The Scarlet (Actually, White) Letters

If I take a walk on garbage day, I like to read the writing on the garbage cans. In my city, the garbage person writes messages on the black tote cans with a white marker or chalk. The notes say things like, "Place cans 6 feet apart," or "Put out past trees," and even threats like, "Out past vehicles or it will be left." There are warnings about past slipups. I've secretly been glad that I have a nice, clean garbage can without any of my garbage sins displayed for all to see.

We left town on Wednesday for Thanksgiving. I asked a neighbor to put my garbage can back after Thursday's garbage day. When we returned home on Sunday, my husband asked me, "Did you know it says on the garbage can that you can only have the can in the street for 12 hours before or after pickup time?" Then I realized that on holidays, the garbage person doesn't come until Friday.

So much for my purity. I couldn't believe the garbage person would actually drive around on Thanksgiving to see who put their cans out too early. Or maybe a neighbor complained? I went to our can to view the graffiti, only to discover that the writing my husband spoke of was only the small square of instructions stamped onto the lid. Whew.

That was a close one!

Quoting the Cute

Five-year-old: "Seven Sakes!"
Me: "What does that mean?"
Five-year-old: "It means 'Holy Cow.'"

Twenty-month-old: "Saw-we."

One day we met my sister-in-law at a park in a town where none of us lived. She was going to take our children to her house while we went on a date. On her way out of town, she took a wrong turn (we took the same wrong turn--who engineered these roads?). My sister-in-law said out loud that she was going the wrong way & my five-year-old daughter said, "Well, we are going to your house. You'd think you'd know your own way."

Twenty-month-old: "I tuck" (translation: I'm stuck).

Five-year-old: "I'm just a little girl. I don't know about these things."

Twenty-month-old daughter sings (while bounce-swaying back and forth): "Mock-kah, Mock-kah (pause) E-I-E-I-E."

Two-month-old son says: "Goo."

"Here Kiddy Kitty"

Both of my daughters could meow before they could talk. My five-year-old daughter has been running around on all fours since she started crawling (do not worry, she also knows how to walk on her hind legs). I am astounded at her ability to dart, on hands and feet, across the back yard or the back room. One of these days I need to get video footage of it.

So anyway, my daughters like to pretend they are cats. I love the purry meows, the naps on my lap, and the funny way they rub my legs with the sides of their heads while I work in the kitchen. I don't love that I've had to dig cat food out of the mouth of my one-year-old= so gross! And I have finally convinced my five-year-old that hand licking is most unsanitary (when you are a human).

One day when she was four, my daughter asked me to open the back door for her. I was on the land line phone--tied to the wall. I reminded her that she knows how to open the door. Then she reminded me that she is a kitty and can not open doors. I told her to stand on her hind legs like the dancing aristocats and open the door because I could not come right then. About ten minutes later when I had finished my phone call, I turned around to see that she was still sitting there on her haunches, patiently waiting for me to let her out.

She's a good kitty.

At the Salad Bar

This is probably a silly thing to blog about. But this is my blog, & right now I want to talk about SALAD. My foster family (& Chuck-a-Rama) always had the best salad bars because they usually had my favorite toppings. For the sake of my personal history, I will now describe my perfect green salad. This may be more important than you think: they may be serving this exact recipe at my descendants' family reunions for years into the far future.

Foundation:
Fresh, Crisp Greens (For me, the more variety in the mix, the better. My sister grows the best greens: organic lettuces with tasty tiny baby greens of all flavors. Masterpiecefull!)

Toppings:

• Peas (1. Good: frozen peas, thawed 2. Better: sprouted peas 3. Best: peas from the garden = one of my favorite things!)
• Carrots (1. Good: sliced 2. Better: shredded 3. Best: small juliennes)
• Cucumbers (1. Good: sliced 2. Best: sliced, then halved)
• Tomatoes (I am not much of a tomato fan--I almost left them off my list. However, garden tomatoes are good on a salad & I can also eat halved cherry tomatoes or grape tomatoes [on a salad] with a smile on my face)
• Sprouts (1. No, not alfalfa sprouts 2. No, not mung (bean) sprouts 3. Best: sprouted Pro-Vita-Mix)
• Baby Spinach (if it's not already in the greens where it should be!)
• Broccoli (small trees)
• Cauliflower (small flowers)
• Olives (green & black, please)
• Mushrooms (sliced, then halved)
• Beans (kidney, black, pinto, garbanzo: pick one or two)
• Pineapple (tidbits)
• Raisins
• Dried Cranberries (aka Craisins®)
• Ham Dices
• Boiled Egg Slices (I feel a poem coming on)
• Ranch Dressing (unless I'm trying to lose weight...then I use those yummy salad spritzers)
• Cheese (1. Good: cheddar 2. Best: Swiss & Parmesan)
• Sunflower Seeds
• Almond Slivers
• Bacon Bits
• Croutons (small is best)

Now I'm salivating. We are eating SALAD for dinner tomorrow! Wait. I have to soak & cook beans & sprout sprouts & buy ham & Craisins® & sunflower seeds & bacon bits first...we are eating SALAD in two days!

Other toppings at the salad bars of family & food joints that I sometimes take or leave:

• Avocado
• Shredded jícama
• Slices of raw yams
• Artichoke hearts
• Corn (I think baby corn is best...I love miniatures!)
• Onions (green, purple...I'd go with chives instead, but that's just me)
• Bell peppers (I prefer yellow or red)
• Diced turkey or chicken
• Pickles (although I'd rather have dilly beans [pickled green beans with a hint of cayenne pepper])
• Celery (no thanks)
• Beets
• Cottage cheese
• Mandarin oranges

It may seem I have complicated salad, which is why we usually eat salad with just carrots & cucumbers with toppings on the table of whatever we have on hand (which often ends up being peas, tomatoes, raisins, croutons, & dressing). Oh, but a salad BAR...I could get drunk there! Only joking: I'm a Mormon, so I don't drink.

Learned and Inherited

My mom has always been a creative woman. I loved to hear her sing, especially the songs she wrote herself. She sang in a bluegrass band with her sister when I was a kid. On practice days, my little sisters and I danced in our living room to the music of the banjo, bass, mandolin, and guitar. That is one of my favorite memories.

Mom also wrote poetry. She usually wrote when she was sad. I still have one of the poems she wrote. She was sitting in the car in the rain, and it was written on the cardboard from a package of those yummy oval-shaped oatmeal cookies we often bought at the "merc." I wish I knew where I could get some of those cookies today.

This is what it said:

We are like raindrops of tears

Rolling down the window...pain...

Reminded of the years, so full of shame

Falling to the ground and waiting for the Son

To pick us up with His love,

And make us all as one. 12-21-1988

I don't think she would mind if I put her poem here. I wanted to share it because I recognize that many of the talents I possess I gained from my mom in one way or another.

I love poetry and music. Before I was a teenager, I saved my babysitting money to buy a $200 Casio keyboard. When I was a young teenager, I taught myself how to read music. My mom bought a used piano for me, and I learned to play hymns on it.

Later, I used the money I earned as a maid at a motel, a Saturday and summer job, to pay for piano lessons. Then I walked to the teacher's house once a week after school. My foster family paid for my lessons after I moved in with them.

They were also musical. I loved to sing Christmas songs with them, in four-part harmony. I started singing in the church choir when I was twelve years old. Over the years, I have sung in various choirs. There were times the music made such an impact on me, I felt I would never be the same as before. When I thank God for my blessings, music is always on the list. It has the power to strengthen me when other things have no power. God knew this about me. I'm glad He planted me where He did.

There Is No End to Love

It is hard to believe it has been more than ten years since my wedding day. That was a happy day for me. There is a page in one of my daughter's books that shows Cinderella looking at the palace from her window, dreaming of that "someday" when her prince would come. It reminds me of my first twenty years. Every time I saw the temple, I looked forward to going there someday to be married.

It was more wonderful and more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The morning sunlight that flowed through the temple windows felt so warm, and it seemed to make everyone glow. The love of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and very dear friends surrounded us as we knelt across the altar from each other. We made promises to each other and promises to God. We listened as the sealer told of the blessings that would come because of that holy union. Then we kissed a simple kiss (our mothers were watching!), but it was a sweet kiss, and it was a special kiss because it was our first as husband and wife.

The more I know about the world, the more I realize how miraculous our innocence was. We each gave our first kiss to each other, and in a society where virginity is usually lost by teenagers, we still had ours at the ages of twenty and twenty-five, to be given to each other in marriage.

I still think of our first date with fondness. He was so shy. I was so immature. He was so handsome. I was so thin! We dated for two and a half years before we got married. Unfortunately, there were thorns with the roses. A lot of people thought we shouldn’t marry because we were so different from each other. Some said he was too good for me. Others said I was too good for him. I almost gave up, but losing him felt worse than losing favor with family and friends.

We promised each other before we were married that divorce would never be an option for us. We vowed we would never speak of it, not even in jest. Through the years, we have shared and loved, fought and cried. We have lost together, prayed together, laughed together, and dreamed together. And after years of longing, we had children together.

There were times I wondered if they had been right. Maybe I deserved someone who was more kind. I’m sure there were times when he wondered if he deserved someone more competent. Thankfully, we have both come to know that we deserve each other, and our children deserve parents who love each other unselfishly. So we try. Most of the time we succeed, and I pray it will be enough to carry us through the eternities.

I’ve spent a lot of time with him, but I still want more. I’ve thought of him more than anyone or anything else for almost half my life, but I still like to think about him more than anything else. I guess that’s how it is when you are family and you love each other. And it makes sense that it would be that way if we plan to be married forever, right?

I wrote a poem for him for our anniversary. He understands calculus, but not poetry. So it is a simple poem, but I think it says it all. I gave it to him with a picture of us on our wedding day.

They say we are as night and day

And they are right–

Yet I only long for you to stay

With me day and night.

They say we are as black and white

And I look back–

But all was right with me in white

And you in black.

Full Circle

When I was a baby, my parents and I lived in a single-wide trailer. My earliest memory is of the first night-cry of my baby sister, born in the room at the end of the hall. I was three and a half.

My dad was making bricks for an adobe house from the dirt that was on our one acre of land. When I was about four, we moved into the new house. I still remember the day my old house drove away. I stood in the yard and watched it go: my first home.

Twenty years later, my husband and I ordered a manufactured home to put on our half acre of land. On the day of arrival, I was helping a friend in a neighboring town when I saw my new home pass by. With excitement, I jumped into our truck and followed it, taking pictures as I drove. As they backed it in, I recalled that childhood day when my house drove away, and how then my new home was driving in. I thought that was a full circle moment.
Six years later, we put our home up for sale so we could relocate for my husband’s career. As I packed our belongings, I kept thinking about how much I had loved that house. It was the first home that was our very own. It was the place where I took my tiny baby daughters home from the hospital. Then one last time we knelt together in a circle in the family room (with nothing left in it but my family) and thanked God for the sweet memories made there. As we drove away, my four-year-old and I waving, “Good-bye, House! We love you,” I realized that was really the full circle moment.

Mission Impossible

I read a blog post that reminded me so much of myself, I had to write my own version:

In the late afternoon, when I have finally taken a shower (because my two babies are napping), and have dressed and made the bed (sometimes), I make a goal to put my house in order. I start with the laundry, but while I’m there I realize the toilets really need to be cleaned (yes, there is a toilet in my laundry room). So I set out with the toilet brush and Ajax, but in the second bathroom I find that the trash needs to be emptied (it has a smelly diaper in it). I take the garbage outside to the trash can and notice the weeds in the flower bed. Because the babies are still asleep and my five-year-old is playing on the laptop (Go PBS Kids! Or is it PBS Kids GO!?), I decide to weed a 12-inch section. After 6 inches, my stomach starts growling and I remember, LUNCH. So I go in to eat leftovers at the computer. I am answering emails long after my food is gone when I hear a baby crying. Nap time is over. Mission NOT accomplished.

You Don't Just Join a Family

One of my favorite movies is While You Were Sleeping. In it, there is a line that says, "You are born into a family. You do not join them like you do the Marines." When I was fifteen, I did exactly that. Growing up, I had friends who seemed to have the perfect families. I wanted one too! So I found one that was almost perfect and I joined it. This is the story of how I became what most would call "a foster child."

Before I begin, I want to say that I truly love my family. Looking back, I have many good memories. My parents did teach me things that were good, and the good things stuck. I know more about the world now than I did when I was young. If I were to now rate my childhood family on its dysfunctionality (I think I just made up a new word), I'd say I was lucky compared to a lot of kids.

There were many things that made me want to leave home. I think that is another story. Today my story is of an amazing family who welcomed me into their house, not just as a guest, but as a family member. It started with a lovely woman who befriended me at a church function. I had quite a few friends that were mothers and grandmothers. My best friend used to tease me about it, but I liked they way they genuinely cared about me.

My new friend and I became close before too long. Every school day, she sent a sack lunch for me with her son who was a year older than me. There was always a note inside. One night, things were not good at home. I called this woman and told her I was leaving. She picked me up in her car and brought me to her house. She put me in a bedroom for the night. I had cried a lot and was tired. I still remember the feeling of clean sheets and the smell of food cooking.

When I awoke the next morning, I could hear the family interacting. The mother was trying to keep them quiet so they wouldn’t wake me. I snuggled into the blankets and enjoyed the warmth and security I felt. After that, I stayed there as often as I could. It wasn’t long before I began calling the mother, “Mama,” which after a while became, “Mom.” She had always wanted twelve children. She had eight, and called me her “added upon.”

I wasn’t the easiest person to have around. I used to cry everyday, sometimes curled up in the bottom of the closet. I was extremely jealous of their other children. Once I almost started a fist fight with the daughter that was closest to me in age. I still have guilt about that. I have since talked to her about it. She just laughed and says she doesn’t remember it, so I’m forgiven. I was angry a lot, usually at Mom. For some reason, they thought I was worth all the trouble. I pray often that God will bless them for what they did for me.

We had some good times too. Sometimes all of the girls and I would get laughing so hard, we'd be on the floor. Dad was a constant support. He used to read to us, the scriptures as well as interesting novels, usually being tied to our church in some way. Instead of going to church alone, I had a family to sit with.

I lived with them for five and a half years, until I got married. During that time they never received money from the state or my family for my care. They bought an older car for me to drive when I was in college. I worked part time to pay for the gas and insurance, and as much as I could for my books and tuition. They took care of the rest. They even paid for my wedding. This wasn’t a wealthy family, but they always said they had enough for another one of their kids. Mom continued to write notes to me, calling me her “dotter.”

I know people around us thought it was strange, the way I pretended like I was part of their family. That doesn’t matter. I count myself blessed for all that I gained because of them. It is another evidence that Heavenly Father loves me and is watching over me.

Dear Mom,

Many have said they really began to appreciate their parents when they became parents themselves. This has also happened to me. The more I experience as a mother, the more I recognize the things you did do. My perspective has changed dramatically since I was a teenager. I have found that my life is better when I remember the good things (and there were so many) instead of the bad, and every day I hope that when my children grow up, they will do the same.

I once viewed many of your qualities as weaknesses. Now, I find them in myself, and I am thankful. I often pray for your happiness. I've found it, but I'm glad that I realized your part in putting me on that path in the first place. I love you, Mom!

I Learned About My Biology in Biology

When I was a teenager, I had the habit of referring to my parents as my biological parents because I lived with another family. After I married and moved away, I began referring to the family I had lived with as my foster family, so others would know which family I was talking about. This wasn’t as complicated as it sounds.
During a college biology class a year or two before I got married, I had a lesson I’ll never forget. The professor was giving examples in human genetics. When she explained that it is almost impossible for parents with light blue eyes to have a child with dark brown eyes, I thought to myself, “Hmmmmmm. Very interesting.” I think I took the news rather calmly.
My dad and I have always had a good relationship. I understand him better now than I did when I was a kid, but I think that is typical. He has struggled most of his life with depression and alcoholism. My parents fought a lot and were divorced when I was thirteen. Despite our family trials, my dad tried to instill within me a love for myself and my sisters. He often told us that most of our friends would not be around when we were grown, but our sisters would be in our lives forever; so we needed to be good to each other. He gave me a bracelet with a charm on it. My name was engraved on one side, and on the other side were the letters, “RYW.” He asked me not to tell anyone what the letters stood for, so it could be our special secret. Because I am writing anonymously, I will divulge the meaning: “Remember Your Worth.” I know a lot of kids had moms who would say, “Remember who you are!” But my dad had a way of making things meaningful.
I’m not sure if it was seconds or minutes before I decided that what I had learned in my class didn’t matter. My curiosity was not as great as my love, so I decided to let it go. Eventually, the conversation came up in my family. When I talked to my dad about it, I just told him I was thankful he was my dad. Then he retold the story of the moment he first saw me, and again described the love he felt as he looked into my dark newborn eyes. He said he didn't want me to ever know that I wasn't "his." He said, "I was afraid if you knew, you wouldn't love me no more." That was endearing; I had never heard my dad use a double negative before. It was then I realized that my new knowledge actually made me love him more.
After I was born, my dad knew that I wasn’t his biological child, yet he loved me as if I was. There were two men presented with the idea that they might be fathers. One responded by offering to pay for an abortion; the other asked my mom to marry him. Is my biological dad the man who did his part by taking money out of his pocket (money to end my life)? Maybe to some, but not to me.

Where to Begin?

It seems easiest to start with something I have already written. As a teen, I wrote poetry. It has been more than a decade since my teenhood. I know there is poetry in me still, but I am unsure of my ability to translate it into words. I would like to try writing again. They say children are better at learning a language than adults. In my case, this may also be true in the language of poetry...we shall see!

All Fall Down (age 19)

Fire life has dwindled

And the gray smoke stings my eyes.

I face it without turning away,

Refusing to give up.

A faint glow deceives me

And I give my breath

To the crimson coals—

But weightless dust flies away

And is lost.

I can never hold time,

And time will never spark flames

That are already gone.

I am ashamed that all I can do

Is blow on the ashes.