreach. I learned so much and felt so good about the wonderful work that was being done with our donations I feel completely confident it’s where my donations do the most good. So I love dropping off things I no longer need (or sometimes never did need) at their door.
One time before my enlightenment, however, I did take a few items I had up to a friend’s yard sale. She always had the best yard sales because her house was on a corner lot and everybody who was anybody drove by. I don’t recall anything else I took up to sell–and I generally try not to care for material things at all–but there was one thing in particular I cared about that day. It was an white with blue-stitched eyelet comforter that I’d had for years. It had been on my bed when I lived at home but had been too big to take with me to college and was one of the few things that had made its way back to me even after my mom packed up house and sold everything (including the unused sand-candle kit I got for Christmas one year and all my 8-tracks and my favorite vinyl (think Heart Little Queen, Fleetwood Mac Rumors, and a number of Foreigner and Journey albums) off while I was away at school so she could move the family to Utah.
In any case, I remember I priced it at $20 and reluctantly let someone bid me down to $10 and sold it to one of my neighbors (from whom, incidentally, I later purchased (at very good prices) beautiful black antique rocking chair and a rather large piece of hardwood furniture in which I now store my quilt fabric, while she was going through her e-bay, estate buying/selling phase).
In any case, I had seller’s remorse so badly.
I still have seller’s remorse over that blue eyelet comforter.
And yes we didn’t have a lot of–or any, really–extra money, but I’m quite sure that $10 (I’m doubtful even the original $20) was worth what it felt like to let that go.
It was, after all a comforter. And it was a reminder of time, place, and home I could never go back to.
There is no price on that.
[Day 160 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
My version of the “I walked 4 miles to school in the snow uphill both ways” story my dad used to tell us kids is this, “I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English before we had computers!”
Because I typed every single one of those 4-20+ English literature papers by hand on an electric typewriter. Manually adding footnotes. And using whiteout for every mistake. And there were mistakes!
Looking back, I truly don’t know how we every managed. I think about this in particular when I’m copying a pasting a huge paragraph–or more than one huge paragraph–to somewhere else in my paper because it flows better that way. How did we do it? Perhaps our papers weren’t as good because maybe we just didn’t do it at all because it sounded like way too much work!
Truth be told, however, I did have the luxury of using a computer a little bit my very last semester. It was a giant box of a computer that my mom had at her house. And we saved everything on a floppy disc. That really wasn’t very floppy at all.
So yes, computers happened. Cell phones happened. 24/7 news cycle happened. (I really wondered how so many people knew about the eclipse I witnessed in 1979 without incessant and pervasive real-time digital media!) I feel like color TV happened, but it could have, but it’s likely we simply weren’t early adopters. Microwaves happened. And digital cameras! (I have mixed feelings about this–I love seeing my photos real-time, but I’m only marginally a fan of filters and I don’t at all like the way many people over saturate their colors.
So yeah, not much at all has changed since I was a kid. You?
[Day 159 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
Today in my “sent” mail I found an email I sent to some of my family in November 2013 in which I recalled seeing a solar eclipse in totality in 1979 and I stated, “The next one is in 2017. Let’s go!”
I since tried a couple of other times to drum up interest and failed.
And then August 21, 2017 drew nearer and I was recovering from surgery that consumed my entire summer and no one else was interested but even if they were the hotels were all booked up or required a 3-night stay minimum.
And the ubiquitous “they” issued dire warnings about people getting stranded because there would be so many people and traffic would be so bad that grocery stores shelves would be emptied, McDonalds would run out of food, cell service would be disrupted, and gas stations would run out of gas.
I had one friend from Idaho predict that people would die.
So I felt smug in my wise decision not to settle for 90%.
Until Wednesday. I became curious and googled my brothers in Idaho and Oregon’s zip codes and realized that at least one of them was in the path of totality. I figured if I left at 6am Thursday morning I might miss the worst of the traffic. Then I could hunker down at his house and leave for my return trip sometime later this week.
And then my coworker shared stories of how grocery stores in Idaho had lines out the door since Monday and were already sold out of milk and bananas.
Turns out I could have left at 6am Thursday. Or 6pm Thursday. Or any time Friday (although, as is typical, it was a little messy and slow during peak Friday hours). Or Saturday. Or Sunday.
Or even this morning, but that would have had to have been well before dark.
The mayhem and disorder, at least from what I hear, BECAUSE I WAS NOT THERE TO SEE FOR MYSELF, never materialized.
The experts were wrong.
And I learned something important.
Next time I want to do something, important–like maybe twice in a lifetime important–I shouldn’t worry that no one wants to go with me. Or that “they” are predicting the worst. If I really want to do something, I should just do it. Even if it means I have to do it by myself.*
*my coworker told me today that her little mom drove all my herself to some campground in Wyoming and pitched her little tent and watched the eclipse in totality all by herself.
[Day 158 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
Note: This prompt was posted on a Friday. I saw it on a Friday afternoon. Friday is usually my night to unwind from the week and (hopefully) get a good sleep so I can hit the weekend running (well, as of late, not so much the run) Saturday morning and at least put a dent in thingthatgetneglectedthroughouttheweek.
True story. I keep hearing these commercials on the radio for Low T (testosterone) and as the guy lists the symptoms one by one my one thought is always, “Every woman I know has all these symptoms. Why are they only helping the men?”!
The biggest one is fatigue. Sometimes I am actual bone tired. Tired down to my bones. I don’t know why. But since, as I said, most every woman–particularly every MOTHER–I know is also this tired, I suspect it is just life. Or the fact that women are born with low testosterone.
In any case, the prompt asked for how we overcome. And my response is simply that we don’t. We just keep forcing our tired selves out of bed each day and lather, rinse, repeat. Off to work (rarely, but on a good day, some dishes or–even more rarely–meal prep in a crockpot might occur). Come home to hear “What’s for dinner” as we are mindfully picking up one foot and forcing it up the stairs before forcing ourselves to lift the other and will it to the next step. On most days (the exception sometimes being in spring or fall when I actually feel human for a few weeks while it is neither far too hot or far too cold) I find myself wishing I could walk straight through to my bedroom and pull on my pajamas and go to bed.
But I don’t.
In other words, I am still in that period of my life where I am always tired.
And I don’t know the answer. If I did, I certainly wouldn’t be tired any longer.
But wait. Here is what else I have to say about being tired. Remember when you were in nursery school at the presbyterian (or some other) church and you had to take an old, frayed, raggedy towel to class were told to lay down your head and nap for ten minutes and you never did because you thought a nap was the biggest waste of time in the history of the world?
You were wrong.
And little did you know that half a century later you wish you could have every single on of those refused naps right back.
[Day 157 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]
All Quiet on the Western Front impacted me in that I realized as I read it and found myself feeling empathy for the characters that my empathy was for people I had grown up believing were my enemy. There are two takeaways from this. Sometimes people may be forced to do things they neither understand nor have their heart into. I’m sure the disillusionment was felt on both sides. So it’s entirely possible we may have more in common with someone we see as our enemy or at the very least “on the other side” than we realize. And two, Seeing things from someone else’s point of view can evoke compassion and empathy. I’ve felt this time and time again through reading. As noted by Azar Nafisi in Reading Lolita in Tehran:
Empathy lies at the heart of Gatsby, like so many other great novels–the biggest sin is to be blind to others’ problems and pains. Not seeing them means denying their existence.
I found Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl both humbling and empowering. It kind of punched me in the heart with the realization that our happiness is not a product of our circumstances. We have the power to choose happiness even when others try–or go to great extremes–to rob us of basic necessities and human dignity. This reminds me of a number of other books I’ve read about WWII and the Holocaust whose message is that when all is lost–or, more honestly–taken from us–we can still choose kindness.