Sharon--Barrel Racing in Rodeo--1963

1963 Rodeo. This is NOT how it's done. Horse is not looking at barrels. I'm twisting his head off to pull him around. But, . . . oh, the adrenaline high! Very fun. Em, I'll talk to the producer and see if they have a pony for you to try? Never mind. You'd be so hooked, you'd move right in to bull riding; then, we'd carry your bones out in a red wagon.

Backtalk to Gillz's Declaration

I just wrote you the most wonderful post about why I think Kingsolver wrote a Mormon culture novel without God at its center. And I lost it. I brilliantly and profoundly showed how she's painted our guilt and zealous judging habits so perfectly (Whew. Lots of worthless adjectives in that sentence). And in the end, she makes her audience realize that we can't walk around in our own black pools of guilt or manufacture our own pain, because real honest pain is going to back hand us anyway. And if we carry our shame and our nation's shame around our necks like albatross, we'll drown before the real stuff even gets to us. I had great examples, but since they were both from "R" rated movies, I'm sure I subconsciously deleted it to save your innocence. Dang.

And, yes, major faux pas about Jude Law. It's a good thing you're my most tolerant side kick. Nick Drake is nice because he reminds me of Keats, and Eric Clapton, because he makes me feel safe--An annoying need I have.

Speaking of faux pas, one never asks what to wear to a rodeo, but if one were to ask, then "denim or denim" would be appropriate. I, myself, am wearing black hat (via Bob Dylan), sequined jacket, and red/gold boots.

The last time I sat with non-rodeo people was the night Brian and Emily Pew came along to the Blackfoot fair rodeo. Emily had a fit when the first guy got bucked off his horse before the 8 second buzzer and received "no score," and the next guy pulled a 75. "How fair is that?" she yells, using that wide gesture thing she does with her arm. I looked around to see if any of my father's old cowboy compadres were sitting close as I hung onto her leg to keep her from stomping down to rail on the judges. (I miss that girl. Maybe you should watch the movie 8 Seconds before you come up.) It turned out a fun night, because they really weren't faking their ignorance . . . nor their curiosity--then they left me alone to keep scores as Brian consumed several Tiger Paws with honey butter, cheese covered chips, and swigged gallons of Diet Coke. But, later when they wanted to see the Tiniest Woman in the World, I stood firm "I'm not going in," I said. "No one else is even in there, so you'll be standing right in front of her, and what will you say? 'Geez, lady, you sure got a bum deal in life, but you're at least making money on it?'" When they came out, they did say she looked very sad and wanted to rename it: The Saddest Woman in the World. Fun night though. Good memory.

If you come on Monday, and if we're lucky, some guitar players may group on the street and play some songs. In the mountains, all I want is to sit on a rock by the Snake River, watch the hawks, and let the pines and river spray clean my head out.

Emily's Declaration to Sharon

I'm coming up Monday night to experience culture with you and then I'm running into the mountains with you on Tuesday and going with you to the rodeo on the 2nd and hanging around until I have to move out of my office in Logan at the end of the week. Possibly not until the next Monday. I'll let you know. And no, I don't have malaria, but I rather felt like I did because I hit the peak of my fever just as I reached the peak of Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible and that about set me off on a whole new range of nightmares...... That book was worlds better than Bean Trees. And I loved Bean Trees. Are you finished with it yet, Jen? I want to hear what you think about where all the characters ended up.
Also, can we add Hugh Grant to the list? Here is the following reason why I think Hugh Grant should join the list before Sting
Jen, back me up.

"God is great, Sabu; He plays with us." Out of Africa

Chan, Chan, my man, it’s about time you stepped in here. Redford stays for sure; besides I never notice if men are short or tall--is that a guy thing? JP used to measure all our boys with marks on the wall as if it were some obscene contest. I kid you not. He never measured Meg or granddaughter Jordyn. Is tall more . . . what? I don’t get it. It seemed like JP felt whoever was taller had more intelligence, would marry a princess, and die rich. Plus, Redford's politics are very close to mine, and he’s a mountain person who trains his own horses (OK, I lied about the training part, but he does ride well.). Really, what more is there? And skin? Posh and phew. In the resurrection, no such thing matters. But Pacino is playing a close second--very cute in Author, Author. And in Dog Day Afternoon (is that the film I’m thinking of JG, with “Attica. Attica”), he plays a bank robber who is so confused and helpless that I wanted to take him home and feed him chicken soup. But he had to have his day in the sun and then he dies. (I liked him lots in Bobby Deerfield). He's short also, I think. .. .I’m tired of the man game, anyway. I have great male friends (on this blog even) and that’s enough. I’m going to list my favorite women now.
Hey, Warnick brothers, have you seen the HP movie that sent our friend Jen into Ga Ga land? Crush for sure, Charity. She’s probably knitting Potter a pink sweater to keep him warm as we blog. First, Sweet Jen (SJ), I can't sympathize because I can't stand that age group, who spend half their time loud and obnoxious, and the other half as painfully shy, hiding behind each other—shoving and pushing—and in between all that, they have 1000 toilet jokes and sounds . Second, the whole "waving wand" thing was a little much? No. Sorry. Forgive me. (It’s hard being the only member of this blog who was bored into sleep by HP.) Let me repent. In fact, I was inspired by the tiny cute wands--made me want to hack down a willow branch and carve me a little stick to kill people with also. (I can see SJ from here, stamping her foot and shooting off fire sparks of anger that may seriously injure the baby if she doesn't’t calm down. Ha ha,)
And, Charity, I’m horrified that you have not watched Out of Africa—an art film with color, texture, and African scenery that stopped my breathing—based around Isak Dinesin’s life, and directed & produced by Sydney Pollack. Visual treat; picked up every set and cinematography award that year. Redford and Streepe have been on safari, shooting lions and such, and he is washing her hair and quoting Kipling. It’s pure eroticism. Rent it. I think you’ll like it. Em . . . how’s shooting Alligators in Florida going. Joe found us a cheaper place in Paris that’s still close in. . . . Oh crap. The morning birds are singing again. I need an operation to cut this insomnia out of me. CSI style.

Whew. Hard Choice.

OK, first, . . . I HATE GRADES. It's a dark-age, perverted form of wrong think left over from Behaviorism. We should have shot all of Pavlov's dogs. So, whom to-choose-for-the-celestial-kingdom is a game I'm playing to avoid pushing the grade send" button to registrar's office. Celestial Kingdom, you say? Yes. I'm never swearing again, so I'll, of course, get to the kingdom first, since I'm in JG's perfected- beyond- belief category. (OK, now I feel like I'm bordering on "light mindedness," because none of this is funny. In fact, life isn't very funny, except in a snicker cynical way, which I don't want to fall in to. Yep. It's clearly a non-funny day.) But, here's the deal--Urban's married presently to Nicole Kidman, but I don't expect that to last beyond his next visit to Rehab. Cusack is mysteriously private, which for now gets my vote. But, Redford's scene washing Streepe's hair in Out of Africa was a sensual A+. Yet Al Pacino in Serpico and J.Depp in . . .Gilbert Grape seem like real human beings. I think it might just be a polygamous affair.

And, I know I haven't seen the other Potter movies, but Harry was a wimp as he hid behind the wall and let his teacher (the guy with the rubber band around his beard?) almost die. Why did he not step in? Why? And I agree that a "dark against light, with Light winning" movie is fare for our children, but . . . .Though I loved the scene in the fortune telling warehouse where all the balls are crashing and breaking--think of the symbolism behind that? Whew. Enough to take my head right off my shoulders. . . .Was one of those fortunes breaking apart mine?Does that mean that my life just fell off a shelf and stopped . . . ? That's what it feels like sometimes.

I saw the worst movie I've ever seen in my entire life last night--It's called the Island, but it had some good actors in it. How could they have agreed to such a stinky plot-driven, car-wrecking, mucus-sucking, sack-ripping horror of a film. I watched it with Meg and her new husband, wishing I was hacking through a trail of knee high cactus, or climbing Mt Everest barefooted and hatless--anywhere but sitting in front of that screen. I swear this movie has six places where I had tingles of sweet gratitude that it was finally ending. But it didn't ever end--a real Chucky movie in disguise. It's the film I'll recommend to anyone I don't like. And I never want to rent a movie again until I die.

Payback

I seem to have lost my first born child's first set of professional pictures. I have searched my house high and low and I cannot find them. However, as I was going through boxes in my basement, I came across these little gems. The top picture is of the costume party where Em got the awful picture of me (thanks for attempting to rectify that picture Sharon). Joe is the one in the wig and glasses and as I said before, Em is the cheerleader. If I remember correctly she gladly volunteered to take this part when we were divying out assignments, but when the time came for her to present herself in public as a cheerleader, it took quite a lot of coaxing, but she finally sulked out of her room for the party.

This bottom picture is from one of our trips to Vegas. Em always has been a party girl and I will leave it at that.

Moans and Melts into Puddle

Oh, how I loved the end line "Slinks off shamefacedly," because I ducked my head low, waiting for the barrage after "Oh, where do I begin," JG. Great post. You made me laugh as you slammed out of your usual laconic self.
Em. he's right about Blood Diamond. I could not sit through that one again. I felt shame and disgust over being a part of it also-- It's a gruesome experience, and my "Wow" was in admiration for those who dared make such a film--because I have no doubt it's true--without giving in to fear for their lives.
And Harry Potter? (She moans and melts into a puddle of disdain here.) But, hey, I want you to soften out there toward Keith U., in case I do change my mind. I just can't believe the lack of empathy for someone--such as moi--who is destined to sleep alone for the next thirty years, unless I get lucky and fall in front of a train. I want a chorus of pity and sighs for empty beds, followed by admiration ooooohs and ahhhhs for my discipline and strength. What a day. What a day.

The Future

the pictures some of you didn't get before:

Okay, let me know if these show up or not.....

Amends

Wife and I went out tonight, a rarity these days for scheduling and financial reasons. It was nice to be with her again. To regain an old and lovely vision.
I wanted to share something beautiful. After getting gently and rightfully scolded for my language, I thought it would be a good idea to post something uplifting. What I had in mind were three songs by the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. They're not a new band, which means they have a better than average shot at being good. And they are.

I tried to post the songs via Youtube, but like the band I'm not new either, so my technological savvy wavers. The best I can do is recommend you check them out for yourselves. If you like, listen to them in this order: Perpetual Continuum, Paul's Dance, Salty Bean Fumble. The first is not my favorite, but is a pretty good introduction to the band. The second is for change of pace, and the third is just fun.

The more life I live, I find healing in music, turning to it more and more as one turns to church, to nature. There is a reason old people listen to mellow music. Their own experiential noise is plenty.

Finally, to not leave this post pictorially bare, I will go against my previous statement and show three animal shots.

I gave this buxom toad to the kids two days ago. They took it with them to the babysitter's house, where they lost it.

I love this moth. The frayed wings' edges are from the lizard I caught that nipped off the tips.

You can just see its head, but this is the offending lizard. After seeing it harmlessly bite my finger, Claire insisted we try to get it to bite her nose.

Bloated Lizards and the Missing Greg Fox

OK, Since Jaren W. just called me a "Ding Dong," I have to post our whole e-mail conversation just to set this record straight. It went something like this: "Hi Jaren and Family, How are you? I wish I could come and help you move because that's going to be so hard in the heat. I'm so sorry you have to go through that. I would love to come and help out your whole family." He answered: "Work today was a boon. Directly into my receptive hands wandered a beautiful, huge orange moth, a slender green katydid, a nearly dead female stag beetle, and a small striped lizard.
Bloated,
JW"

I answered, "A bloated lizard? You must post this! The sense detail is almost overwhelming."

He answered, "You ding dong. The lizard isn't bloated. That was my closing, like sincerely, but in this case I said bloated."

Now, I ask all bloggers on this site how I'm supposed to know he was "bloated"? (Don't answer that.) And do you think this is a heat reaction as he prepares for Grad. school? The Nile Virus? Or hysteria from eating live frogs? (I still love the colors and imagery in his e-mail, in spite of the missing "bloated lizard." That fool can write.)

By the way, here's some pure gossip. Kimberly's (Greg Fox's friend) roommate came into the WC today and told us Greg is alive and well and busy, which is very different from turning his back and completely ignoring us, right? Greeeeeeegory, where are yoooooou, Little Brother. We miss you. And a line or two here and there wouldn't kill you.

an interlude of babies and living room tents

I don't mean to break the rhythm we have going in this blog, or take away from what Sharon's going through. It's just......I found my USB cord for my camera and.....well.....I want to post some pictures. Sorry to break ranks here.

It all started with JW. I thought that Jaren and SweetWife were the only married grown up couple in modern society that would want to put up a tent in their living room with me (at 2 in the morning), but to my extreme amazement, and I'm sure Sharon's as well, I suddenly found myself in another grown married up people's apartment (Jen's) and found myself putting up another tent in another living room. This time in broad daylight.

As if their apartment was far too big, or, perhaps because they needed a little time away from their gangly and irresponsible week-long houseguest who kept eating all their cereal, here is where they remained for the rest of my visit.

Also during my visit to Jen's, we took Olivia to a petting zoo where we ran into a few wildly dressed chickens and birds that Jen (not ME, but JEN) decided represented Sharon very well. While Olivia stared with her mouth open at goats and roosters, Jen pointed out birds that looked like Sharon and I proceeded to take pictures of them, threatening to post them here, which I have done, as you can see. I didn't have too much to say, having ranted and raved all of the past two weeks, but here are some pictures of old friends and their babies that some of you might care to see. Cheers, adios. I'm going for a bike ride.

This is me infilrating good culture into Jen's Olivia while she's still young and malleable. Legos AND wookiees in one solid go.
Notice how Henrietta's hair began with Em's hair and then drifted suddenly and boldly into Brian's, making her look like they dyed the tips. Really really funny and bizarre. Only for a Pew's child would I believe it.
Trev's Carter, 6 mo.
Em and Brian's Henrietta (Esme Gertrude Petunia), 10 mo.
Jen's Libby, 16 mo.

"There are places I remember/ Some have gone and some have changed . . ."

Oh, Joe, you're right. I forgot. We breathed and walked and ate and slept in the same house! (Whoa, for all you DLMs--Dirty Little Minds--we didn't live there at the same time.) I loved that house with all its little artistic touches left over from your fam.-even the color is the same as my farm house now--the wood floors, pedestal sink, wooden shutters. My first house!
Nothing could have pulled me from that little Birch street heaven except inheriting an instant family of five extra children along with a husband whom I couldn't fit in (or with or around . . . but we won't go there today). Though I'm not complaining about the "instant children" part; how wonderful to inherit three extra sons without the . . . uhhh . . . 3 x 9 equals ? one heck of a lot of pregnant days (See Jaren? That GRE Math is gonna take me down). But I do love my children.
Megan had a dream, and in the dream she owned a big house in another country, but she didn't know where. She walked out the back door and kept walking through pine trees. But before she got through the trees, she heard laughing and singing; then the trees opened up into a grassy place where a little cabin sat by a creek. And she realized that this was her mother's house. The whole meadow was filled with children--all dressed in white--dancing and playing. And in the dream, she couldn't stop smiling.
I said, "Sure, you're making that up, Girl; . . . and was Keith Urban there, by any chance, anywhere?" (or did you see a gallant Scottish man?) But, she swears by this dream. "And, no, Mom, there were no men anywhere. You were the only grown-up [questionable]. You were showing a little boy some fish in a Japanese-like rock pool. And he was laughing and laughing."
And, JW, I believe it was in JG's house that I last slept a full night's sleep. This insomnia is annoying. Grrrrr . . .

"A bee-loud glade"

"For I shall have some peace there for peace comes dropping slow"

When I flew to Ireland for the first time, I wanted to see Yeat's Isle of Innisfree. I heard that if you could recite the whole poem, the barkeep gave you a large mug of beer--not, of course, that I would ever , . . . you know.

Just the name itself is poetry--"Inn- is- free." But, another director--who shall remain nameless--said we must hurry, didn't have time, Let's race through Ireland quickly, didn't want to see the squalor and poverty. Get to Scotland where we could buy lots of plaid to give away to relatives at Christmas (I don't have relatives who like plaid anything--not even plaid headbands made out of hippies.)

But, we had a Scottish bus driver who never missed the smallest tension on this trip. He loved drama of all kinds, and he whispered to me as I sulked my way onto the bus, "Don't you worry now, Cheron; I be getting you there."

And, he did. That sly hunk of a man drove into a nunnery, praising its antiquity and naming each tree we passed, then, he quickly pulled to the back of the convent and there--right smack in front of us--was the Isle of Innisfree, lying like a huge green seaweed lady, unconnected to either water or land, with the mist barely lifting. We could hear pots and pans rattling in the Convent kitchen, and the director saw he'd been tricked as the Scotsman made a great deal out of checking the back tires. Bless his trickster heart.

"Well, now that we're here," one-who-is-nameless said. "Let's have Sis Papworth (I think that was my name then--I've had so many it's often hard to keep track: tusk tusk.) tell us about William Butler Yeats.

I glowed. I beamed out sunlight. I walked to the shore barely touching the ground. Pure white adrenaline shot through my frontal brain lobe as I began to uncover and thus convert 28 students to Mr. W. B. Yeats, himself. Such excitement over sharing the pocket of my brain where I store Yeats along with Keats and other great poets ( I tend toward those who die young upon the ashes of their talents) can't be described. I have no words for the clean exchange of innocent beauty--in all its abstractness.

I recited the poem and others. I painted his portrait and his life with words. I lowered my voice as I spoke of the epitaph on his grave: "Horseman pass by." When I finished, and slowly emerged from my transcendental (slightly LSD flashback-like) state and looked around, my faith in students who take trips to Europe once again dropped like a dead fish.

But, . . . the Scotsman . . . that bus driving Scot stood still, transfixed, staring at me as of I were an angel from heaven or a mermaid crossed over from the green island. He walked through the students, around the other directors, and took hold of my hand. "That was a thing of beauty, Cheron, and I want to thank thee from the bottom of my heart for such a gift."

That's when I fell in love with all Scottish men. At least, anyway, the ones who don't have four letter, one word vocabularies.

"I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions."

I don't know why I have to hang onto the people in my life by their hair, screaming like a madwoman--even if they appreciated it, which they don't, I sweat blood when I don't have to.

When I was younger, I was much more brave and selfish. But now I think I'm Mother Teresa. Ugh. Even in the temple, we sit on opposite sides from our ? and it's very clear that we travel our paths alone--individually.

At the same time, I'm lecturing JW about embracing helplessness and riding with the flow, man, I'm loading my 22 Magnum pistol to take out a few incompetent doctors, whom, I'm sure the world would be far better off without.

Can we help each other in our various pain? I've come to the conclusion that we can--but only by just being there. Jaren calls within seconds of my phone conversation with an idiot doctor (I'm really not being unkind--he is a true Idiot) and calms me down. JG drops into my office as I'm about to leave for the mountains with Beau, lets me complain, reminds me I'm strong; and yes I'm a little worried, but I'm hoping fishing and pine trees will do what we thought the medical profession could do. And why not? Mountain air has often restored my own sanity to at least a level that allows me to function.

But, as Didion says, "We deceive ourselves on all counts. It's always I." Who is this mountain trip really for?

I love my friends.

Zen and the Art of ? . . . Breathing. (G for gusher)

My good friend, Emily, just asked me for validation; she's having a hard time, a confusing time. And when she gets confused, she gets aaaaaaanngry. But, instead of offering support, I yelled at her. Well, not really yelled, but I basically said, I can't validate you; I have to save all my validations for myself right now. Selfishness can squeeze you up like a blow snake squeezes the life out of a rabbit. Though validations may be pretty much a waste of time, since Em knows I love her, and life happens to you anyway. This is a complicated little piece of eternity, isn't it? Some days I'm just glad I'm breathing.

Yesterday, at the parade, someone bought me a snake hat made out of balloons. Bright red and orange. The snake's tongue stuck out two feet from my head and bopped up and down when I walked.

I knew if I strolled around Porter Park wearing this balloon hat and danced in the parade (because no one else was dancing, but Meg pulled me back and wouldn't allow it, since I just turned 60, she said, she said) and if I screamed at the bull riding at the rodeo later, then ooood and wowed the stupid fireworks, I might forget that we had just dragged Beau to a doctor. And they put in in the Behavioral Center.

Quite a trip. Quite a trip. Sorry, but I'm going to gush all the emotion--no, actually only 1/100th of the emotion from the night before, so it's out of me, so I can kick it along the sidewalk, or throw it into the river, or flush it all down the toilet. Beware J.J.J. Beware.

Meg and I pace, while Beau sits with his arms crossed, still determined he doesn't need to be here. As soon as this Rexburg doctor opens the door, I ask one of the silliest questions ever. "Are you LDS?" I throw at him before he even sits down on his stupid round stool. "Because we've been praying our heads off that a doctor somewhere, somehow will listen to us, hear us, because they're not listening: we've been to five Emergency rooms over the last six months, and we don't know what to do. We think my son's in the beginning stages of schizophrenia."

And Beau sits back--leaning his head against the window, and after months of fighting, he--finally--lets me talk.

And so I told Mr. Robot (who holds the keys to locked down units, where, maybe, Beau might get the right diagnosis?) about some of the voices: one told Beau to meet her at a restaurant in San Francisco. "Go in and order, Beau; I'll be right there to pay for it." The waiter shows him to a booth by the windows, when the voice in his head says, "Beau, I can't come in the door. It's too dangerous." And Beau looks up to see two men in gray suits getting out of a BMW in the financial district of SF. "But, don't worry, Beau. The man at the end of the counter, wearing the blue shirt, is going to pay for your food." Beau approaches the man and whispers: "Are you the one who's going to pay for the meal?" The man keeps eating, looking down at his plate. Then, Beau tells me over the phone, "But, I realize, Mom, he can't look up at me, or he's going to tip them off."

"WHO THE HELL IS THEM, Beau?" Long pauses--as I realize I've got to calm down. I've got to get him home because these nightmare dayscapes are cycling closer together now. But I'm screaming into the phone, trying to reach through and grab his mind as its flying in pieces all over SF, like James' brownies hitting the fan. But, it's not like he knows who these voices are either. "They're angry, and they hate me." This is only one story I tell Mr. Doctor.

Meg and I try to explain madness to this white suited robot, who looks so normal (please excuse bitterness) that he's probably planning which fly to tie onto his pole tomorrow, or maybe he's going over his sacrament talk on home teaching, while I keep reaching, trying--with all the words I've ever had in me--to paint the hell Beau is living in, how he burned his arm twice last night with a cigarette to take away the pain in his head. In fact, now I'm standing between him and Beau, saying, "He's not a cutter, you see; it's just that the pain gets so bad he has to redirect it--make it come from some other place than from his head. Do you understand?"--already I know he doesn't. How could he?

If I'm not careful--using these stupid inadequate words, words trying to explain insanity--another dimension most people don't know about, care about, can't understand, unless they've walked the path. They can't hear these words. What are the words? Where are they? This will be the book I write. I will find the words to explain the landscape of insanity; I swear I will do it--but, If I'm not careful, the thought crosses my mind, this guy will take me to the neurological center along with Beau. But, who the hell cares? I believe mothers have excuses for hysteria.

Finally, this doctor--healer of men--looks at Beau, who's busy listening to two women argue in his head.

One says she's from Tennessee, but Beau knows she's lying. "She's really from Texas, Mom; why does she swear she's from Tennessee?" And I want to grab his head like Dinero grabs the sides of Christopher Walkin's head in Deer Hunter, to keep his brains from falling out all over the floor. But instead I'm screaming again, "Who the heck cares where they live, Beau? They're in your head right now, so It doesn't much matter. Tell them to shut up and back off, so you can hear me. I'M THE MOTHER." These coping methods make me realize I'll certainly make Mother of the Year next month, and God has me already lined up to join the ranks of Compassionate Nurses in the next life.

But I can't explain the landscape in Beau's head to this man, who finally gets Beau's attention. "Do you concur with what your mother's said, young man?" Really. I'm not kidding. That's exactly what he said, like I'd just told him Beau's finger hurts, and I think he needs a band-aide.

Then we see Beau, in great shame, drop his head, and say yes. And Meg and I want to pick him up like a little child and protect him from all evil, but instead we melt with relief and go home to crawl into fetal positions until we can grasp that we may be losing him.

So, we go to the parade. I've had no sleep the night before because I watched him fight imaginary, full blown people, who hate his guts, who tell him not to talk to anyone, who scream at him until he bashes his head against the tree outside the back door to make them stop. But, it's the next day now--the 4th of July. I turn over on the couch to get away from the cat and fall off on the floor, which wakes me up; I hear ducks and grab the rest of the bread to feed them--and suddenly, before I know it--I'm really awake, and I need this Rexburg, small town, ridiculous parade, where the winning float is from Grease Monkey. My grand daughter is marching. And Meg's new husband, Ben, who has never seen a Podunk, country parade is hilariously baffled by all the tractors. ("But, they're 1959 tractors, Ben. Get it?" "Hmmm . . . no, not exactly," he says. He's giving it a good try. "They're, well . . . tractors.") He's puzzled by the kids in polished Chevy SUVs, throwing candy ("Ben, those are the student body officers of Sugar Salem. Get it?"); Then military display scares both of us. Ahhh, yes, we're supporting the fighting men, but do we have to do it with tanks and other war machines, which have been made for one purpose--to kill other human beings?

But we wander over to the park and eat mangoes dipped in hot sauce and lime. (They don't taste the same without the tequila--from my much younger days, of course, but I don't care.) We eat corn on the cob slathered with mayonnaise then sprinkled with Parmesan cheese and hot sauce. We eat something from every booth--lots of hot sauce and we get sick. We watch the old Rexburg carousal and listen to the worst music I've ever heard, and get sick, but it's a good day. It's sunny and people are--not exactly happy, but more relaxed, or . . . at least not angry or too irritated. And because we have no, absolutely none, zero expectations, it's a good day. Then I go take pictures of some baby colts in a field along the highway, until the rodeo starts. And it's all good because I love rodeos and fireworks and love to watch the people watching all of it (as long as I have space between us.) And everything lifts for awhile, so I can breathe. These are the days when just breathing is very good. It's enough.

Those Smooth Summer Days

Okay, This is our friend, Jen. Cute. Funny. Compassionate. And always leading the way.

And here is real Em--a side she hides. And how she's feeling today.

Remember this? Joe fished the river-- in and around our brilliant, sun-laced conversations. Poor boy. He was shy then. Really. It's true.

Also, here's Em's Utah shirt:

For the Record, Part Deux

Was going through some old albums yesterday and found this snapshot of Jen. For those of you who read this blog and do not know who "Jen" is that keeps posting on here, this is what she looks like (on a good day). Cheers, Jen Russell Terrier Parkin!

For the Record

The Visit

The best way to describe my life is this: one continual round of getting the shaft. This past week, while Wife lazed away the days, vacationing in Idaho, I was stuck at home rinsing the fecal stench from my hands after changing the 3,000th diaper--yes, the kids stayed with me.
A couple pictures from the get-together of the three wise women.




P.S. After posting the photo of Claire with the oversized beetle, complete with ungainly serrating mandibles, I've gotten a few questions about my parenting skills (everyone loves backseat drivers). So, to comply, here's a picture that we took tonight of Claire with a much more docile critter. Just your garden variety locust. I'd never had the chance to examine one closely before. I'm tempted to think our pioneer ancestors were a little prejudiced. They're not too bad looking--locusts, that is. This will be the last of the bug shots for awhile, unless something really impressive comes along.

Midnight River Sounds

Jen, yours and Em's last post made me cry. Beautiful. Really. Thanks. (And, Em. I'm still in a Feng shui-stage.)

Our Healing Place. I still think clothes hangers were the perfect reward for you all painting the kitchen. I was proud of my practicality, when my first grab was for ping pong balls to symbolize our group. Did Aaron Davis really put together the bookcase? and Joe G. fix the garage door opener? Or was I dreaming?

Actually, I spent a long time dreaming (nightmares) in those days before the river slowly cleaned out the dead places, making room for some peace. What is it about certain places? I think they're gifts from God. At the risk of grossing out Jaren, James and Joe (J.J.J. hang on guys: G for gush), I remember ripping out my heart at night and taking hours under the stars--a trillion stars--to wash it in river water, but the next morning I woke up again to the same unbearable pain, and I'd plead and scream at the universe to make it stop--Can God take away sharp memories that cut up our insides like broken glass? Yes, I believe yes, but only in His time and in His way.

Like Rachel in the wilderness, I wandered around under the trees in numb circles, looking for my children, for my family, for the strong arms of my temple sealed husband, for his voice, for his bed. I told God no one can stand this--especially not me--the weakest of the weak. "You are a cruel Monster," I'd shriek at him like a madwoman, "not to offer to take my heart to your throne and send it back alive and whole again, because I know you can do this, if you wanted to." . . . Instead, He gave me this endless river, and I'd lie in the grass and listen until the sharpness eased into hurt, then longing, then numbness, then slowly I became the grass, and one morning I heard fifteen different bird calls. Then a doe and twin fawns came into the backyard to stay around all one summer, and two bald eagles landed often in the trees. I saw I wasn't cast into outer darkness but walked with a hundred thousand living creatures, and they were all good. No sin. If a hawk dove for a fish, it was because he was hungry. And God had created and organized all this (only Man screwed up the scenario) and had given it to me for awhile. And He is a Master artist. And I still remember the morning I woke up to realize I was still breathing--I hadn't died--and didn't want to. And I've stopped envying people in coffins, because sometimes my heart is so light, it floats with the river and bird songs. And sometimes it's not--but I didn't die.

In my P. blessing is a line I hate: "When things in your life become difficult--almost unbearable--the Lord will raise up friends . . . ." That "unbearable" word scared me (still does). But He has done what He promised. All of you (and more) are my soul mates. You have--each in a different way--blessed me and lifted me when I could not walk or even sit up. Just like Chan did a couple of weeks ago, you help me like I'm your broken sister, instead of your older mother. And I thank you. I don't know how else to say that feeling. It sounds so trite, but I thank all of you for being with me in the pre-existence and dropping in once in awhile down here. I love you, and I love the Lord, and now I'm so sorry I shot the beavers and chased the raccoon with a flashlight. (Geez, Jen, way to open floodgates.)