Writing My Life

Now and Then


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… from Fraulein Rottenmeir to Yente …

G. E. is NOT a play-goer! I’m not sure why this form of entertainment doesn’t appeal to him as much as watching the University of Utah football games or the Jazz basketball games. But it just doesn’t. Over the years, I’ve dragged him to a performance here and another there, but those rare occasions failed to change his opinion about live theater.    

Because G.E. adores my mother, he escorts Mom and me to the Hale Theater every other month to enjoy their wonderful productions.    

Pre-play dinner: Mom, Connie, Randy, Me, G.E.

 

He playfully grumbles about going, teasing both of us all the way to the theatre, during our post-play dinner, and all the way home. But we can see right through him. He really does enjoy himself! Sometimes, he even likes the plays, but most of the time, he loves seeing how much Mom and I get into the action.     

For example, last night, we attended Fiddler on the Roof –  now who canNOT be swept up in the humor, the love, the poignancy, AND the music of that play? When Tzeitel and her tailor wed, the party is so inviting that Mom and I couldn’t help but clap and holler right along with the cast. I’m not sure at what point I realized we were the only two audience members so enveloped, but I did turn to see my red-faced husband chuckling and shaking his head at his “dates'” antics!  

Relief Society Skit, circa 1980?

 

Yes, I do LOVE theater and was once a drama major. As I’ve shared before, I not only performed in plays, I wrote scripts for various situations: Christmas plays, Relief Society skits, and Road Shows*. Of course, I    

Elves: Julie, Janeen, & Connie; Santa: Cousin Fred; Mrs. Santa's legs: Me

 

starred in my own creations, but I also acted in junior high, high school, college, and church productions. None of the roles were big ones, but they were INTERESTING.    

For whatever reason, I was often cast as the villainess .  While participating in a summer drama workshop as a 16-year-old, I performed in the play Heidi as Fräulein  Rottenmeir, the SUPER ornery housekeeper! Of course, I longed to play the part of Heidi or Klara – lovely heroines, both – but I soon learned how much more fun it was to play the foil!    

High School Drama Workshop 1964

 

While living in Frankfurt, Germany, however, our small servicemen’s congregation  of the LDS church presented The Diary of Anne Frank, and I played Mrs. van Dam – the whiney, selfish mother of Peter. Because she was more petty than she was vicious, I didn’t enjoy playing that nemesis as much as some others. If you’ve seen the play or movie or read the book, you might remember that the robust Mrs. van Dam ate more than her share of what little food there was. Ironically, I was about 5 months pregnant when I took that role, and unlike the overweight woman whose girth shrunk during the days of scarcity, my  character became MORE rotund. (Note: Upon reflection, I find it interesting that we presented this play in Frankfurt – Anne’s birthplace AND home to Nazi Germany and Fräulein Rottenmeir!)    

Years later while pregnant with my 4th son, I played the part of Wormwood,  

Renae as Wormwood

 

 Screwtape’s incompetent nephew and fiend – NOT fRiend, FIEND. My friend Lisa created a short adaptation of the C.S. Lewis classic The Screwtape Letters for another church activity. I was nearly 8 months along,  and I still can’t believe I didn’t go into labor as I danced and leaped about the stage, escaping the wrath of Wormwood’s irate uncle . It was a great time, however, and boy,  I wish I had a picture of Wormwood/me  – looking more like Tweedle Dee or Dum than a desperate devil.    

Another interesting character I portrayed years earlier was a mannequin in a one-act play at Brigham Young University.  That was actually a fairly demanding part. Think LIVE MANNEQUIN –  no moving, blinking, breathing for minutes at a time.  Lots of lines though. The “Muggle World” –  non-magical folks – now knows that store-room dummies can talk, thanks to Old Navy commercials.    

I have to admit that I sometimes think about auditioning for community theater, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve smelled the grease paint. And G.E. DID remark that he could see me on stage, having the time of my life with the villagers of Anatevka! I’d LOVE to play the crotchety matchmaker Yente!    

* Roadshows, 15-minute skits acted by members of an LDS ward were performed over and over in all the wards in an LDS stake in a single night. Performers traveled between church buildings in a caravan of cars on a tight time schedule. They began as entertainment for weary pioneers and blossomed into a full-blown theatrical tradition in the 1950s and 1960s. At the roadshows’ pinnacle, the LDS Church sponsored an all-church competition, bringing regional winners to Salt Lake City for the final competition (Mormon News Today, Aug. 1, 1999).    


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… so you think I can cook …

If you have read any food-related posts of mine, such as Bean Soup for the ????, Yammy Yums,  T-Giving: The Prep and The Review, or  Christmas 09 – the food,  you know that I don’t consider myself much of a cook at all. I am  all right with that because I’d much rather expend my creative juices writing than trashing  my kitchen and burning fingers, hands, and arms. (I don’t know whether it is  cooking or curling irons that inflict more blisters upon my person.)

Because of the messes I create, G.E. thinks every meal involves the same effort required of a  Thanksgiving-Feast. “Thanks for the Thanksgiving soup/sandwich/oatmeal,” he remarks as he searches the counter top for an empty spot to stack his dirty dishes. Another cooking issue  is that I move at turtle speed in the kitchen! If the recipe lists 10 minutes preparation time, I’ll take 30. That’s two reasons I don’t cook from Julia’s or Martha’s books: We’d never eat and I’d dirty EVERY dish, pot, pan, and utensil in the house.

Traditional Italian New Year’s Day Dinner

In spite of all this, I do want to be a better cook. I am tired of eating out, and I want to eat healthier – remember my New Year’s resolutions.  Because of the aforementioned problems,  I may cook out of cans, but I leave Hamburger Helper on the shelves. I’m sort of a quasi-from-scratch cook, you might say.

Anyway, back on Martin Luther King’s holiday, I cooked up 3 dinners to eat throughout the week. That was my “cooking from Costco” experiment as I tried some of the recipes from the free Costco cookbook I received on Black Friday.  I fixed several recipes from that book, but the Italian Sausage and Lentils was the most interesting. I couldn’t find the Puy lentils that are grown in the volcanic ash soil in France. So I had to settle for plain old lentils found at Smiths. Must say, I’m not a big fan. The texture actually reminded me of black-eyed peas, traditional Southern New Year’s Day side dish, and I don’t care for those either. Maybe it’s an acquired taste.

Last Monday, on Presidents Day, I cooked up a couple of heart-healthy recipes I found in February’s Woman’s Day. I’m often drawn to recipes found in women’s magazines because they are quick and simple, but I wondered if these would be tasty. One ingredient that jazzes up flavor but isn’t heart-friendly is SALT, and these dishes included VERY little of the seasoning.

Roast Rosemary Chicken on a small plate for portion control!!!

The first recipe I “whipped up” was Roast Rosemary Chicken and Vegetables  – DELICIOUS – and I even had to substitute a couple of mediocre ingredients for the preferred choices! I LOVE  roast vegetables, and the rosemary and garlic made me forget about salt! (And yes, I used fresh rosemary, a first for me!) While G.E. isn’t a big fan of garlic, he did enjoy this dish. Although, he was a bit nervous when he smelled the garlic’s pungent odor permeate our entire house.  He did not care for the Kalamata olives, however, but I thought their flavor added a fun zip and combined well with the veggies and the herbs.

Roast Rosemary Chicken and Vegetables

  • 8 small chicken drumsticks(about 1 3/4 lb)
  • 4 large red potatoes, each cut in 8 wedges, wedges halved (I didn’t have any, so I used boring old bakers – not as sweet and not as colorful)
  • 2 large peppers, cut in 3/4-in. wedges (Because orange peppers were in my fridge’s crisper,  they stood in for the lively red ones.)
  • 1 large red onion, cut in 1/2-in.-thick slices (Again, I resorted to slicing the blah yellow onion in the bin, BUT it was a sweet one!)
  • 2 Tbsp olive oil
  • 3 Tbsp chopped fresh rosemary or 1 1/2 tsp dried
  • 2 Tbsp chopped garlic
  • 1/2 tsp each salt and freshly ground pepper
  • 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives, cut in half (I could only find these bottled in an oil and wine marinade, but I toweled them off, threw them in!)
  • Serve with: balsamic vinegar to drizzle over chicken and vegetables – HEY! I didn’t notice this suggestion in the magazine’s version! Double YUM!

PREPARATION

1. Position racks to divide oven in thirds. Heat oven to 500°F. You’ll need 2 rimmed baking sheets lined with nonstick foil.2. Distribute drumsticks, potatoes, peppers and onion evenly between pans. Drizzle with oil; sprinkle with rosemary, garlic, salt and pepper, and toss to turn and coat.3. Roast 30 minutes, stirring mixtures after 15 minutes, or until chicken is cooked and vegetables are tender.4. Arrange on platter; add olives.

FINAL REFLECTIONS:

I’ll definitely make this dish again, but I’ll double up the vegtables!


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… mamas, daughters, and washdays …

As I mentioned in one of my tributes to Bonnie Howe Behunin, my cousin wrote several poems about her parents. I shared the poem she wrote to honor her father, my Uncle Pete, and promised to include lines dedicated to Aunt Ida, too. Actually, there are several poems about Bonnie’s mama, and it is too hard to decide on one because each reveals a different facet of this kind woman who was large in stature and heart. (In fact, Meryl Streep’s physical appearance as Julia Child in Julie and Julia reminded me of Aunt Ida’s height and breadth.)

As I reread the tributes, some verses stimulated my own memories, and I realized that’s another reason I feel compelled to share Bonnie’s work. For example, the following poem talks of a time LONG past, but many of us can remember that in our childhood,  household tasks were backbreaking chores! Take wash day, for example ~  now we can throw a load or two of dirty clothes into the washer and dryer EVERY day, completing the job in under an hour. (I don’t particularly care for that task and have often repeated that I hate to RUIN every day by washing clothes, and so I still leave that chore for Saturdays.) Back in the “olden days,” however, moms NEEDED at least one WHOLE day to process shirts and blouses, pants and skirts, sheets and table cloths through the wringer washer before hanging them on clothes lines strung between poles in every back yard.

I remember our family’s “wash room” was located in the basement, and Connie and I sent our soiled clothes sailing down the laundry chute,  that was disguised as a drawer located near the baseboard in the hallway. I was terrified of the washer as I was sure the wringer or the cogs would grab my pudgy little  fingers along with the pillow cases and crush them, thus forcing immediate amputation! (Sadly, that horrible scenario actually happened to G.E.’s mom when she was a little girl, causing a life-time of embarrassment for her as she always hid her 1-jointed pinky behind the folds of a hankie.)

Pencil Art by Don Greytak

Maybe my mom worried about the same thing because I don’t remember helping with the wash as much as I do recall sprinkling and rolling up  handkerchiefs and pillow cases after pulling them from the clothes lines. At some point I also learned to iron those items. While none of this may sound the least bit fun, the companionship of working together as mother and daughter is what often lingers in our hearts and minds. Here is Bonnie’s recollection of those days.

WASH DAY

~ Bonnie Howe Behunin

Slick and soft, and smelling clean,

The soapy laundry smell

Of when Mom rubbed the extra lotion

From her hands to mine:

Mom and wash day.

A round washtub for soaking clothes,

The agitating, guiding of each piece

Through wringer to the rinse and bluing,

Then to the line.

We brought the clothes in:

Mom piled them, fresh, high in my arms

Until I could not see over

Or breathe past the clean to the sky.

We folded and stacked and finally finished,

Sprinkled the clothes to be ironed tomorrow.

Then Mom shared her lotion,

Cupping my small hands,

First one, then the other

In her big ones.

I think of those nights in my bed

With my hands on my face,

Breathing my mother

As I cling to wash day.


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… winter poems … just in time for SPRING …

OK. I’m not the poet my cousin Bonnie was, but I have dabbled in versification since I could put together sentences. I have a couple examples that I wrote in 4th grade, I think. (I’ll share those at another time.) The poems I want to share now are ones I wrote WITH my seventh-grade students W-A-A-A-Y back in the ’90s.

Starting after Thanksgiving, we created “formula” poems – verses that follow “a set pattern of instructions.”  For example, Haiku is a formula poem. Not everyone favors this kind of poetry, but I always enjoyed it because I was often surprised with the end result. I think these endeavors require writers to precisely choose the perfect word with the right number of syllables and still create lines of magic. I’m not saying my efforts achieve that,  but some came close. And many of my students surprised themselves, too.

After playing with poetry for a week, we chose our favorite originals and constructed books to present as Christmas presents to people who love poetry or us. The first time I assigned this project was pre-computer/writing lab days, and so we handwrote our poems and created our own “clip art.” Knowing that talented poets may not be talented artists, I brought in magazines to aid the “old-school” version of “cut and paste!”

I didn’t want to be a teacher who could “dish it out, but couldn’t take it,” so I always worked on the same assignments I gave to my students. The “hand-crafted” book I created that year remains my favorite. There is something about a handwritten work that makes it a bit more intimate, even if the subject isn’t necessarily personal. Rather than type up the poems from my bookLET WinterScape, I scanned them so my dear readers can feel that personal touch of which I speak! (OK, you can stop snickering!)

I found this illustration in a magazine and loved it . I have NO idea what it was advertising, but I want to credit that anonymous ad-man/woman for inspiring the theme AND the title  for my little book.

This is my favorite! “The Guardian” is called a “concrete” poem, and the first line starts near the brim of the hat:: “A black silk stovepipe hat sits atop the snowman’s fat face.” Can you wind your way around the rest of the verse?

Each of these two 5-line poems are examples of a “cinquain.” Requirements demand that a certain number of nouns, ajectives, gerunds, and synonyms combine to create succinct verses!

While nearly every student in the world knows Haiku, the ancient formula poem is difficult to create. Traditionally, the subject involves nature, but the commentary is also profound – don’t look for that in these efforts!

The “diamante” asks the poet to create 5 lines of adjectives, nouns, and gerunds that move from general to specific!

“Winter Ready!” is a “list” poem. My poem was inspired by a scene from every kid’s life! To introduce list poems, I played songs that featured lyrics of lists. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” and Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” are two examples.

Well, I think that’s it. I know I should have posted this in January and my January Valentine post tonight, but I’ve learned that you go with what you’ve got when blogging becomes part of your life. Still, I wish you all a wonderful Valentine’s Day.

 

 


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… my favorite Bonnie poem …

Notice the tan line from his hat?

Last week I told you about my cousin Bonnie and I included a poem of hers found upon an Internet site. Although “The Witch” is a provocative verse, I want to share my particular favorite.

In Wake the Unicorn, Bonnie includes a few poems about her parents – my Uncle Pete and Aunt Ida.  My mother often told me of the loving, playful relationship shared by those two, and Bonnie captures some of that in the poem she wrote after her father’s death. Although she was an artist, I don’t think she could have painted a better picture of him had she used oils, pastels, or acrylics. Pen and ink and perfectly chosen words re-create Clarence Howe, also known as Pete or the …

The Provider 

He  gave us all it took to get along,
Including bowls of laughter with the soup
And closets full of teasing till we cried.
He spoke too loud because he couldn’t hear
With an ear that was hurt when he picked a fight
With someone twice as big and just as drunk.
I never saw my mom get by his chair
And miss a friendly grab.
Her primness tabled, she would kiss him back.
His hair was mostly salted, partly black.
The caterpillar of his eyebrow
Humped above his spangle-damp brown eyes.
And he could almost flap his ears
Like they were hinged next to his head.
When he would flap in church,
Our dignity would suffer, Mom’s face would furrow.
For work he wore a red-plaid lumber-jacking shirt
And boots it was my job to lace
As it was his to brush and braid my hair.
And he would whisker-burn and sting my cheeks.
But how I loved that hurt and loved that man.
His rowdy life was like a rowdy day:
So busy that you get caught up with it,
Forgetting that the night will ever come.
Night was like his undetected fragile heart,
And like the night that came, my father died.


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… Bonnie, in memoriam …

Artist: Bonnie H. Behunin

If you log onto the Internet and type Bonnie H. Behunin or Bonnie Howe Behunin in a search window, you will find her. You may learn that she authored a book, Wake the Unicorn, and you might find it is still available on Amazon.com for $8.95. The copy “is signed by author. Very minor cover wear. Text clean, no marks. Pages tight. Purchase aids a non-profit animal hospice.” (I didn’t know there WERE animal hospices.)

Another link shares an excerpt from Wake the Unicorn, and you’ll learn the book was the … 

Utah State Poetry Society Book of the Year

1983, Wake The Unicorn by Bonnie Howe Behunin

The Witch

Sometimes children taunt me,
small eyes whispering
behind hands extended
like open Chinese fans.
―Her face is smooth.
She is not old at all.
But I am old.
Old as the rocks
on the Greek shores
of my birth.
Old as your fear
of the unknown,
unopened box
of my smooth face.
Guard your fear.
This distance
between us
may be the only separation
preventing you
from becoming me.

You might be curious enough to look up “Utah State Poetry Society” (USPS) or “Utah Poet of the Year,” and there you will see the long list of those honored since the award’s inception. Among those dates and names, you will find hers:

1983    **Bonnie H. Behunin  Wake The Unicorn

You will notice the two asterisks hovering near that capital “B”. Slowly, you scroll down to the bottom of the list, passing a few other starred names along the way. Double-spaced below the 1965 poet, “Vesta P Crawford Shortgrass Woman,” you find the key: “**deceased.”

Somewhere on the WorldWideWeb you might learn that Bonnie was born on February 22, 1948 to Pete and  Ida Howe, but that would take longer than you have time. I doubt you would discover that she attended  a one-room school house in Atomic City, Idaho or that she was diagnosed with “sugar diabetes” at age. 12. Your research may turn up her death date, and you may wonder if that vile disease brought her down at age 36. It did.

If you ordered Wake the Unicorn from Amazon or the USPS, you could read “About Bonnie” on page 57. The paragraphs would fill in some gaps – 4th of 5 children, rode the bus 2 hours a day to high school, read scores of novels during those rides and into the night, graduated from Brigham Young University with a double major in art and English,  enrolled in every creative writing class that she could find, and her poems were published.

Before leaving the short biography, you discover that she adopted her two-year-old neice, Kristina in 1978 and married Newel Behunin at age 32. You won’t read that she taught school in Vernal, Utah until she went blind, but you will learn that “her close-knit family [had] been an inspiration to her … when her health [had] been precarious.”

If you peruse her poetry, you will most likely agree with the author of her biographical sketch who wrote, “Born … on George Washington’s birthday, this writer can ‘never tell a lie.’  Her poetry is honest, sometimes painfully so. She weaves memory into the fantasy of universal experience in a unique way.”  And then you’ll re-read the judges comments:

Wake the Unicorn shows a consistent pattern of development; the voice in the poems is one of honesty and integrity … the strength is in its fresh imagery and sustained emotional impact. While the book is regional in its flavor, it escapes being too provincially involuted and bounded by the author’s ego.

Here is fresh perception, sensitive, genuine. There is a lovely, restrained tragic sense, but it is an un-self-centered and moving sorrow, and soul searching. This is artistic without artiness.

The author is facile, has caught in minor tunes, the major themes in life through a lovely simplicity.

If you read her poetry, you’ll see into Bonnie’s heart and mind and will feel the sensitivity, the honesty,  and the tragedy. We were cousins, Bonnie and I, but I didn’t really know her. At age 7, I visited her in Atomic City and went with her to that one-room school for a day. I chatted with her at family reunions and ran into her now and again at BYU. We caught up with family news and then drifted back to our own lives.

In 1983, I attended the poetry reading and reception that honored her as Utah’s Poet of the Year. Dr. Max Golightly read her poems, and I was so proud OF and FOR her. I still am.

Bonnie haunts me, however, and so I want to remember and honor her during this month of her birth, this February with its Valentines Day and presidents’ birthdays.  You see, Bonnie Howe Behunin lived as a poet, and her words memorialize her.


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… what I COULD have been …

I don’t know which came first – the “calling” or the blackboard. Early in my growing-up years, my sister and I received a small blackboard – probably for Christmas. For years it hung on the wall of  the “play room” down in our basement, and it was one of my favorite “toys.” I don’t know if Mom and Dad or Santa gave it to me because I loved to play school or if I loved to play school because I owned a blackboard.  Either way, I knew I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up.

My favorite student was my sister Connie, but sometimes I corralled my friends into sitting in  my classroom, too. I think spelling and arithmetic were the two main subjects taught because I remember filling the blackboard with addition problems and spelling words. I LOVED being in charge, bossing around my inattentive students, and WRITING ON THE BOARD! Interestingly, the learning sessions never lasted long, and if I sent the “kids” out for recess, they didn’t come back.

Occasionally, I reconsidered my answer to the proverbial question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” After being introduced to Nancy Drew books, for example, I dreamed of being a detective. I spent more than one summer sleuthing for clues to concocted mysteries. When I found large footprints in the flower beds, I told Connie and my friends Leah and Diane that I was certain a window-peeker or a robber was lurking about the neighborhood.  (The fact that my father may have created them while removing the storm windows was totally irrelevant. ) And if I couldn’t find additional supporting clues, I created and then discovered them: mysterious and threatening notes written in disguised handwriting or  anonymous phone calls that disconnected after being answered, a prank easier to pull off in the days before caller ID.

Connie may have been a little nervous the first time I tried to convince her that we might be in mortal danger, but after “crying wolf” 3 or more times, she brushed off her older sister’s claims as another indicator of an over-active imagination.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another career consideration, kind of linked to my detective dreams, was becoming a lawyer. Not the kind of attorney who defends divorce clients or tax evaders, but rather the lawyer who takes on innocent victims, wrongly accused. The criminal attorney who battles against the arrogant prosecuting attorney and the incompetent police detective; the articulate courtroom lawyer who can pull a witness-chair confession from the real murderer minutes before the case goes to the jury! Yes! I wanted to be PERRY MASON!

I knew I’d be good at that profession because I represented myself in traffic court at age 16 and WON! I had been ticketed for pulling into the path of an oncoming car as I navigated a 1949 DeSoto from its parked position against the curb. Using my training as a high school debater and orator, I wowed the judge as I recreated the events of that winter morning. By moving around the plastic cards on the magnetic board, I showed the court how I had to swing out  the nose of my grandpa’s old car before I could pull into traffic. Because the emergency brake did not work, I was thus forced to keep the front tire turned into the curb to stop the car from rolling down hill. (If this is confusing, don’t worry because the clinching evidence is yet to come.)

I claimed that my neighbor had zoomed down our street at a slightly accelerated speed and did not see the DeSoto’s front end poking away from the curb because her car WINDOWS WERE ALL FROSTED OVER except for a TINY circle  that she had scraped away! Upon impact, I pulled my foot off the clutch, the engine died, and I coasted across the street until the opposite curb stopped OLD BLUE.. Based upon the location of my car, I understood how the police could deduce that I might have  pulled out into the path of the oncoming car, but I HAD NOT! Why even the damage to my vehicle was on the left SIDE fender near the headlight, and if I had pulled out into HER path, wouldn’t the CRUNCH be found on the left FRONT of my car, maybe even smashing in the headlight?

“Therefore, your honor, I ask that all charges against me be dropped, and I rest my case!”

After a few questions and a short deliberation as the judge looked over the citation and accident report, an INNOCENT verdict was rendered. I did NOT have to go to jail; I did NOT have to pay $200; and I did NOT have my driving privileges revoked by the court OR my parents! YaY!

~~~~~~~~~~

The final occupational option – which I did not seriously consider, but thought  about just the other day – was a career in radio. I can’t really remember listening to any female disc jockeys or news casters back in the 1950s or 60s, but I actually worked as one for a few weeks when I was a junior at Highland High in Pocatello, Idaho. KWIK radio station, which was the station kids did NOT listen to, featured a Saturday morning high school wrap-up, and I was hired for NO money to remind listeners about upcoming school events and report how our HHS Rams fared in sporting competitions, debate tournaments, award recognitions, etc. I had to write the stories and report them LIVE. The gig didn’t last long, not sure why not, but it did give me a taste of writing and reporting.

I hadn’t thought about this experience for years, but a little over a week ago KSL radio interviewed me about a story that ran in Education Week. The story was about teachers reading aloud to teens, and since I had posted a blog on the same subject, my boss referred Mary Richards, KSL reporter to me.

After interviewing me for about 25-30 minutes, Mary shared a 10-second story and used a 2-second soundbite from our interview. My voice sounded TERRIBLE. Very nasal. But when I went online to read her entire report and listen to an extended recording of her story, I was even more mortified. I seriously sounded like Patty or Thelma, Marge Simpson’s sisters – you know the two chain-smokers who would be very dead now if they weren’t  cartoon characters. Now I am NOT nor have I EVER been a smoker – except that time in 8th grade when I thought I’d give it a try. My gravelled voice resulted from the onset of a coughing, hacking cold that still lingers!

The point is that my first choice of a profession was and still is the right one. I struggled to earn my teaching degree and my masters. I have always and still LOVE working in education with students AND teachers. I am sad that my school district is in such bad financial condition, but I won’t turn to detective work, go to law school, or audition for KSL UNTIL I’m kicked out of the profession. (And let’s hope the legislature doesn’t bring that possibility to fruition!)


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… totally retro Valentines …

Yesterday I wandered into Roberts Craft Store to buy ModPodge – a crafter’s necessity dating back to the 70s but still needed for a variety of creative ideas. My purpose for purchasing was to glue my 500-piece puzzle together so I can frame it  and hang it. Because the product was tucked w-a-a-y back in a corner, I had to wend my way through aisles of Valentine paraphernalia before finding the glue. Seeing all the designs of love quotations, hearts, and flowers to commemorate February 14th ALMOST put me in the Valentine mood.

While reflecting upon Cupid’s favorite day, I first thought, “Valentines Day has not grown into the crazy holiday that Halloween has.” But then I started remembering my childhood and what a big deal it was to me. Because it was of utmost importance, I’m sure it was stressful for my working mom. (I need to ask her about that.)

First of all, school children HAD to decorate boxes into which our friends could deposit Valentines. Sometimes my teachers held contests for the best, cutest, most creative, etc. designs, and that added to the pressure of creating an amazing crêpe papier receptacle. I’ve been a long-time klutz, so cutting, wrapping, and gluing turned into a hurricane of scraps, cuts, stains, and goop. (Do any of you remember how red crêpe papier could turn hands and faces crimson if it got wet? And I kind of liked the taste of it, too. I know that’s weird. And then I loved to spread Elmer’s Glue all over the palms of my hands and then peel it off like a layer of skin.  But I also liked school paste because that tasted good, too – until someone told me it was made of dead horses’ hoofs.) At any rate, I’m pretty sure Mom sent me to bed before the task was completed, but in the morning, I found the finished box waiting for me, and it looked BEAUTIFUL! (In talking with my mom and sister the other day, I concluded that Mom didn’t finish the project, and the Valentine box I woke up to was the same one I worked on the night before.) 

Created from a Valentine "kit"

Next came the Valentine-making and addressing. I don’t remember making many “from scratch” except the cards I created at school for my parents, but we could buy card kits that required some assembly such as gluing on paper lace and little pictures. I gave away all the ones I made, but this one survived because my sister Connie created it and presented it to me. It was also one of the few that opened up to a verse printed on the inside. You can see her young signature there, too. I’m guessing that’s about all she could print, so there aren’t any additional messages about what a wonderful big sister I was! (Notice, however,  that she did pick a picture of an “I Love You” heart for the cover even though the published message is generic enough that it could have been sent to a near stranger!)

If we didn’t MAKE our cards, it still took HOURS to address them, and this is why: we had to perfectly match the card to the person. In first and second grade, I still worried about giving a boy I DIDN’T like a Valentine that might imply that I did – as in girlfriend/boyfriend kind of “like.” On the other hand,  I picked a “mushy” card to give to the boy I chased around the playground at recess.

For example, this one says, “HEY SUGAR!” Now THAT’S romantic. How could the love of my 6-year-old life NOT know that I was crazy about him. (A boy named Eric actually gave me this one back in 1955. I wonder if he realized he was sending me a subliminal message that told me he wanted to marry me as soon as we turned 7.  Probably not.)

This was also a time when teachers only ENCOURAGED their students to bring  a card for every child in the class. I’m pretty certain Mom made sure I did, but I clearly remember checking through each card and comparing it with the class list to find out who was snubbing me. When I figured it out, sometimes I didn’t care but most of the time it did hurt. (Connie thinks we always received cards from every student present that day, but she remembers noticing that some friends found candy hearts or suckers in envelopes while others were NOT given that extra measure of “love.”)

I always picked out “girly” Valentines for my girlfriends, but there were NO Disney Princesses to wow Diane and Leah, Trudy or Randy. The best we could find were main characters from nursery rhymes – Little Bo Peep was the obvious favorite in 1955.

Our cards also depicted young girls doing what young girls were supposed to do in the early ’50s:  SWEEP, BAKE, , and BLUSH! (I’m positive the blusher was my favorite as it included a slot for a lollypop!)

As for the boys, we could always send them a popular 50’s Valentine with a politically INcorrect message such as this one. (Grandma and Grandpa H.  actually gave this to me! At least, they didn’t cave in to the stereo-typical nursery rhyme heroines or domestic princesses!)

Of course, for every little American Indian, there was a cowboy OR girl: Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, Annie Oakley, Hop-Along Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, and Gene Autrey – to name a few of our Saturday matinee heroes.

I’m not sure why Mom or I saved these gems, but I enjoyed rumaging through them tonight; recalling old friends, feeling sad that I COULDN’T remember some, noting grandparents’ signatures written neatly across the backs, and warming up with the memories and marveling at how times have changed.  In fact, these little momentos have done more to put me in a “Cupid” mood than any TV commercial or store display. I better start working on my list.


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… January thaw – HA! …

Just as I LOVE Indian summers in the autumn, I also appreciate January thaws in the winter. And I suppose temperatures in the 30s rather than in single digits qualifies – IN THE ARCTIC! Seriously, the mild boost does feel a bit warmer, and I am thankful that it does. The problems, however, are these. 

1. Temperatures are not rising enough to melt the OLD snow that has fossilized around our cottage-on-the-green. We can seriously walk on TOP of 6 inches of snow, and we have been able to do that for weeks-going-on-months! We could live with this, but we received a notice from the homeowners association, AKA Gestapo, demanding that we remove the snow on the sidewalk in front of our home. 

G.E. is usually a stickler about removing snow from our driveway and  sidewalks in front of our house as well as that of 

"Workin' on the chain gang ..."

the neighbors’, but the last series of storms started on Sunday and kept falling for days leading up to Christmas. G.E. sees snow removal as an ox in the mire, so he is not above shoveling and snow-blowing on the Sabbath. That Sunday, however, was filled with meetings, and he only had minimal time to work on his duty to the community. Unfortunately, his wife doesn’t do snow and his “failure-to-launch” son was conveniently out of town – meaning he was up in Salt Lake. 

The point of this rambling is that the snow on the sidewalk was left to CURE. Removing it was a task like unto digging out concrete as you can see from the above picture. Had we enjoyed a TRUE January thaw, this chore would not have required a chain gang. 

2. Nearly every winter, the Wasatch Front attracts a high barometric pressure equal to the Iron Curtain that staves off any attempt of low pressures to push the bully aside. This results in trapped, dirty, hazy, disgusting air down here in the valley. Such air is bad for breathing and for morale. We all walk around coughing, wheezing, and moping. 

Before Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) sucks us down into the depths of winter oblivion, we must seek relief. One remedy is to get above the soup in the basin by driving up to Park City – except you are weak from the coughing and wheezing. Another help – a wimpy one, I admit – is to  find something good in the goop. And here’s my attempt. 

Fog often accompanies the haze – okay, I know that’s called smog – but when there is enough moisture in the FOG, Mother Nature coats trees and plants in hoar-frost. In spite of the creepy adjective, hoar, the effect is really beautiful. And on my drive to work Friday, I had to stop and snap photos of the frost because it really was lovely! AND because hoar-frost ALWAYS reminds me of Vienna.   

The pictures really don’t do justice to the scene of Bangerter Highway lined with frosted trees that elicited an “Ahhhh” from me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t click my CoolPix while zipping along at 60 mph, but I did pull off into a neighborhood, and, feeling rather like a snoopy private detective, I snapped these. 

Not exactly the Vienna Woods, but still eye-catching!

"The FROSTING is the BEST part!"

Nature's Lace

Even brambles are inviting!

Desert Hoar-Frost