Getting an early start...

By Bunny Miner, Guest Blogger

After posting about meeting deadlines and getting organized I felt guilty so I decided to write this post early this time.  Now let's see if I can figure out how to schedule it to appear when it's supposed to...I'm not stupid but I'm impatient and don't like taking time to figure things out.  Maybe that's why it took me 10 years to get published!  So, see, your dreams of being published CAN become a reality!  Just keep writing and submitting and you're going to learn and get closer to your goal each time.  Besides, you've been reading my posts for awhile, if I can get published, probably anybody can!

So, on with the post...

There are a lot of you out there that have more experience than I do about blogging.  So, how do you come up with your ideas?  Do you designate certain days to write about certain things?  Or are you like me and just write what feels right at the moment?

I'm to the point where I can't put off doing my own blog or getting my website up and running any more.  So, I'm looking for suggestions.  What do all you writers out there do?  I was thinking it would be good to have designated days to post specific things, to have a way to be organized (not my strong suit!  Is that just me or are a lot of writers like that?) and to be more focused.  Write whatever you want is a little too daunting for me!  Way too broad!

So, this is what I'm thinking;  Mondays would be a basic writing technique, kind of like a writing 101 lesson.  Tuesdays would be an author interview.  Wednesday would be a book review.  Thursdays would be random musings.  Friday would be a slice of life.  Saturdays would be a writing prompt and I'd probably take Sundays off.

Okay, maybe author interviews and book reviews every week will be too ambitious.  I'll have to rethink this...That's why I would like people to give suggestions in the comments!  It's how we all learn from each other!  We can't stay silent!  (ok, I'm kind of begging and groveling to get ideas!)

Fearful Forgetting

Liz is away, so this is Terry Deighton taking her place.

I almost forgot to post this blog. "I forgot and I don't care mean the same thing," my husband would say. He is fond of repeating this maxim to me and the kids. I, for one, do not agree with him on this point. I did care about the eggs I left on the stove, all day, on Wednesday. I care about the wasted electricity, the ruined eggs, and I care about the smell that still permeates the house. Most of all, I care that the house could have burned down.
I care about fulfilling my commitment to Liz to post a blog today. I care about getting my WIP finished and out there to publishers. I care about having my husband's white shirt washed before he needs it. I care about sending home the flyers the office gave me that my students are supposed to show their parents. I care about all kinds of things that I forget, so why do I forget them? My husband would say that I don't care enough. Maybe there's something to that. I let other things that seem urgent crowd out what is important. I need to learn to stop and think before I act. I need to ask myself if there is something more important I should be doing than watching TV or playing computer games. Maybe I should post signs around my house. They could say: Stop! What are you forgetting? The key would be to actually stop, read the signs, and think instead of letting the junk in my head distract me from seeing what is in front of me.
There is another reason I forget things. It is more sinister than the brain cloud described in the previous paragraph. Somewhere, lurking in my brain, there is a little creature who makes me forget things that scare me. I hate making phone calls because I am afraid I'll say the wrong thing or say something stupid, so I forget to make them. I am afraid to send my book to a publisher because I am afraid it will be rejected, so I forget to work on it. I am afraid of failure, so I forget to try new things. I wonder what kind of sign I could put up to help me wipe out fear?
Maybe it could say: Stop! Forget Your Fear and Move Forward! After all, I'm good at forgetting!

Dahlias

By Terry Deighton, Guest Blogger

Liz asked me to take her place on the blog today. She’s out there enjoying the summer.

My son is getting married in August. That’s incidental to my tale except that the colors for the reception are dark red and black. I thought it would be nice to have my mother-in-law put her green thumb to use growing the flowers for the centerpieces. I bought some run of the mill dark red dahlia tubers at Fred Meyer and some more exotic almost black ones from a dahlia farm, delivered them to her at the appropriate time, and she did the rest.

One of the black tubers rotted in the ground due to the excessive rainfall this spring. Oh, well, I wanted more red than black anyway. As the summer has progressed, the plants have grown, but they are not as large or as close to blooming as the dahlias in my yard or the ones my mother-in-law has had for years. She expressed her concern. I told her I wasn’t worried. There’s still a month to go. Plants can do amazing things in a month. I bought small vases, so we don’t need a lot of flowers. It’ll be fine.

Then I started to wonder what I would do if there weren’t enough flowers. There are lots of possibilities. I can buy some at the dahlia farm, but it is over an hour’s drive away. Costco has some lovely dark red roses that would be nice. My bright red dahlias are doing well and starting to bud up. No one else is going to care if the color isn’t perfect. There are a lot of options. There’s no need to panic.

Our writing is kind of like these dahlias. Some pieces of writing rot in the ground before they ever take form. We move on and forget them. Other stories start out slowly, and we wonder, some times for years, if they are ever going to blossom. Other writing endeavors shoot right up, grow tall and straight, and blossom beautifully for all to see. The thing is, the stories that we struggle with are the ones we love the most. They are usually the ones others appreciate the most also. The exotic tubers are harder to grow, but the flowers are unusual and interesting. The writing that is the most work is usually that which is also more interesting, more enlightening. If we never try new and different types of writing, we may miss some very rewarding experiences.

The moral of the story is to let your writing develop at its own pace. If you are having trouble with it, fertilize your mind with reading and research if necessary, but don’t try to make it happen. When it’s time, the story will blossom, and it will be more beautiful than if you had forced it. Forced flowers can be beautiful, but they are before their time and short lived. Wait on the real thing. It will be worth it.

A Dry Season

By Sarah Albrecht, sitting in for Rene Allen

Given the heap of dirty clothes in the laundry room, either the kids have been mixing their stacks of clean clothes in with the dirty ones again, or science is wrong and there is such thing as spontaneous generation. Whichever is the case, laundry makes me empathize with camels. It’s something about those ponderous, shapeless burdens strapped to their backs.

Feeling like a camel requires coping strategies.

Humor helps, so several years ago I started keeping an alphabetical list of items I’ve found clunking around the t-shirts or banked against the dryer door like driftwood. I do check obviously jingling, crinkling, or bulging pockets, but, in spite of all the stuff that has come through the wash over the years, I don’t check the rest. Call it a streak of perversity, but that would be a lot of pockets. Besides, throwing all those boys’ blue jeans in the wash adds an element of risk to life. It’s not quite like bungee jumping, but it does make the heart race a titch—and my alphabetical list is almost complete.

“C”, of course, is for crayon, the red one left in my husband’s white shirt pocket after church. It ruined almost a whole batch of whites. I definitely should have checked that pocket, but who would have thought? Funny now, but it’s taken a few years for the memory to mellow. “N” is for the handful of nails my son found at a construction site. They made such a ruckus I thought the dryer was about to self-destruct. “T” is for tissue, disintegrated into fine, clingy pieces, and I have to admit guilt myself over this one.

Even the hard letters, the ones the kids agonize over finding in the alphabet game while we’re traveling—no sweat. J is for jolly rancher, although of course the washer dissolves the candy and only the wrapper makes it to the dryer. And Q? Quarter. Piece of cake. I have to make allowances for “X” and do something cheesy like “xtra.”

I made my best dryer discovery ever just a couple of months ago—letter “R.” It’s not that I always open the door with bated breath. Usually I’m in a rush and distracted, as was the case this time. I hurried into the utility room and flung open the dryer door only to find a mob of raisins waiting to stampede. Still abnormally plump from their journey through the washer, they tumbled out with bits of the snack-sized box they started out in. True, extracting the remaining raisins and box fragments from the rest of the clothes was a pain, but imagining the raisins’ journey as they rehydrated in the washer and then desiccated in the dryer seemed wildly funny to me.

One of these days the kids will be gone and I’ll add a final entry for “Z”—zero. Zero sounds sad and final. So until then? Yeah, I can deal with it.

Remembering

by Terry Deighton, sitting in for Liz Adair

Tomorrow is Memorial Day.

It’s a time to remember those who have gone ahead, especially those who fought and died to protect our freedom. Remembering has never been my strong suit. I have trouble remembering what day it is, how old I am, even where I’m going when I’m driving down the street. I’d like to blame it on getting older, but I’ve always been this way.

When I was about thirteen, my brother stopped by the booth where I was selling candy at the Fourth of July and told me that he was going home with a friend. He asked me to tell our parents where he’d be. He wanted us to pick him up when we headed home.

When my parents met me to go home a couple of hours later, my brother didn’t show up at the appointed time and place. We were all very worried. We looked all over the booths and carnival rides. Finally, we headed for home, five miles away, to see if he had gotten there on his own somehow. Half way home, the memory of talking to my brother popped back into my head. I gasped and confessed my error, and we headed back into town to pick up my brother exactly where he had said he would be.

However, as bad as my memory is, I have no trouble remembering our fallen patriots. That same little town that hosted the Fourth of July celebrations of my youth sits along the same harbor as a U.S. Naval base. My dad retired from the navy after twenty years. Patriotism and honor for our veterans, living and dead, runs in my veins.

In my little Navy town, everyone stood when the flag went by. No one had to think about whether or not to salute it. Every hand automatically rose to every heart as the flag entered the peripheral vision of the crowd and stayed there until it exited the other side of our view. It didn’t matter how many flags were in the parade, either. Each was respected and honored. The men in the throng had fought in World War II, Korea, and, in my teen years, in Vietnam. They had lost friends, and some of the women had lost their husbands. The remembrance was personal for these folks.

It makes me sad to see the bumper stickers and signs that tell us to “Support our Troops.” We shouldn’t need to be told. It should be as automatic as saluting the flag they represent. Even if we do not agree with the politics that direct our armed services, we must support and honor the men and women who comprise our fighting force. Each has his or her private reasons for joining the military, but each also wears the uniform that requires a willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice for our country. That willingness demands our respect. We must give today’s soldier, sailor, and marine the same respect that was given to the veterans of other eras. If we do not, how can we expect them to be there for us in our hour of need?

Let’s take a few minutes tomorrow to remember amidst our barbecues and yard work. Let’s remember the men and women who stand ready to defend our right to spend our day off any way we choose. Let’s remember that freedom has a cost and be grateful for those who are willing to pay it.

Happy Memorial Day!

Melody without Music

By Sarah Albrecht

Rene Allen was unable to do her blog for today, so she asked me to sub for her. I am both excited and a bit nervous for the chance since this is my first time to post. As I thought about what to write, I kept returning to family, a bit like getting lost and wandering and then finding myself back at the beginning. Like most people, for me family is the beginning I inevitably circle back to.

I am a mother of four children, ages fourteen, eleven, nine and four. When my husband and I were expecting our oldest child, a daughter, we considered several names for her, some silly, some serious. One of the names was Melody, a name I loved because of the comfort and pleasure I had always found in playing and listening to music, but we decided to wait until the baby’s birth to make sure the name fit the child.

At some point during the last trimester, the baby stopped growing; the doctor suspected an undersized placenta and induced her early. We worried whether she had gotten enough oxygen and nourishment to be healthy, so when she was born--tiny but without complications-- we rejoiced and chose Melody for her name because her cries were music to our ears. Secretly I also hoped that the name would become self-fulfilling, that Melody would love music, especially playing the piano, as I did.

She didn’t. As Melody’s childhood progressed, we noticed that learning or trying most new things seemed tremendously stressful for her. To avoid the stress, she resisted new things. I waited until she was eight to have her start lessons, hoping she would have the maturity to try, but she hated it from the beginning. We stopped lessons within two years, about the time her stress levels over life in general seemed to peak and she was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, a genetic anxiety disorder unrelated to the concerns we had at her birth.

For me, that was a knotted-stomach time with struggles at home, struggles at school, and little music. However, we worked through understanding, accepting, and managing Melody’s diagnosis, and eventually I noticed her developing in ways I hadn’t anticipated. She had an incredibly empathetic understanding of others’ feelings and motivations. She would seek out and include the underdog. She had no reservations around special-needs children and would go out of her way to find and love them at school. She had her own music, her own melody that brought comfort and pleasure to her and everyone she met.

My daughter will never play the piano, but she has taught me to listen for life’s melodies without music, borne like prayers without wind to carry them, to the ears of those who will hear.

The Bluebird of Happiness

By Terry Deighton, Guest Blogger

Liz is off doing something fun, I hope, so I am taking her turn on the blog today. It's my daughter's twenty-fifth birthday. That's not so bad except that she's my third child, so there are two even older. How did that happen? The worst thing is that the twins up and went off to college last month. That was like killing two birds with one stone. Their older sister was home for a while. She said that a bird in the house was worth two at college, but then she got a job and moved away. It's an empty nest around here. Whose bird brained idea was it to let them all grow up?

The little chickadees used to chirp and cry until I thought I'd become a bird brain. They were owly and flighty, and sometimes they had fowl tempers. Then, just when they were starting to get interesting, they flew the coop for hours at a time driving our Eagle and only came home to roost long after the sun went down. They didn't give a hoot that the old crows back home were worried sick that they had become jail birds or worse. They were flying high with their flock of friends and trying out their wings.

They did come around occasionally for some scratch. They thought our hard earned money was just chicken feed. One silly goose about laid an egg when we told her to save half of her money as a nest egg for college. We told her to feather her nest while times were good. After all, the early bird catches the worm. She's glad she has a nest egg now!

Now the time has come, and the last of them have gone south for the winter. It really sticks in my craw that they don't bird call home more often. I'm just like a mother hen whose little chicks are lost.

Really, they've given us something to crow about. We're as proud as a couple of peacocks of our little brood. May the bluebird of happiness rest on their shoulders!

Tag Game - Terry Deighton

I apologize to Terry Deighton that I didn't get this post up last Saturday. When I came home from the Retreat, I took a nap, and awoke too late. ~Marsha

Not Entirely British
Marcia Mickelson
Writer in the Pines
ANWA Founder and Friends (Marsha)
ANWA Founder and Friends (Liz)

Here are my responses.

What were you doing ten years ago?
Ten years ago, I was getting up out of chairs more quickly without having my knees creak. Ten years ago, my oldest child graduated from high school. This year, the youngest graduated. Ten years ago, I was substitute teaching. I still am.

What were you doing one year ago?
A year ago was about the same as now. Subbing during the school year and writing, not cleaning, and hanging out with my kids during the summer. The difference is that my husband went back to work, so he's not here to hang out with this summer.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. Cookies
2. Apples
3. Candy
4. Nuts
5. Chocolate covered anything

Five songs you know all the lyrics to:
1. I Am a Child of God
2. Called to Serve
3. Five Little Speckled Frogs
4. Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree
5. Happy Birthday to You

Things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Quit working
2. Start a Soup Kitchen
3. Hire someone to finish all the stuff we haven't finished in our house
4. Buy a piece of land and house off the highway
5. Share with the kids

Five bad habits:
1. Being a smart aleck
2. Staying up late
3. Procrastinating everything
4. Being late
5. Blaming other people for my problems

Five things you like to do:
1. Read
2. Write
3. Cook but not clean up
4. Sit around a campfire
5. Go boating

Things you will never wear again:
1. Certain yellow/green colors that turn my face green
2. a wedding dress
3. panty hose - trouser socks rock!
4. a girdle
5. High heels, but I never have worn them

Five favorite toys:
1. Computer
2. Sudoku handheld
3. Laptop
4. Cardmaking supplies
5. Scrabble

Where will I be in ten years?
In Sedro Woolley hopefully playing with the grandchildren that will be born between now and then. Also, with hope, I won't be working, so I can work on family history, read, and write.

People to tag:
Katie Watters
Ann Acton

Revenge & Glory

by Delsa Anderson, Guest Blogger

Faith asked Delsa Anderson to fill in for her this week. Delsa is known for her wit and wisdom, and extensive knowledge of grammatical usage, so she's a delight for those who use ANWA's critique group. She sent me two pieces of her work for this blog. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did. ~~Marsha


AUNT ELLIE’S REVENGE

My Aunt Ellie, laughing merrily, told me this true story many years ago. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and unfortunately, the guilty as well.)

Aunt Ellie’s husband, Ed, was charming, outgoing, good company, a clotheshorse, and an all-round, no-good rascal. Every day he went to work with an immaculate and starched ironed white shirt, white trousers, a black tie, and a hopeful attitude. He had a whole closet full of white shirts, because Ed was a milkman, back in the good old days when milk was delivered to the door early in the morning. His customers loved him, or at least his young female customers did. He was successful with his work and the women.

More than once, Ed had to beg Ellie’s forgiveness for his sexual adventures on the milk route. And each time, his brokenhearted customer had to back off her demands for marriage, because, after all, he already had a wife and two children.

Aunt Ellie endured a lot of other insults, actually. Ed was just plain mean. For instance, he didn’t believe in her religion, so he would try to make it impossible for her to go to church with the children. One Sunday morning, he was still lying in bed when she demanded the key to the garage because he had locked the car inside to keep her from going to meeting. He refused, pointblank, to give it to her—said he’d lost it. In a fury, Ellie, who was not a milk toast sort of woman, picked up the alarm clock and fired it at him, missing his head by an inch, and putting a sizable hole in the wall. He laughed uproariously, and said “You little hellcat!” Pulling off his sock, he shook the key out in his hand and tossed it to her.

Finally, Ed met his Waterloo. He really fell in love with one of the young women on his route. Complicating the whole thing was her insistence on marriage, because she was having his baby. He wanted Ellie to go quietly, especially hoping she wouldn’t cause him to lose his job.

Aunt Ellie was moving out, leaving him the house. She didn’t know where she’d turn, or what she’d do, but she felt she wanted to make a dignified exit. So she cleaned the house, packed her clothes, the children’s toys, and everything she was taking with her. Then she considered how to make a final statement.

A basket of un-ironed, starched clothes stood in the corner—mostly white shirts. Aunt Ellie dutifully sprinkled them down to moisten the lot, then ironed each shirt--perfectly. The job lasted for hours. She hung them in the closet in a row—perfectly. Then she ripped each one up the middle of the back—perfectly—and left the house forever.


TO THE GLORY OF YESTERDAY

I picked up my left arm and studied it closely;
In fact you could add that I viewed it morosely.
I spoke to my husband, and rather verbosely,
About vibrant skin turned to crepe.

Why, only five years ago, being quite truthful,
I still received kudos for looking so youthful.
My pride now lies low in a fact I find ruthful:
Trim triceps transposed to a drape.

The form I displayed with such élan at fifty,
Has changed to an infirm condition—not nifty—
With rotator cuff which declines to stay lifty,
And “svelte” won’t describe my new shape.

“Oh, Delsa,” they say, “You are always so cheerful!”
And that is quite true, ‘cause in old age I’m fearful
That if I don’t smile I’ll sure give them an earful.
I’m a raisin, now, DANG, not a grape!

This blog is late

by Terry Deighton, Tardy Guest Blogger

This blog is late. Liz went out of town with her family for the weekend and asked me to write her blog on Sunday. I did think of it on Sunday, but I never did get it done. Let me tell you about the times I thought about it on Sunday.

I thought about writing this blog on the way to my Ward Council meeting at church. I had made waffles for my family and gotten ready for church, but I had not thought to write this before I left home at 11:15. Then I started thinking about the fact that I had to report to the other church leaders that my committee hadn't been able to get together due to family needs and illness. The luau we are planning is in less than three weeks, and we haven't actually firmed up any of the plans. One of the men in the meeting did know of some Polynesian dancers in the next town over, so that was good.

I thought about writing this blog during sacrament meeting in which my son gave his report to the ward on his mission. He asked his two sisters to speak with him. They all did excellent jobs, and the growth of my son was so evident. He left here a fun loving, good boy and came back a fun loving, spiritually mature young man. His sisters demonstrated poise and confidence. Well, Renae did refer to a scripture in Helium, but she corrected herself (Helaman) and mentioned that she was a bit nervous. Otherwise, they all three spoke as if they did it all the time. I thought about this blog again while I walked down the hall and thanked everyone for saying how wonderful my children are.

I didn't think about writing this blog in the hour I had at home. I was making dinner for the seven people who live here right now. My husband and the three young adults had raced from our ward to the young adult ward, so they could attend Relief Society and Priesthood meetings and so my husband could count the donations from the members of that ward.

I thought about writing this blog when I was at the stake center to hear my son report on his mission to the high council. It was fun to realize that I had known most of those men for many years. There's something very satisfying about having lived someplace long enough to have old friends even if you don't see them very often. My son stood there and spoke fluently and with conviction about his service to the Lord. Then they asked us to go around the room and shake hands with everyone in attendance. My bishop was there on stake welfare business, so that made it all the better.

Alas, I did not think about writing this blog when I finally got home after 6:30. You would think I would have remembered after all of the times that I thought about it during the day. Why is it that we think about things when we can't do anything about it, but when we have time, our minds just blank out? Maybe it's just me that it happens to, but it happens all of the time. People suggest using a day planner, but I know that I would just forget to look at it. I am grateful for the wonderful day I had on Sunday, but I am sorry I forgot to write Liz's blog until Tuesday morning. Now I have to go to work, so I will leave you to think about what you forgot to do over the weekend.

Mary Greer's "Boxes"

My name is Mary Greer and I am a member of the Pima Poets and Penners. I am blog-sitting for Rene while she is off in Mexico working on her tan. She suggested that I might shock you all by sharing a journal entry called “Boxes”. Here it is.

We are all given decorated boxes containing invaluable gifts of indescribable beauty. We have myriads of gifts, some the same, some different, and we open them at different times, on our individual pacing charts, as we progress through life. Of course, some we don’t value, some we allow to tarnish or sit on a shelf in a dark basement collecting dust, and some we don’t open because we are afraid. Some, because, like waiting for Christmas, it isn’t time yet, we don’t open at all.

Some gifts, like motherhood, infinitely precious, are made of the highest grade diamond, and like those diamonds, for all of their beauty, have razor sharp edges that can slice us to the core. This gift box of motherhood is one of the most highly prized gifts in the church. Read The Family Proclamation. Men have the priesthood, women—motherhood. My whole purpose for being is to be a mother. My whole worth as a woman in Zion is…to be a mother.

I have prepared for that moment that I would have children for all of my life—11 children, 5 biological and 6 adopted. I’ve bought clothes and toys for my babies. I’ve collected books for my children. They will love this book; we will read that one together. I’ve studied and know all about effective discipline and child development. I’ve loved and treasured each nephew and niece, each new classroom of school children.

I’ve bled through every vacation—doesn’t matter how I calendar it. I’ve missed swimming in Lake Erie 3 times now, despite careful planning. I’ve missed weddings and missionary first endowments because of wearing temple white. I’ve suffered many things of many physicians because…some day I would be a mother.

Ain’t happenin’, Babe. This gift is not for me at this time. The two weeks before my surgery were a couple of the most heart wrenching in my life. I got rid of most of my books. I cleaned out my cedar chest and put all of my dreams together to give to DI. They took my treasures and just threw them into a dirty old bin. “Wait,” I wanted to yell. “These things are precious.” Too late. This gift is not for me to open now, not through birth, not even through adoption because children need to go to families where they can be sealed.

The surgery? Life is good. I should have done this when I was 16. Better yet 14 and I could have skipped that whole, humiliating band-trip-wearing-a-white-band-uniform fiasco.

And then there is the sex gift. Read Cosmo—it is the most important thing in life. Some people treasure it, some don’t—another sharp-edged crystalline gift, I guess. I’ve been reading a lot about it lately. Isn’t it incredible what the body does during sex, what changes occur to create an orgasm? Phenomenal. God created our bodies and so he wanted us to have sexual pleasure. Such intricate planning, all of those details!

But I can’t open it yet—not uncommitted sex, not a monogamous relationship. Nada.

There is the connectedness box, the belonging and being special to someone else, someone who can be my friend, with whom I can be emotionally and physically intimate.

Not now. All of the boxes that are the most highly prized in the church, which are supposed to be life’s greatest treasures. Not now.

There are boxes that I have that I can open, that I wouldn’t be able to open otherwise, gifts like a career, independence, education, working with children, being the “special aunt” for my nieces and nephews, gifts of family and friends, the gift of time to pursuit talents and interests, the gift of becoming more physically fit, gifts of time to study and meditate, to sit through Sacrament Meeting unmolested (by my own children), the gift of autonomy, the gift of the time to serve, gifts of the opportunities to strengthen my financial box, gifts of talents and humor, and laughter.

So maybe the whole thing about gifts isn’t the ones that we can’t open now, but the knowledge that we are all opening different boxes, and the fact that some boxes have to wait for now doesn’t diminish their beauty or promise. Like Christmas morning, we will get to them eventually.

Mary's Violets

by Rene Allen and Mary Woods

For my last blog, I introduced Jennifer Leigh from our Tucson ANWA chapter, who wrote about creativity in her work as a kindergarten teacher. This week, I would like to introduce Mary Woods, a truly accomplished woman with many gifts and talents. She is a trained musician and vocalist, a teacher, writer, and now, her most recent passion is quilting. Her husband is Rex Woods, Professor of Music at the University of Arizona and a bishop. They have three sons. Mary is Canadian and grew up Catholic. She converted to the church in her 20s. Her mother died when she was in her early teens. What follows is an excerpt from a longer piece she had been working on, which was included in her sacrament meeting talk on Easter. - Rene

I began this talk with a quote from a poem which was set to music, and I would now like to recite the words to an aria from Handel's Messiah which I also love to sing. The text is taken from passages in the Book of Job in the Old Testament and from the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians.

"I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God. For now is Christ risen from the dead. The first fruits of them that sleep."

The last time I visited my Father in Canada, I knew I probably was not going to see him again in this life. He was 93 years old and becoming more feeble and grouchy with each passing day. Dad had never had any religious faith and even ridiculed my mother for her strong beliefs. Just before I left to catch my plane back to Arizona, I sat down beside him and said, "Daddy, I just want you to know that I believe in life after death. I believe in heaven. I believe that you will see family who have already passed on , even Ole." Ole was my dad's 16 year-old brother and best friend who drowned when my Dad was 14.

With a hopeful, loving smile, he said "That's nice, dear."

A couple of months later, my brother called from Canada to say that Dad had just died. I got the distinct impression that my mother, who had died almost 40 years ago, was indeed there to greet him. This was confirmed in a small way when I looked over the African violets I was trying to grow. My mom always had beautiful specimens but mine rarely bloomed. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw my plant, now covered with delicate purple flowers. It was as if she was saying, "Don't worry, Mary. He got here safely and we'll get him started on those missionary discussions tonight."

Two months ago, my family and I went to the temple. Rex was baptized, confirmed and endowed for my father. Then with my two older sons as witnesses and my mother-in-law standing in for my mother, my parents were sealed and I was sealed to them.

How glorious is this gospel. How perfect and just is His plan, that we are entitled to bounteous blessings both in this life and the next as we claim the victory and the joy accomplished by Jesus Christ on the first Easter.

Main Street America

by Joan Sowards, Guest Blogger

I was lucky to be born in America when Main Street was still the center of the world. No mall or mega center has ever been able to duplicate its uniqueness.

You could find anything you needed on Main Street, be it clothes, furniture, dishes, or just a friend. Service was personable, and once a salesperson waited on you, she knew you forever and called you by name. In my hometown there were great stores such as JC Penney’s, Sears, Mollie’s Dresses, Dell’s Corsets, Stapley’s Housewares, the Co-op for feed and lawn, Everybody’s Drugs, Rexall Drug, Newberry’s, Woolworth’s, and of course the hub was Valley National Bank.

There was magic in downtown and I didn’t mind Mother pulling me along to keep up with her step as we stopped in the shops she needed to visit. Of course she had to talk to everyone she knew, which was unavoidable because our town’s population was only 60,000.

My oldest sister had the very prestigious job of Soda Miss at Newberry’s fountain. I thought she was so grown up in her striped uniform and cap. The manager had sewn the uniform pockets shut so that the fountain help couldn’t keep tips. He believed everyone should share in the profits.

Stores closed by 7pm every night except Thursday, and then doors stayed open until 9. Everyone in town knew the schedule, and the teenagers especially enjoyed gathering at the soda counter or dancing in the record shop.

All shops closed for the Sabbath. The three drugstores rotated who stayed open for emergencies and pharmaceuticals. Even the religious diehards agreed it was the right thing to do.

The magic of Main Street was at its peek at Christmastime. Bells jingled in every doorway. Nativity scenes decorated display windows everywhere. Each department store employed their own Santa, or you could find a jolly fellow handing out candy canes on almost any corner. Groups caroled on the street. Holiday music rang from speakers, and no one was afraid to call out “Merry Christmas!”

Into my early teens, Main Street thrived, but just as nothing stays the same, the day of the mall arrived sooner than anyone really wished it to. JC Penney’s was the first to move into the mall. Slowly, through the years the other shops closed their doors or moved elsewhere. A sadness came over Main Street; a sadness for what was, for the happiness and community that was once there.

But alas, all things pass and new takes its place. Even those first malls have closed and been torn down, and newer, bigger, shinier malls have sprung up elsewhere. But for malls and all their spaciousness and shine, high fashion and prices, I’d trade them all for a friendly community downtown any day, where the salesperson knows my name.

Suspense & Expectations

by Terry Deighton, Guest Blogger

Liz Adair has something else to do or somewhere else to be, so she asked me to write her blog today. She has a habit of getting me into things. She got me into ANWA, so I will forgive her some of the others.

I like to go places, but I hate to fly, so it is with trepidation and excitement that I contemplate an upcoming trip. I am going to fly to Utah to go to Women's Conference with my daughter. Then I am going to fly to Texas and rent a car to tour my son's mission before he and I fly back to Washington. This trip symbolizes a lot of indecision that has been faced in our family lately.

The daughter in Utah graduated from BYU a year ago and spent the summer trying to get a teaching job in Utah while living in Washington. She felt inspired to stay in Utah, but she convinced herself that it was a joke and came home. The job didn't happen, so she moved to Payson, Utah and signed up to substitute and work retail in the evenings and weekends. Now she is looking for a teaching job for next year. She is applying here, there, and almost anywhere. Where is she going to end up? The suspense is killing me.

The son who is finishing his mission and his twin sisters who are graduating from high school all applied for various colleges. The suspense on Mom was excruciating. Finally, they all got accepted to every college they applied to. BYU answered last and stipulated that Matt and Randi come in the summer. That would give my son only a month at home after being gone for two years. It would also split the twins up sooner than they had thought especially since Renae will be in France when Randi has to be in Provo, so they won't see each other from mid June until mid August. Randi had a hard time deciding what to do, and we had to wait a week to get Matt's decision in his weekly email, so I had to wait. The suspense didn't kill me, but I thought it might. They have all decided to go to BYU where it's no secret Mom wanted them in the first place.

I think one of the things that make life changes so hard is dealing with our expectations. We worry a great deal about whether or not things are going to work out the way we expect them to. I had a real lesson on expectations when I went to the Bahamas with my mother and my husband. Mom just hated it at first. She had a hard time understanding the people. It was very hot. It wasn't a tropical paradise like the Hawaii she remembered from thirty years before. I, on the other hand, had no expectations. I had a great time. All I was looking forward to was getting away from my three little kids for a little while before the fourth one came and changed my life again. (That's the son who is finishing his mission if you were wondering how long ago this was.)

After we've prayed and made a decision, I think the best thing to do is try to form only those expectations that will allow us the flexibility to enjoy whatever happens. It does no good to worry about the bad that can happen or to dream up fantastic pie-in-the-sky possibilities. We certainly have to prepare ourselves for possible outcomes, but then, I am determined to just go with the flow now that the suspense is over! I'll leave the worrying to my husband; he's good at it.

ANWA in Tucson -- Meet Jennifer Leigh

by Rene Allen and Jen Leigh

Jen teaches kindergarten in Tucson, is an ANWA member, holds a Masters degree in Library Science and has recently been moved into a leadership position at her school. The following is her vision/position paper on Creativity.

Critical Creativity

My physicist husband had a conversation with his co-workers recently in which the subject of American creativity came up. In his lab, he works with people of many nationalities (in fact, he's the only native-born U.S. Citizen). Several of the workers mentioned that they had often observed that while they and many of their friends were excellent computational theoreticians, they collectively felt that many of the most innovative ideas came from their American counterparts. They then talked about their high stress childhoods and all of the intense studying they did at very young ages, and how they felt this may be the cause of their studious natures as adults. My husband talked of his childhood, and his fellow scientists were struck by the amount of free time he had had playing soccer and tennis, going to scout camps, goofing around in his backyard, and generally playing.

After discussing these ideas with my husband, I woke up in a panic last week with one question plaguing me...what is happening to our creativity? My mind raced through the seemingly infinite range of goods and services readily available to the American public. Birthday party stores, home decorating centers, .......... I wondered to myself, “What has happened to my own creativity? What have I done with my talents?”

I remember dance classes, piano lessons, art teachers, and the many opportunities I was afforded when I was a child. I also reminisce upon the things I did not have in my youngest years: store-bought clothes, instant pre-packaged foods, disposable diapers, electronic toys, and a myriad of other “necessities” I have so come to rely on in the raising of my own children.

I think of my mom who seemed always so strict, efficient, managerial, and polished. Although the bulk of my childhood took place in the 70's (a time rich with stirrings of liberated womanhood), my mom grew and canned her own fruits and vegetables, sewed our holiday dresses, packed our lunches with homemade bread and jam, and was known to decorate her home with paintings she'd painted, draperies and trimmings she'd sewn herself, and even furniture she'd designed and built. I say this not to make all of us feel inadequate in our liberated, enlightened state, but I mention it in terms of how much I miss the “do it yourself” ideal which she worked so hard to engender in her children.

I work each day with your precious children, and it gives me great pause to reflect on the spirit of creativity which I see alive in them. They do not fear making mistakes. If something is not exactly what they had first envisioned, they either begin again, or try something new. They transfer each new idea or concept into a new arena. I have seen a lesson on flight show up minutes later on the playground as children imitate birds. I have enjoyed watching bubble painting, yarn and construction paper kite creation, miming, playing “kitties and doggies”, superhero adventures, and the hammering and nailing and gluing of everything from wood to bottle caps to buttons to juice lids.

Several adults over the past few weeks have shared a similar thought with me. They have come into the Kindergarten room and marveled at all of the “kid-made” and “teacher-made” materials. Some have been confused and asked me, “What is this for?....I've never seen anything like it.” To clarify some of these questions: The huge red hanging thing is the students' “Ant Project” complete with “lags”, “abmn”, “torx”, and “hd”. Yes, the woven article on the wall is a rug, and yes, it does have a bird, pearls, ribbon, feathers, and other sundry things woven into it. The twig hanging from the ceiling above our art table DOES serve a purpose. It casts interesting shadows on our workspace and is an excellent place to hang shiny, tissue papery, and other artistic creations that might not get adequate billing if stuffed into a scrapbook immediately. We, as a Kindergarten class, are very pleased with all of our “Not-A-Boxes” which include a duck, a monster truck, a tunnel, a model house, and other fantastic creations. And finally, YES, we are aware that bicycle pieces are hanging from our ceiling (thanks to a recent field trip to BICAS, and our accompanying “wheel unit”).

I first came to this school with my older son 6 years ago. At that time I had little appreciation for the notable absence of worksheets, flash cards, memorization “drill and kill”, and other activities which were not a part of our academic day. Today, as I watch my second child flourish here, I gratefully acknowledge the vast creativity displayed by the parents, grandparents, staff, and community at large which is so evident within these gentle, nurturing classrooms and yards. I watch with wonder and hope at these precious children as they cover themselves with mud, scale trees to collect seeds, run with a chicken and a duck, smear paint on anything they can find, and then settle into a lap to enjoy a story.

I think of Mrs. R. demonstrating for us that cooking can be an art that children can enjoy (and still eat the final product). I think of Mrs. L. showing us how a juice cap becomes precious when a child's picture and a magnet are involved. I think of Mrs. S. sifting through second hand stores to find treasures for her classroom walls. I think of Mrs. Sj. and the variety of surprises and treasures that mysteriously appear in digging pits and gardens. I think of Mrs. B. and her math games (which parents always seem to ask ME first how to play...). I think of Mrs. W. and her tie-dye escapades with 18 Kindergartners simultaneously. I think of these women and other dedicated people who help this school be what it is and I have a feeling that despite the disposable diapers, prepackaged foods, and electronic toys that many of our children will ultimately experience, their creativity will still flourish because it was nurtured here at this school during the critical early development years.

I also quip that spending more time at this institution certainly has increased the flow of my own creative juices – the Kindergarten children have “Mrs. Leigh” thinking up silly songs in German again – something she hasn't thought to do for a very long time.

The Creative Process

by Joan Sowards, Guest Blogger

As writers, we can appreciate and understand the creative process. My son Ted has recently completed his first music video. It was fun and interesting to watch all that he, his brothers and friends went through to make it.

The song Ted chose, “Some Postman” by a group called the Presidents of the United States of America, is about a postman who is stealing the mail sent between a guy and his girlfriend. Having just completed a mission, he immediately thought of missionaries waiting for mail, any mail. He claims, “When you’re on a mission and you get no letters for weeks, your mind starts imagining reasons why, such as the postman is stealing your letters.”

Ted hashed out his ideas for months with his younger brother who is also a guru on the computer. Rex started the storyboard, but had to turn the project over to friend Lisa when he left on his mission. They made drawings for every 3-5 seconds of the song. Completed, that in itself was fun to watch.

He put a lot of thought into who should play the parts of the mailman, missionaries, and the girlfriend, and then extended the invitations. His actor cousin Marshal accepted the mailman role right away, and actress friend Holly took the role of the girlfriend, but filling the other parts wasn’t as easy. He was surprised that others didn’t have the same enthusiasm for his video. When there was nothing to see, support was hard to muster up.

He put out an invitation to all his friends and acquaintances to come on Saturday morning dressed in white shirts and ties (as missionaries) and to bring bikes. He was hoping for 20 and got 8. They filmed the last scene. He thought it would be the hardest and wanted to get it over first. The rest of the scenes took time, but didn’t involve so many people.

Filming took many days and they filmed every scene several times. Ted then came home and scrutinized each take, choosing the best for the final. Playing the music over and over for hours and using iMovie, he carefully fit the footage in where it belonged. The timing had to be perfect. “I never realized how long a second really was!” he declared one evening after working for hours.

He’d show the incomplete video to everyone who would watch, and all his friends who didn’t consider it worth their time to show up for the bicycle scene expressed regret that they hadn’t come.

Now that the video is complete and on Google Video and YouTube, it all looks like fun and games. There is no hint of its long and hard creative process.

If you’ve had a chance to see it, I hope it made you smile!
Joan Sowards

Click here to view video

Lorna's Five Things

by Lorna Hale, Guest Blogger

I just read everyone else’s blogs – I am impressed and excited to learn all the new things about everyone. Marsha, this is such a great idea. Now I just need time to read one more website everyday! :o)

Five things you don’t know about me. Hmmm

One, I am a stamp collector. I started collecting postage stamps when I was a young girl to be like my big brothers Ken and Michael. I have their old stamp book and have added stamps here and there over the years. I recently purchased a “Scott” stamp book with plastic holders so I don’t have to hinge the stamps. (It increases their value if they are not hinged). I specialize in US stamps only – and prior to 1960. Love the hunt for that one special stamp at the bottom of the pile, box or in a thrift store.

Two, I am a Bear Den Leader in my ward. I have been a den leader for over two years and probably will be for another 8 years. My Bishop in a recent interview said there are three “T’s: one was testimony, can’t remember two and three was tenure – “for ten years of service”. I tell you, I about choked on that one! Ten years as a cub leader – YIKES.

Three, I have earned my Wood Badge (another level of training for scouting leaders). I will receive my beads on February 10th. It is the completion of many hours of training and five tickets – kind of like merit badge items. I have been asked to function as a guide for one of the Wood Badges in October of 2007. It is pretty exciting. See, as I said I may never get released!

Four, I was raised in northeastern Indiana in a small town called Auburn. My parents were very fair minded and required girls and boys to cross train in their skills. My brothers all knit, crochet and sew and the girls (Connie Wolfe and I – yes we are sisters) can change tires, build garages and cut down a tree with a chain saw. My mother also butchered about 100 chickens every fall – and we included the entire neighborhood – Tom Sawyer style. We watched in excitement the chopping off of their heads and amazement as they flapped all over the fields without them. We then dipped their carcasses in boiling water and plucking the feathers out – and my personal favorite –we used a blow torch to singe the pen feathers off! I won’t even go into the time we butchered the pig.

Five, I have been married to the same guy for almost 35 years. Robert is an amazing soul with a huge capacity for growth. We have had a rocky marriage that required many excursions climbing the cliffs of life. Unfortunately the excitement is still breathtaking at times, with different family members standing on the edge of cliffs as they learn to traverse their turn on earth. Our marriage is solid now, and we are very happy. I sometimes wonder if I would change those years of struggle, but they have molded me into a woman who relies on the Lord for strength, the scriptures for guidance and my family for love. I am not sure that you learn the intense need for these three things without the trials in your life.

I live in Gilbert, Arizona and I manage to write sometimes. Mostly I spend my time working with my den (it’s like herding cats), working full time as a mortgage lender, part time real estate investor and of course ANWA takes a bit of time now that I am President of my chapter and the whole organization. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My mother always said it was “better to wear out than to rust out”. I certainly don’t sit still long enough to get any rust on me! Connie is getting me excited about genealogy again too. It has always been one of my dearest loves that has been sitting on the sidelines waiting for me to notice it again!

I would like to tag – Cathy Brundage.

Marsha's note: Cathy, please email me your message, and I will post it.

Another Tagger

by Joyce Smith, Guest Blogger

Tag - Playing tag is a game we used to love when my three siblings and I were kids on the farm in Tempe, Arizona. My younger brother and sister were born just prior to our family moving to Mesa from the farm, so they missed out on farm life. Dad farmed 38 acres (which is now all desolate looking industrial land overlooking the dry river bed just east of ASU). We would run from one end of the yard to the other playing tag, occasionally venturing out into the row of pecan trees or into the cow corral (which was NOT a good place to play tag). Mom especially wasn’t fond of our games through the corral, for she’s the one that did our laundry – mind you with an old wringer washing machine and a clothesline.

Writing five things that no one knows about me… hmmm now that’s a difficult request in some respects – but then it could be over in a sentence if we’re talking about things my ANWA writing group knows about me. – I’m shy, ya know.

1. Years ago when we lived in Oregon, I was Secretary in the Stake Young Women’s program for our church. I was privileged to attend girls’ camp with all of the girls aged 12-18 in the area, along with their leaders. Those who don’t know me well wouldn’t realize that I have a funny sense of humor. (I must have inherited that from my dad). This particular day Sue and I were in charge of seeing to the salad being served to the leaders. Donna was one of the main leaders whom everyone in the whole area knew and loved, including me. Donna had a great sense of humor and is one of those women whom everyone loves to be around.

Before needing to take care of the lunch that day, Sue and I decided to go for a walk. While walking we encountered a fun surprise in the wet grass. Light bulb moment - I told Sue that we should give this special surprise to Donna at lunch, so I carefully put it in my pocket, not wanting to ruin it. We eagerly went back to the lodge and started preparations for lunch. Fixing a fine green salad for Donna in a “to go” box, I carefully stuck the surprise in the yummy green lettuce among the tomatoes and other condiments. With everyone at the table being served I announced that since Donna was such a great sport and had been a terrific leader we had made a special salad just for her. Donna sat there beaming when I placed the boxed salad on the table before her. She opened it and the cute little green frog jumped onto the table then into her lap as though it had practiced the script and knew it perfectly! Donna screamed and hopped up. Someone caught the little frog and relegated him to the green grass outside where he belonged. This remembrance still brings a smile to my face.

2. I’m one of those people who weird things happen to. I’ve decided that’s one of my talents, because there aren’t many people who have the same cool and some not-so-cool things happen to them - well maybe a few, my daughters are starting to have this curse. You know, the one that always gets the bent fork, the bone in the boneless meat, the nut shell in the candy. One time my son told me the easy way to blow up an air mattress was to stick an empty paper towel tube on the end of the vacuum exhaust and stick the other end to the air mattress – he showed me how, then walked away. Within seconds I was screaming in pain and hanging onto my big toe. He came running over and asked to see (he later became a paramedic). When he finally convinced me to turn loose of my toe, we discovered that my toenail had been mangled by the vacuum when it had sucked my unsuspecting toe into its beater bar. Blood started running everywhere. Everyone sat around laughing at me – Sheesh what sympathy I get! Now I ask this, how many people can vacuum their toe up when not even vacuuming?

3. I hate filling out those talent surveys. I feel like people look at it and say, “Yeah right… no one could know how to do that much stuff.” This has especially been brought forth since we moved here. At church I’m one of the “ancient” women (my friends from High School, which I still run around with, lovingly call us “old bats”). I sit among “women” – some even younger than a couple of my grandkids! They, of course, have not had the years of experience that I have nor have they had to learn a bunch of stuff out of pure necessity – but still...

4. I love to read. I currently own huge bookcases my husband built me that are full of over 820 books -probably close to a thousand now. Is it any wonder I decided to try my hand at writing? I’m currently writing two novels, and six children’s books. I have a notebook full of poems I’ve written over the years, three of which have been published, because that’s all I’ve ever submitted. And I’ve written a play that was put on by people at church when we lived in Oregon. We’ve lived from Alaska to Spain and back again, having many treasured experiences along the way.

5. I asked my husband what was a little known fact about me that I could add. Do you know what he said? He said, “That you’re gorgeous.” I laughed and said, “Little known, huh?” Boy, that one is food for thought. But this compliment comes from almost forty three years of marriage, fun, tears, and laughter together - such a romantic!

In my years of life’s experiences I’ve learned a few things. One of the most recent of which is that you should NEVER try on bathing suits on your birthday UNLESS you are a size eight or smaller – which I most certainly am not!

I tag Rachel Trim.

Who I Am, But What You Don’t Know—Five things not necessarily in order

by Joan Sowards, Guest Blogger

1. I am a songwriter, but what you don’t know is, as a girl of about twelve years old, my friend and I were into Wanda Palmer music—big time. We loved playing and singing her songs. I was in awe that someone (not just someone, but someone I knew) could create songs. One day while leisurely walking home from my friend’s house, I looked up into the tall trees lining Westwood Avenue—probably humming “Consider the Lilies”—and a little voice said, “Joan, one of the greatest gifts God can give is the ability to write songs.” It wasn’t until years later that I realized the Spirit was preparing me. I am not a great composer, but I offer freely what I write at http://www.joansowards.com/

2. I am a wife and mother, but what you don’t know is that I got married at age 27 to a man I had known for years. It just took me that long to open my eyes and realize he was the one I should marry. I was looking for a tall, dark tenor. Well, it turns out that my tenor is a short, balding blond who can’t read music. I love him dearly.

3. I am a fiction writer, but what you don’t know is that I didn’t grow up knowing that, as did a lot of you. Even though I wrote poetry and lyrics, and enjoyed making up stories, I never attached the title of writer to it. I now know that writing is one of my favorite pastimes, and have written four novels. Haunts Haven is available as an ebook under my pseudonym at http://kerryblair.com/curiosity.php My first novel Bridges of the Heart was written because I was shoulder-deep into family history. One of my “end lines” was illegitimate and I longed to know the story of his beginnings. Through research, I found the name of a woman I believed to be his paternal grandmother and wondered what she would say in an interview. I began writing down what I imagined she said, and the story evolved from there.

4. I am a family historian, but what you don’t know is that I spent seven years consumed by it. I’d run to the Family History Center every spare minute I could find, stay up until wee hours of the night working, and even took a trip back east to visit the homeland. It is surprising that I also took care of babies and had dinner on the table every night during these years. After my trip back east, I came home thinking I was done with that line, with being consumed, and ready to move on to other things in life. But there was a presence in my home that I could not shake. It was like unseen people were following me around, talking to me all at once. I knew they were spirits from another line related to the one I had just “finished.” They cried continuously to me while I cooked, showered, played the piano, or just breathed, that they wanted their work done. Frazzled after three days of this, I went to my room, got into bed and threw the covers over my head. “Leave me alone!” I cried. “I promise to do your work!” The room suddenly became quiet. I kept my promise and have thoroughly researched and done the work for that line.

5. I am a daughter of God. You all are, I know, but I wanted to add it because it continues to amaze me. He has sustained me through the hardest times of life: the heartaches of youth, loosing boyfriends and best friends, leaving home, my parents’ divorce, my mother and mother-in-law’s passings—times that are well known to all of us. He will sustain all his children if we let him.

I want to serve him well through my family, songs and writing.

-Joan Sowards

5 Things

by Jennifer Griffith, Guest Blogger

This was a tough exercise. As I looked back over my life, it’s like a big blank, punctuated only by embarrassing moments. Darn! Nevertheless . . .

1) Disappointment Acres, my dad’s dairy farm in Idaho, is the name of my girlhood home. The brand is a backwards dollar sign. Like all farm kids, I had my chores, which mostly ranged to the unglamorous: whacking mice while I shoveled grain in the barn’s loft, and high-pressure spraying manure out of the milking parlor each morning. Still, I get nostalgic remembering the triumph of teaching a calf to drink from a bottle, or the smell of alfalfa while moving sprinkler pipe on a cool summer morning.

2) I once killed the prize houseplant of a U.S. Senator. For 10 wretched weeks I ineptly manned the front desk of Idaho Senator Larry Craig’s Washington, D.C., office. I did more things wrong than I can catalog, and my face burns red with shame at my lameness in every aspect of my employment there, but by far my worst legacy was the day I got bored and decided to dust EACH and EVERY leaf of the boss’s gigantic, blue ribbon Ficus. With Windex. All the other employees tried to gently urge me to “Let the Senator tend his own plant,” but no. I insisted I’d been the plant girl at Fred Meyer in college and I knew what I was doing. It shriveled, and I got a job in another office, and I’ll only be vaguely recalled as that chick who killed Larry’s plant.

3) At 33, I had the thrilling experience of a “version.” When my fourth baby was being born in Tucson, a last minute sonogram showed she was coming breach. They gave me the option of either trying to turn her or receiving an emergency C section. I went for the turn. A specialist came and pushed my Catherine’s head through my tummy while a nurse pushed her little bottom, and after a zillion silent prayers and a queasy-good while, she flipped. Hoorah! Thinking about it makes me want to throw up even now.

4) Despite the fact that I don’t have a risk-taking bone in my body, for one freak year, I went absolutely berserk. When I was 23 and just home from my mission to Japan, I went rock climbing in Moab, skied (and tore out my knee on the bunny slope), rappelled down a cliff (and got my hair dangerously caught in a carabiner), dug and slept in a snow cave (fighting claustrophobia for the entire miserable night), rode my mountain bike across the 13 mile causeway to Antelope Island on the Great Salt Lake—alone (and had to hitchhike home), and even bungee jumped (sort of—it was a ride at Lagoon). Who was that woman?

5) My GPA from college was .049 points too low for Summa Cum Laude at Utah State. It really, really, really irked me at the time. However, I’m now considering making myself a t-shirt with this number on the front: “3.9451,” and on the back the words: “Nobody Cares. Not Even Me.”

It’s funny how things change, and time goes by, and we forget, and things don’t matter, whether they felt mundane or exciting or important or scary or embarrassing at the moment. Time seems to dilute them all into a sea of life experiences. But now looking back, my life appears much more punctuated with moments of joy than embarrassment, and I see how good the Lord is to me.

Tag: Joyce DiPastena