Little House in the Valley

March 2020

My Dear Mice-

I wanted to make sure we would get rain, so I went out and carefully, deeply watered all my plants. (It DOES work every time. Either that or washing the car. The fact that the weather forecast says 80% chance of rain tomorrow is purely incidental to my expectations.) Bout time.

Tues Mar 10^th: Somebody wonderful had a bday today. Name rhymes with “era”. I texted her

Wed. Mar 11

Thurs March 12- a beautiful day in Southern Cal. COLD, dark grey, windy, and RAINY!!!

Fri March 13^th – another gorgeous day in So Ca: cold, grey, wet, and rainy. When I went out to get the newspaper with its “Stock Market Carnage” headline, far fewer cars were zipping past. A LOT of people are hunkering down at home lately… Home Hunkering is Happening. Hopefully, Happy Home Hunkering.

So. As you all know, Dad is Mr. Virus Freaker Outer. Good thing he’s been that way since it first became known, because he went out and got supplies when they were available. If you have trouble getting hand sanitizer, you can of course make your own with any kind of gel (aloe or ?) and (60-70% ?) non-ingestible isopropyl alcohol; or else alcohol mixed with white vinegar and tea tree – for a good hand cleaner you can spray onto hands, steering wheel, public surfaces like shopping carts, etc.)  But wouldn't it be better to put  "ingestible" ethyl alcohol on your skin?- which is harder to find in higher concentrations. The proof number is about double the actual alcohol percentage (in this country, anyway).

 Well, in these days of Covid seclusion (which are not that different from my previous days) I am now (and have actually long been) reduced to talking to: 1) myself, and/or 2) the cats. Should actually wear a mic and then sell the transcript to anyone researching abnormal psychology. Or normal psychology under abnormal conditions - (Something not even butter pecan ice cream would medicate?) Anyway, if you were a local dust bunny with ears, you might hear the humming of the refrigerator punctuated by, “Oh Kitty kitty there you are, bad wicked little thing. Why are you hiding up in the rafters when there are so many juicy rodents to be met. You’re sposed to go out there and earn your nummy. How about a nice juicy rat steak , now doesn’t that sound delicious. You’re such a lazy little Fat Fat – so what am I sposed to do about you” and on and on, at about the same level of profundity.

( Note: here the letter abruptly ends.  As well as the pile of TP (at Costco).  Wish we could say the same about Covid...and Crohns, and Cancer, and

12- 2017

 

Dear - ??? (This communication was apparently not originally addressed to anyone in particular.  Not even the fam? So let's consider it a letter to the universe. Therefore,) Dear Universe:

 

What’s with chocolate covered Biscotti. I bought some for Christmas, but nobody wanted any. So they’re a little dense and dry; so you might break a tooth. It has a nice subtle flavor and you can dunk it in hot cocoa about 53 times without it falling apart. Maybe the State of California should look into certifying it as an indestructible building material. Maybe people could keep one in their bag as an emergency weapon – or as traction in snowy country. Or if you lost your nail file, or needed a hammer, you’d be set. If any of you want any, just send me $129.95 for postage (hey it's heavy) and I’ll send you some. Individually wrapped and ready to go.

 

Last night was 12-31-17. We stretched feet to the fire with warm live cat-quilts on our laps, brainstorming blog posts. For once we didn’t go to bed with the chickens, but retired to our computers pecking away like one (two). I watched people in Times Square with frosted eyebrows wearing 80 pounds of clothing and trying to look jolly in the single digits. Out here on the best coast it was a balmy 44 (night)/ 64 (day). Then we put on jackets and went out to the front porch at 12:59, listening for pops and asthmatic fog horns. We kissed and hugged and I shouted “Wahooooo!” into the darkness. So that was New Years Eve. We didn’t formally open the front door, bow, and make a welcoming speech to 2018 - or weep and hold a funeral for 2017; but went back into the kitchen - where Dad looked around and intoned, “What do we have to eat?” Pause. I ventured, “How bout some – crackers?”… “(leftover) Leftovers?” He: “No, I think I’ll just go to bed. It’s not good to eat this late anyway.” I suspect that qualifies as a “boring old people” moment. But you’re only as old as you feel. (I’m not saying any more.)

 

We’d been invited to Lisa's amazing party next door at the White Mansion, and I RSVP’d we might show, depending on whether company had left. Guess we still felt overwhelmed by the company even after they'd gone (read about it in Kathy's SummaShare: "Grandkids have Left Siiiggghhh"). We could’ve dived to Dominic the DJ, cut grooves in her dance floor; hob-knobbed with happy neighbors (with happiness refills at the bar), and partaken of her 20? foot buffet. We could’ve appeared at the massive front door and hollered out to the 100 plus peeps, “We’re here! You can start now!” But then you wouldn’t be reading this, or our great-great grandchildren either. (Hi there, kids. BTW I hope the gene pool has been sufficiently successively enriched that some of you can rock the mic with a killer singing voice- unless there’s vocal cord implants under PelosiCare - or whatever.) (Pardon that.)

 

Jonnie spiffed up in jacket and tie for a 12-31 Young Adult fireside, with Breakfast at 11:00PM. (Their rockin dance was last night.) As he walked out the door, we yelled, “See ya next year!” (Need to think up a new corny thing we can only say on New Year’s, but none come to mind.)

 

This morning we discovered we have no idea where the 9-grain cereal is, and we own a bunch. They say if you can’t find something, it’s the same as not having it. (So by that logic, we don’t have anything. But all that nothing we have is taking up a lot of room.) I’d made my own, grinding up about 20 different grains, seeds, beans – but DH says it’s horrible. (maybe the 15 yr old sunflower seeds were rancid? Maybe pinto beans don’t belong in breakfast cereal?) But I will overcome (better than giving up and binge-watching Ben Shapiro run-in reruns while eating refined carbs.)

 

We met with some friends at a Japanese restaurant where you sit around a grill while the chef juggles eggs, fires 5-foot flames, and makes fried rice and meat with his dancing knives. The table is shaped like an L, so whoever sits at the ends gets no one to talk to – which was me. Mark was engrossed with the guy on his right (fresh intellectual meat.) So I spent New Year’s Eve minutely examining my food – as well as watching other people mouth inaudible but apparently side-splitting jokes across the loud table. After all that, managed to forget my box of leftover scallops and shrimp when we left. So, I rang out the old as an inadvertent wallflower (tableflower) with no riveting/or even companionable conversation, no leftovers for breakfast the next morning, and no (major) regrets. Except for the ones having to do with slacking off lately on my magnum opuses (or opera – if you want to look educated. That’s Latin. And not what automatically comes to my pedantic mind. But Felicem Annum Novum to all you peeps anyway.)

 

My new Annum’s resolution: Ad altiora tendo (I strive towards higher things)

 

via  Cacoethes scribendi (an insatiable desire to write).

 

To bulk up them opuses. And thus adieu to you – and you and you and you!

Dec. 18. 2018

 

Dear Mom,What I wrote to the kids: Feb. 7^th: Today is Peter Merriam’s birthday! This morning I made three trays of homemade bran cereal and started a bowl of Jacob’s Cattle beans soaking on the counter. Dad’s secretary Patty came, and we did filing and paperwork. She said she’d been cleaning out her closets and was so enthusiastic she got rid of the winter blankets she later wished she’d kept (so went to JC Penney and bought some more.) That’s the nice thing about being a Maximalist: you always have stuff when you need it. Now, whether you can find it is another thing. But hey, you HAVE it. (😊) The other night the bedroom was freezing (in the 50’s?) ever since we demolished the old master bathroom down to the studs and cold outside air was streaming in from under the house – leaking from the edges of a tarp we have hanging against the old bathroom wall. Dad taped the tarp tighter to the wall, and I rustled up a pile of wool blankets as thick as the Federal Registry. We hunkered down and didn’t die. It was great. Not so great is picking out remodel materials… The tile guy wanted $9,000.00 dollars to tile the new bathroom, so we’re looking at doing waterproof bathroom stucco/plaster for walls and ceiling, etc. – ourselves! These figures flabbergast me, and it was for labor only. Moreover, the flooring representative guy who drove up to consult in a new truck was wearing an expensive Patagonia jacket. I don’t even buy Patagonia for myself or my beloved ones – unless the deal of the millennium is to be had. We also don’t buy new trucks. We save our money for eggs and milk, and soap, and electricity. Well now, I couldn’t come right out and ask him how much he made, so tried chatting him up in clever stealth mode. “So, how you like working for (whatever co. it was)?” “They treat you decent?” and blah blah, so forth. I eventually learned he’d been working there for 15 years, and the money was “real good”. I imagine. Maybe Dad and I could both hire on as part time flooring reps, and retire in the lap of luxury – and wear Patagonia pajamas and drive trucks with such a strong “fresh from the factory” smell that we’d have to buy pine-scented air fresheners (or drive around with an open box of baking soda in the cup holder). Then we could install tile for a few hours every so often; to pay for a first class World Cruise, or fill up the gas tank here in Calizuela - whenever the mood struck. Life has so many possibilities, really.

 

This past week (Jan 30-Feb 4) we had serious rain. Dad got a picture of me standing outside underneath both an umbrella – and a huge perfect glowing rainbow. With a huge perfect smile on my rain-starved face. Need to send it to you, so you can put it on your frig with the caption, “There is Always Hope.”

 

Yesterday Jonson was here helping us fix the big iron front gates (which we should have had fabricated out of non-rusting but much more expensive aluminum). He’d cut out some rusted parts and welded replacement ones on, in heavier steel – then hauled them to Jose’s Sandblasting to get all the old paint zapped off, preparatory to repainting. He then went to pick them up and saw there was still a lot of old paint still clinging them, so told the dude firmly that they weren’t acceptable and he needed to run em through again. “You mean you want it down to just bare metal?” the dude incredulously asked. (We’re not sure what he’d been smoking, but it was obviously something with brain-impairing qualities.) Anyway, one look at Jonnie and you generally don’t get the urge to mess with him, so the guy ran it through again to his satisfaction and then he brought it home, where we had to prime and repaint it before any more rain happened. I helped him, and we labored together in the chilly air; wielding paint-laden brushes into pokey crevices and onto endless 4-sided skinny support bars, trying to not drip on the driveway or leave unsightly glops on the gate. It was hard work and took hours. I was wearing an old Goodwill cashmere sweater under my paint shirt, and it kept me toasty warm. Jonnie turned on Johnny Cash Radio via Spotify on his phone. I had to tie my braids up on top of my head to keep them from falling onto wet surfaces (at least I’d be able to say the white streak in my hair was just metal primer. For now, anyway.) I looked like a Russian peasant with puffy paint pants tucked into long rubber rain boots, and a long overshirt. If I’d added a low belt and grown a beard, I’d have been a dead ringer for Tolstoy. We chatted away about lots of random subjects, and I was reminded what a quick study Jonnie is: he laughs immediately at my jokes, and doesn’t screw up his face in ponderation first. He told me his own joke about the guy in Maine who lived real near the New Hampshire border. One day he had to have his property surveyed, and they told him lo and behold, he actually lived in New Hampshire. “Whew, what a relief!” he said. “I don’t think I could’ve taken another one of those Maine winters.” (That was the punchline.) He also told me that Mainiacs (who for some reason prefer to call themselves “Mainers” instead) refer to outsiders as people “from away”. We got several coats of primer on that baby, and when it’s completely dry (I) get to do it all over again with the final color (to match the brown beams on the front porch). We could pay painters to do it, but would probably have to sell some plasma first – in addition to taking out a mortgage on the nicely paid-off house. And who wants to pay painters an arm and a leg just so they can afford to have somebody else re-tile their bathrooms, and keep a two-story vacation beach house in La Jolla - or whatever else they do with all that money, anyway. (!)

 

Today is Jan 30 2019. This morning it was as dark as dusk, and then the rain came booming down with lightening. So delightful. The cats are indoors, and so bored they’re playing with a canning ring on the floor, batting it around. That sort of thing is generally (slightly?) below their IQ level. As Dad left this morning, I said to him, “I strongly advise you keep the sunroof on your car closed today.” “OK,” he said back. I’ve been puttering through the stripped down house, doing “housework”, which is like a bad case of mushrooms and keeps popping up anew every day. A screw on the washer drum assembly kept breaking off, and the repair guys said I just had it loaded too full, and he had to order a special new part from Singapore or wherever. Jonnie took one look at it and said the old screw was undersized, made of weak metal, and way “under-engineered” for its purpose - but that he could get a much stronger one down at the Stronger Screw Store or wherever, which he did. The Whirlpool repair guys had said they couldn’t remove the broken off part of the old screw (so they’d have to order a whole new $500.00 drum assembly), but Jonnie just got out his specialized getter-outer-tool and did it in seconds. You’d think those guys worked for the gub’mint or something, the level of competency and resourcefulness they displayed. Which is why Jonnie could never work for the gub’mint: he’s way too smart and resourceful.

 

Speaking of whom, he’s in Bakersfield this week helping David with a “big job”, though he hasn’t officially moved all his stuff out yet. I can’t wait to hear all about little “Emmie” and etc. Now we have: Elizabeth, Ella, Emma, and Emmie. (The other two being “A babes”, Alexis and Annabelle… the former preferring Alexis to being called “Lexie”, btw – though she’s forever ingrained in Grandma’s brain as Lexie- or “Lekkamekkers”, my nickname for her.) When the last two come to visit, we’ll have to holler “EmMA! And EmMIE!”, to get their attention with the last syllaBULL. Now Michelle will have to name her little girl either an E or A name, and ditto Meg if it’s a girl.

 

I just texted Uncle John some suggested/guess-ed Maine dates, as we don’t have our summer work schedule yet. It seems everybody else in the fam is either retired or can just say a year in advance, “I’m outta here on such a date”. WJM asked me to get back to him by the first week of January, for an August vacation on Nicatous. Which is frozen over right now, for goodness sake, just like our brains – but that would not suffice as an answer. John would have made a wicked good forensic accountant, as he runs a tight shop with all the t’s crossed and i’s dotted. I apologized for making his eyes roll in frustration and being a flakey big sis for not getting his dates by Jan 7, said we didn’t want to be on his “coal in the stocking” list, and informed him that winter had officially arrived in Southern Cal: “We had to close all the windows a few times.”

 

1-31-19

We also turned on the heat… it was a chilly 60 degrees in the house this morning with furnace off, and 62 degrees outside today: 120 degrees higher than Lake Michigan (or wherever?) with its -60 degree windchill factor.

 

I tried to take a rare nap this afternoon, as my energy just went poof. Got all comfy on the bed in the usually sunny southwest bedroom (Jonnie’s old room), snuggling under a wool blanket and closing my eyes with a happy sigh. Then, due to the fact that all the interior bedroom, bathroom, and hall closet doors have been removed to make room for new ones, the room was wide open to the rest of the house and all of a sudden I had company. Blanco, our fat blue-eyed Siamese-looking kitty, jumped up on the bed and started walked over me, looking for a soft place to roost. (Blanco spends most of his life looking for a soft place – when he’s not first at the trough.) Then he snuggled up 1/16^th inch from my face and started vigorously contorting his body and giving his round white tummy a bath with his tongue; in the process, brushing my face with his 4 - inch whiskers. Meanwhile, I had my hands folded over my stomach under the blanket, and moved my fingers ever so slightly. He thought they looked like a little animal, so pounced on them. This did not increase my level of relaxation. After a while he decided the other side of me looked more comfy, so he plodded over me again … and I decided to give up the nap. (It was too late to shoo the cat outside because of hungry coyote sitings after the fires.)

 

I hadn’t heard from Davis for a while, so “rang up” Meg and she sounded deep and growly with a little throat virus, but said all is well. The Emmanation was at pre-school (dressed up in her super woman costume?) for “dress-up day” as a reward for something or other. Justin is looking forward to getting sent to Panama? next month by the US Airforce, for four weeks of intensive Spanish language immersion training. Unfortunately he’s not able to stay with a host family, so will sleep in a hotel. Margaret says she’s feeling better some days, and has decided the light at the end of her tunnel is not an Eternal Nausea Train after all.

 

Fri Feb 1: I need to call Jenna – her parents are leaving today, I hear. Jonnie said that baby is cute as a frosted cupcake with double sprinkles. I hope Landon has decided to protect her with his “big muscles” instead of putting her in a Fed Ex box and sending her back to the cabbage patch. (there was some concern he wouldn’t want to give up the Baby Throne.)

 

Two Random beefs I have: when they portray a temple groundbreaking, they always show the authorities lined up with shovels in front of a previously roto-tilled strip of church-owned real estate… rototilled a gazillion times to the consistency of fine sand. (Or do they actually remove the hard soil and pour in fine sand???!) I say the roto-tiller actually did the groundbreaking, so what’s up with that? Are we not able to heft our muscles and actually shove a shovel into the ground??? It’s important and appropriate to celebrate the ground breaking of a massively important undertaking with the token of some real symbolic physical effort. Let’s huff and puff and push down hard at that shovel individually, instead of paying a church gardener to lean into some foreign-built tiller for our collective delicate (photo-op?) convenience. Individual struggle and individual experience are at the heart of both the gospel and the temple, after all. ! Beef aired. #2: I have a problem with less than reverent portrayals of the Savior, even – and especially – in church publications! In the Friend, CARTOON!!! images of God the Father and God the Son are sometimes used. I definitely don’t think They should be presented in that trivializing way. Children are very impressionable regarding qualities (or lack thereof) implied by illustrations, and I contend that the Savior should NEVER be presented in the same way as “our good buddy Steve”, or a heroic “GI Joe” in white robes. In fact, few portrayals of Him are ever sacredly acceptable in my opinion. Even the picture on P. 37 of February’s ensign struck me as unsatisfyingly “off”, in that it seemed almost like a flash freeze of a GIF image- without majesty or power - or divinity or depth in the eyes. (Which is the hardest to achieve.) It didn’t seem inspiringly authentic. (And great art should touch, transport, or transform us in some way.) In My (humble) Opinion, only the most sensitively, sublimely, (and prayerfully) created photos/paintings should ever illustrate Diety. Granted, peoples’ responses to illustrations are culturally influenced and subjective, so what touches one may ring hollow for another. Anyway, that’s off my (thankfully cough-free) chest. (!) Of course, it’s easier to tear down than to build up … easier to criticize than create. So I of course criticize and tear away. As if the world needed more focusing on what’s wrong rather than right; on what divides instead of what unites. Way to go Kathy. (Or should I just direct all that to the poor Church editorial committees, who I’m sure are trying to do the best they can?!)Michelle is on a roll to eat healthy; we all asked Sarah for her favorite delicious healthy recipes.

 

Dec 18^th 2018Christmas is a week away and I have 39 loaves of sourdough bread rising on the counters. You read that right. And a pile of 34 extra bread pans I’m not using. (not the right size for this project). Did you know you had such a strange daughter???! Didn’t realize til I counted myself. (Have collected many in mint condition from thrift stores through the years, as people are forever starting a baking hobby and then giving it up. The original 15 came from that baking shop in Nashville you liked so much.) We’ll be giving it out instead of sugary treats for the holidays. People usually need another sweet, tooth-rotting, hip-busting goodie this time of year like they need a hole in their roof… so I try to change it up a little. (Of course there are always SOME who say they’re not eating carbs anymore, but thank you anyway – can you imagine. My bread is not carbs, it’s SOURDOUGH – which is a whole ‘nuther food group entirely.) The only safe thing to give such people is a vine-fresh heirloom tomato or salad greens still moist with dew, but we don’t have a greenhouse … though I DID pick a handful of little cherry tomatoes the other day when I went out to harvest mint and “yerba Buena” (therapeutic “good herb” – related to mint) to dry for organic tea, and oregano to dry for the spice jar. Had already harvested my own licorice-y fennel seed, which tastes so amazing sprinkled over pizza. (We had a huge feathery perennial fennel plant that’s purring away in its comfortable garden spot.)

 

I don’t dash off as many newsy letters as I’d like, since I realize you like to forward them and that makes me conscious of their being more public than private, which makes me think I need to edit them more -which I don’t always have time or energy for! Otherwise somebody might get their feelings hurt by my over- candidness and tendency to blurt out things that might be better left unblurted “. (Guess some of Mark’s outspokenness has rubbed off after 44 years of wedded bliss.) I know you kindly sift out the real intent, but am not so sure everybody else can. (You’ve known me longer than anyone – and I know we were talking earlier about certain members of the family chewing us out and getting their feelings hurt about things.) It’s always nice to be able to write to you, because I know you understand us. Anyway, I’ll try to write a more general newsletter for New Years for the rest of the family – though this one is for you and the kids as well.

 

Pause. Just filled three ovens with bread and the house is smelling wonderfully like a city bakery on a cold hungry day.

 

Pause again. Just took out the first batch and immediately ate a slice with grassfed butter and fig jam – as close as “food for the gods” as it gets (outside your kitchen, that is.) Hadn’t had anything to eat yet today, except a glass of green smoothie (I make a big jugful with: homemade kefir, a ton of “power greens”, golden flaxseed, pineapple or passionfruit for zing, a handful of dried apricots and currants, half a banana, maybe some apple, and a tiny speck of monkfruit powder for sweetening.) It feeds your cells and keeps you from aging (quite so fast.)

 

The recent fires probably destroyed natural habitats, so one night Jonnie saw a skunk by the back door, and then soon thereafter Mark saw a ‘possum by the front – as well as a very skinny, hungry looking coyote trotting down the road in front of the house (usually they sleep during the day). Now we keep the front gates closed so coyotes will have a harder time getting in if they see our juicy cats. (Did I ever tell you about the time last year that I saw a whole family of (maybe 6?) little skunk siblings walking “arm in arm”, tightly marching side by side in a perfectly straight line that rigidly moved like the arm of a clock every time they changed direction, all staying connected at the elbow and facing the same direction when some invisible command caused them all to move – while staying in complete formation, the outer ones swinging in wider arcs so the line would remain intact and straight. It was the most curious thing I’d seen…. Ran in to call Mark so he could see it too (and grab my phone to take a video), but by then they’d disappeared behind the side shed.

 

Sorry to hear about Glenn Feather’s passing, but it is a blessing to him I imagine. I’m glad we visited with him in October, when he grabbed my hand and told me some jokes, and then rolled up his pajama legs and showed off his two new (white, smooth) knees, kicking his legs into the air to show us how well they worked.! I’m sure you’ll be a good supportive neighbor to Jean. I remember Glen was so proud of his “singing dog” (which really DID sing along to Happy Birthday and a few other songs), and was tickled to have his pothole-filling work honored on social media. He told me how impressed he was that David had once worked so hard to help him process a deer(?), and sent some venison home for him. Once he made you guys a wooden end table; “because I promised them I would”, he said. He also gave me a Glen Feather-signed wooden wine bottle “balancing suspension holder”, for lack of a better name. You insert just the right size bottle into a hole in a piece of wood with its bottom sheared off so it leans at a 145 degree angle when the bottle counterbalances it sticking out horizontally the other direction. Quite the thing, but you have to find just the right sized bottle. Of course there was his group of CB buddies and the horrible prank he had me play on poor “Senor Porky” all those years ago (pretending to be from a South American country so he could brag about how far his radio was ranging.) I hope poor Mr. Porky will forgive me in the next life. (!) Glenn also drove our school bus through many a snowy road, and didn’t once wrap the thing around a tree. I also remember the time he and Jean invited us to come taste some fried woodchuck (or was it possum?), and about an hour or so before the event we heard a big BOOM up in the field, which was Glen dispatching dinner. (I could NOT bring myself to taste it, but pushed the food around on my plate as diplomatically as possible. I also remember another time you invited them to dinner and were convinced that Glen at least had eaten before coming, as he also pushed his food around.) Of course Glen was a real mountaineer with his guns, and nicked away at the local wildlife – including, unfortunately, a lovely wild red fox you so enjoyed seeing in your field (out of which he shot it, right or wrong.) This past fall he recalled that Mark was the out-of-state dude who years ago got his fancy new 4wd Landcruiser stuck in the local woods and had to be fished out with Gramp’s tractor; it’s always charming to be so remembered. He introduced everybody to ramps, and liked limburger cheese – to his family’s olfactory chagrin. He always loved to sit and “chaw the fat”, and I think was disappointed when people always seemed to be running around with a million urgent “to dos” and didn’t take time to “sit”. In various visits throughout the years I had also asked him about growing up on your farm, and he told me his mother was big on their going to the Cuzzart church, but as a kid he wasn’t too keen on the idea (as Gram PGBM used to say). (How could anyone endure a sermon when the sky was blue and there was fun to be had?) He also said people would play good Halloween tricks, like propping a frozen dead horse up in front of somebody’s door, etc. Some day I will find the notes as I clean out my files, and be able to finish the “Glen Feather Saga”. R.I.P.Dec. 19^th? year?

 

I went around this afternoon delivering some of the bread, but didn’t find many people home.- except the Porters, who were putting up Christmas lights before all their kids arrived in stages. I said we had them beat: our lights had been up since before LAST Christmas, since we’d left them wrapped around a couple tree trunks in front all year. (oh dear.)

 

I tried calling you this morning to discuss the upcoming economic downturn some analysts are predicting (of course we can never be sure), and to remind you to consult your financial advisor if any tweaks need to be made to your portfolio. Mark counsels keeping your good dividend paying stocks, as of course you need the income and if the companies are strong they should keep paying dividends. Update: you just called me back, all exhausted from grocery shopping, which is such an ordeal for you. What you need is the service Sarah and Michelle have: They order groceries online, which are delivered straight to their door an hour or so later. Mish’s personal shopper person even calls her if the item’s not available, to see if she wants a substitution. It’s only available in certain big urban areas, which may not include Cuzzart quite yet… OR Santa Rosa Valley, which is apparently too far out in the boonies for same-day banana delivery.

 

We visited the Clarks in early December. That little Elizabeth is what Mark’s mom would have called a “real doll baby”, with her big “beamy” smile. She’s the resident floor cleaner, scooting all over and just at the verge of walking. If there’s a germ, she’s put it in her mouth – along with Momma’s fresh veggies etc. that Sarah grinds up on the spot for instant baby food. Sarah says she’s the most expressive little thing, and if she doesn’t like something will give her Momma the biggest scowl. (!) Annabelle is constantly wearing Princess clothes and fluffy tutus, and plays outside with her big brother – preferably with a jacket on and zipped in cold weather.! Poor Sarah – I was constantly lecturing her how her kids needed a thicker jacket on – and she bore it very patiently, as they were obviously thriving. Annabelle falls asleep listening to Mozart and classical lullabies, and loved reading stories on my lap. Ethan is also soooo interested in EVERYTHING, and wanted me to read to him all about pirates. ( I tried to gloss over the gory parts so he wouldn’t get nightmares.) They love to be “put to bed” – a solid ritual of songs, prayer, books, hugs, stories about the time Grandma was little and had to walk to school through icy snow barefoot with wild Indians lurking behind every rock (or something equally riveting); tucking in, another story, another song, etc. etc. Those Clark kids get so lovingly put to bed (by both parents) that they should be as well adjusted as the valves on one of Uncle Jonnie’s trucks. Elizabeth also gets soothed into dreamland, but never stays that way- for long. That poor baby’s allergic to sleep (or else something in her diet which upsets her tummy, but they can’t figure out what.) As a result, Sarah sometimes calls me to help her stay awake while driving. While we were there, the Clarks took us to a cool (literally) indoor ice show, and then went ice skating with their kids while we watched their gear and took movies. On the way home there was light snice in the air (part snow, part ice.) Nice snice. Then one evening a babysitter materialized and they took us out to dinner at the local club (passing huge mansions, one of which, sadly, was the recent scene of a horrible double murder of wife by husband - and then of husband by defensive father-in-law. Which goes to show money doth not buy family harmony.) We – make that I – cracked jokes with the poor young waiter, who humored us – make that me – as professionally as possible. (Ex: when he asked if there was anything else he could get us, I said, “investment advice.” He said they could use that themselves.) Anyway, I had the most lovely, memorable, delicious creamy grits (barely distinguishable from mashed potatoes?) with roasted shrimp. It may seem silly to make such a fuss over something as homely and carborific as grits, but 1) I didn’t have to make them myself, 2) I was hungry, and 3) they really were good - and tongue-slitheringly creamy. (I had always had them more coarse and chewy. Goes to show I don’t get out much.) When we returned home: the babysitter was not tied up, the children were all alive, the upstairs bathtub had not overflowed through the ceiling, no appliances had been disemboweled with their wires hanging out, and nothing had been burned down. All in all a successful evening. Another day we made (Aunt Roseanne’s) sugar cookies (I rolled out the dough and the kids gleefully jabbed their cookie cutters smack dab into the middle of it.) Sarah sent a plate home with their biweekly (LDS) cleaning lady from Mexico (whose husband had had a bad construction fall with several subsequent surgeries and still in pain). Sarah thoughtfully shares unneeded possessions with them. I tried to talk her into keeping some lovely serving dishes she had in her hutch. (She happened to be going through an “anti-possessions” jag.) Good thing I was there, or else she might have given away the couch and beds, and we would all be sitting and sleeping on the floor. Anyway, this great purging of possessions seems to occasionally (or perpetually?) possess all of my children, and has me greatly afeared for when I go to that great roomy Storage Barn in the sky. (or wherever it is they think I’m going.) I fear all this wonderful junk I’ve so carefully collected for decades will get tossed into the first rent-a-dumpster they can lay their hot little hands on. It’s called “purging”, like gastrointestinal upset. Toss toss, toss toss. Toss toss toss toss toss. Down to the bare Zen “essence”. No pausing to ponder, remember, savor. No respecting tradition; only Marie Kondo – that cute little black-banged Japanese organizer who tells people to only keep what truly brings them ecstatic joy, and nothing else. (She has people toss out 10-20 or 50? bags of stuff, plus ALL their papers; and keep only 5? books max …while folding their few remaining clothes into neat little origami shapes and even dry and put away the soap and shampoo after every shower. There’s a perpetual conflict between minimalists and Maximalists (like in government, for goodness sake). I just happen to be the poor lone Maxi in a whole family full of raving Minis. Pray for me – and my endangered, dust-gathering, “spirit-stifling” stuff (mostly books). Note: Justin said (in essence) that some day when I go into assisted living, he’d be happy to give my better books a home. Well, A) I don’t want no assisted living; I don’t have “better” books; I only have “best” books; and C) we all love Justin for his incredible goodness, and hope he knows this is just a good-natured “razzing”. Anyway, I’m (thinking of) putting a clause in the will that if the kids want all the money we’re leaving (or not leaving), they have to take (and preserve) the books as well- or else the money goes to either the “re-elect Trump” campaign, or the “elect Hillary” campaign; whichever one brings their blood to a quicker boil. (or the corresponding politicians in the year I graduate. Assuming we’re still having elections that far in the future.) Am I a wicked parent or what. (And of course Mark will outlive me, so he better retain the stipulations – or I’ll come back to haunt him.)

 

Back to our wonderful magical pre-Christmas visit with the Clarks. Went to their Stake Conference in a hotel conference room on Sunday, and I looked around for anyone with a grey head we might remember – but saw no one! I spent most of the meeting out in the hall with Elizabeth. Sarah said to just let her crawl on the floor, but I couldn’t bear to let my precious granddaughter make contact with such a promiscuously germy public carpet. So I carried her up and down, up and down, looking at all the photos on the walls, til my arms were almost numb. Fell asleep on Ethan’s bed later while I was reading him a story. One night they fired up their outdoor heaters and made a fire in their outdoor firepit, where we roasted marshmallows for s’mores. One morning there was just enough snow on the ground to scoop up into one nice snowball – so I did, and charitably handed it to my dear grandson - who then promptly threw it smack dab back at me. I still love him, even if he can be a hooligan toward senior citizens.

 

The Clarks went to Colorado for a Clark family Christmas; Chris’s sister has a massive house that holds everyone.

 

Rest of the month:

 

Sunday Dec. 23^rd Our ward had a good one hour Christmas service, followed by snacks and socializing in the cultural hall. When they invited the men to all come up and sing a carol, I told Jonnie the reason they do that is so that people who participate will get much more out of it. (Dad was fighting a cough so didn’t go up.) When they invited the women to come up and sing Away in a Manger, Jonnie smilingly hissed that I should want to get more out of it, so I trotted on up and hoped there would be enough loud capable altos to drown out my off notes. Everyone was hustling to stand on the back row so they wouldn’t be visible. Women are so modest. I also hankered after the back row, but saw that it was hopeless, so bravely took a stand right up at the front and let the others be shielded from public scrutiny by my intrepid self. I was wearing a red dress and red sweater with a very glittery holiday crystal bead necklace I picked up at one of my places, so felt very shiny and spectacle -ish, but wanted to sing out for the Savior - so bucked up and swallowed my native dislike of being front and center, and tried with all my heart to sing enthusiastically and stay mostly on key. It was a very moving, memorable experience. “The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me”, the Lord says in D&C..? (I hope we were righteous.) Anyway, singing can be a very touchingly spiritual experience. I highly recommend it to all – even those who might never contribute more to the MoTab than nervous body heat (and would never pass the first tryout). Sis. Cindy Wright gave an excellent talk about the reason for the season, and I’m embarrassed I can’t recall particulars, but it was very good and brought the Spirit.

Afterward, we stayed and visited.

 

We took Andrew and Lexie down to the Doziers in LA for dinner and the Temple Christmas lights (the rest of the family either had a cold or couldn’t go for some reason). As we rolled down the 405 freeway in the white Ford F250 pickup, with 5 of us up front and an old Amish rocker strapped upright in back amid other boxes of stuff (for Michelle), we only needed a crate of live chickens, a bedroll overhead, and some buckets strapped to the sides to be the Beverly Hillbillies. Mishie and Paul are renting a clean little 3 BR house in a nice tree-lined neighborhood just down the freeway from the Temple. She had a cookie-smelling candle flickering in the living room, and a real live Christmas tree (dropping real live needles, as Paul wryly pointed out.) Everything was immaculate and orderly. The hot potatoes were ready to mash, the green beans were waiting to be steamed, and the pumpkin pies sat neatly in their corner. We carried in a pan of deboned turkey (straight from the slow cooker), plus gravy and a few other things (some fresh pears and grapes, some sourdough bread and oatmeal rolls from the freezer, some “healthy” brownies (half mix, half low carb flour and cocoa sweetened with monk fruit powder, which is tons sweeter and more concentrated than sugar); and some sugar cookies. Mish had also bought a lemon meringue pie and made crescent rolls. (All the food detail because we know you like it!) Dave and Jenna came with their Swedish exchange student, Astrid (who said the huge marble statue of the Christus in the Visitors Center (in front of which every group wanted their picture) looked a little “eery”!) She tried to listen to the explanatory recording, but so many people were visiting that evening the chatter drowned it out. We had explained to her about Christianity before, at Thanksgiving. I sent home a gingerbread kit for her to assemble with the boys. Those little munsters are SOOOO sweet, and with a little cajoling Landon gave “Gramonster” a hug. (that name, coined by David, may not exactly improve my appeal in their eyes.)

 

Recently I saw Grayper (our gray kitty) licking his chops. Our cats never lick their chops after eating their boring cat food, so I saw he’d been eating a Christmas cookie off the counter. But I didn’t have the heart to spray him with water from the “Feline Discipline” spray bottle Mark insists on keeping by the sink. Grayper’s the one who always climbs onto my lap and purrs while I type, or leans on my back and rubs his nose into my neck. Whipe Whipe (Blanco, the half white one) also jumped up onto the table and started eating our potted pygmy date Christmas tree (strung with little lights). Cats may have mental problems. ?

 

Dec. 24^th: For Christmas I cleaned house for Mark, and created as many nice uncluttered horizontal surfaces as possible. This is necessary for his mental health, because he has so much mental clutter from everything he has to keep track of, physical clutter on top of it gets too oppressive. If I were really as bad as those poor hoarder people on TV, he would have gone berserk long ago. I actually like looking at those hoarder shows every so often because they make me feel better about myself: especially the one where they were shoveling the lady’s rotting stuff off her floor and found the skeleton of a long-dead cat underneath. Even I’m not that bad. If I had a dead cat under my stuff I would know it. I also thinned out and organized all the shirts in Mark’s closet, which have been a daily irritant to him as they were all smooshed together haphazardly, with things he never wore anymore. It’s the little things that irritate or elevate us.

 

I love little flickering electric candles in dark corners at night. We have one beside my old painting of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, atop the piano for Christmas.

 

On Christmas Eve, I made Mark and Jonnie either some Japanese noodle bowls or homemade pizza – can’t remember which! (we get Costco cheese pizzas and load them up with extra veggies, chicken sausage, salmon burger, grassfed cheese, sauce, etc. Mark’s not eating beef these days as he thinks it’s not that healthy for him.) Then we dressed up and left about 10:00 for a Catholic midnight mass at the Padre Serra diocese on the picturesque hill off of Upland in Camarillo. Mark wanted to go to a midnight candlelight service somewhere. It was such an interesting and even touching experience: the music of the choir was literally HEAVENLY (accompanied by a little orchestra), and we all sat “in the round”, in rows of chairs set in a sort of pentagon around a center stage where the ornately robed priests (including some women) said and sang the program and liturgy with amazing voices. After some of the musical pieces, the congregation clapped, which we were of course unaccustomed to. The congregation sang along at times, and processions of young people in long brown robes walked through the huge domed room several times holding tall crosses and candles. (There was a massive crucifix hanging high from one corner, which I thought might be a frightening sight to small children.) They blessed and offered the bread and wine (the latter from a common cup, the rim of which was wiped clean between parishioners – and the rest of the germ prevention supposedly from the alcohol content of the wine?!) People who desired it formed lines to take the sacrament. (We of course had previously taken our own sacrament on Sunday.) They passed the plate, and Mark gave a modest offering. Others put in checks which probably represented their year’s contribution (much like our tithing, though probably not as great a percentage?) At one point in the service we were invited to reach out to our neighbors and greet them with the goodwill of fellow believers, wishing them well in the Lord. I turned to Dad on one side, and to Jonnie on the other, and gave them hugs. Then a very stooped older man next to Dad (who had been listening to the whole service with very rapt and reverential attention) reached out and offered his hand, and we also turned and shook hands with a large Asian family behind us. Some people were in nice jeans, while others were dressed more formally. At one point in the service a jolly priest invited all the little children to come up (I found myself hoping his personal life was completely circumspect.) A fair number of kiddies materialized for the lateness of the hour. He asked how many had been good that year (lots of hands went up), and if any had been naughty (one little boy threw up his hand and was commended for his honesty. Everybody roared.) He reminded them that we were celebrating Jesus’s birthday, and at birthdays, we give presents to the celebrant (or celebrator). So what were they going to give Jesus this year for his birthday? And they talked about being kind and forgiving to those who were difficult or lonely, etc etc. and treating everyone with respect, the way Jesus did- and the Good Samaritan, etc. I can’t remember all the advice, but it was pretty much “spot on”. The only time anything was said that sounded counter to what we believe was when they quoted Ephesians 2? about our works not getting us to heaven, but the grace of God - which of course we believe, but we also believe that faith without works is dead, and that doing God’s will increases our desires for good and therefore what we will experience in the hereafter. The Book of Mormon does say that even after all we can do we will still be unworthy servants (King Benjamin?), but it also says we need to repent and harden not our hearts or be led away by flattering (politically correct?) words; bear one another’s burdens; trust in God to be supported in our trials, and – most crucial today – stand up for our liberties with Captain Moroni, my favorite hero. In case you didn’t know. Which of course, of all people, you do – with your inspiring daily chunk of personal study before braving the steps down.

 

Christmas Day Dec. 25^th: The Belzes were having a quiet Christmas at home (having the missionaries for dinner), so it was just Jonson and his parents here at home. I got out all our best crystal, china, candles, and silverware (we have some sterling I actually bought at a thrift store! Because otherwise we’d be content with our perfectly good stainless steel set bought in New York years ago at Bloomingdales.)

 

Today, Wed. Dec. 26^th –Christmas is over and Mark went back to work today – and after morning housework, I went out to the front porch and lay on the swing in the sun, just listening to the distant rumble of planes and cars and the tweet of birds, the gurgle of the fountain, the breeze in the treetops, the thoughts in my head. Watched a little white butterfly flit between the honeysuckle and the giant Bird of Paradise. Closed my eyes and let myself swing. It was a Thing.

 

Thurs. Dec 27^th:Mish and Meg wished us a Happy 43^rd anniversary! Only 7 more years and it’ll be half a century. Nobody knows me as well as Mark, and nobody knows him as well as me. We’ve grown together – and not in the waistline. (OK, so that too but not so much?) And we’re best friends. So it’s good.

 

Jan 11^th FriToday I made 39 more loaves of sourdough, to give to the people we missed over the holidays, and have in the freezer for when the kids say, “Mom, can you bring some sourdough?”Mark went alone to help clean the church tonight, as it was our turn but I still had bread in the oven (it rose slower than I expected and besides it takes time to bake 39 loaves, even with 3 ovens.) He cleaned the whole cultural hall, which had been stampeded by a herd of very muddy buffalo- or something like. That was a lot of mopping. Usually he volunteers to clean the bathrooms, since no one else wants to. I usually get stuck vacuuming the 50 acres of crumb laden carpet on the premises, spending most of my time trying not to suck up the mile-long cord which must of necessity be strung out because there are about as many electrical outlets in the building as there are beer dispensers. (well, a few more.) Which inspires me to rant about the architectural deficiencies apparent after the last major meetinghouse remodel – which all seem centered in the women’s bathroom, with its nice roomy handicapped accessible stall, alongside one the size of a breadbox, in which anyone larger than 10 pounds will experience “diffliculties” (as Gramps would say). Many a poor woman has walked out rather than attempt it. (Seriously, one perches perkily upon the porcelain pedestal with dislocated knees jammed painfully into the door – more or less.) Then there’s the creaky towel dispenser knob, which must be manually cranked up and down with wet fingers for about 30 minutes in order to obtain 3 inches of grade z paper. It’s really quite unsanitary and unsatisfying, but then it was no doubt a man who a) designed it, and b) selected it. Then there is the inevitable dirty diaper in the trashcan, which always adds such a nice ambience to the air. Men don’t have dirty diapers in their restroom. (grumBLE)I just read in the paper that the oldest woman in the world just died in Ohio, and her family attributes her long life to her eating a sweet potato every day. Man, I would sure use that statistic if I were marketing sweet potatoes.Yesterday I was running errands and spotted a new little thrift store dedicated to the saving of animal lives, so thought I’d pop in and possibly patronize. Ended up buying a little framed print of a slobbering pig with the caption “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and it annoys the pig.” It’s really quite choice, and now my children have something else to fight over when I go to that great “hammock under a summer tree with a good novel” in the sky.(This is where the unfinished letter ended. So, I’ll add, Love, KP!)

Feb. 5, 2002

Dear Mice,

I went over to the Sycamores’ today to drop off some bags of stuff to add to their DI pickup pile, and she invited me to look through her huge “give away” pile of books. You will be impressed to know I only took 3. I must have acquired self discipline somewhere along the way. I’ve been taking Margaret out to practice her driving on and off the past several weeks, and one day we happened to have Jonnie in the car as we drove around the neighborhood (she hasn’t been on Santa Rosa road yet). Well, he looked with big eyes at his sis behind the wheel, and kept making (good natured) cracks about his personal safety, etc. Then he rolled down the window, and hollered out at the top of his lungs (over and over), “SHE”S ONLY 15!! AND SHE”S DRIVING!!!” We told him to stop bellowing to all the neighbors, but he was having too good a time and wouldn’t stop. I laughed so hard I was afraid I might suffer brain loss from oxygen deprivation. Finally, Margaret couldn’t stand it any longer, and stopped the car up on Highridge (where Sycamores live), and (smilingly) said to Jonnie, “Getouttadacah”!. (Get out of the car). Of course, he tried to open the door and escape (laughingly), but I grabbed onto his solid little arm and wouldn’t let go. Then as we were driving on Redondo, pulling out from side streets, with Mom correcting Meg’s driving, he muttered to himself, “I’m gonna die. We’re ALL gonna die.” When we got home and were just driving up the driveway, I said to Meg, “When we get out, you take his arms and I’ll take his legs and we’ll throw him in the fountain.” Jonnie thought fast and instantly said, “Shoes? On. Backpack? Packed and on. I’m ready to run.” Which is what he did, as soon as the car stopped. So we never DID get to throw him in the fountain. Margaret did a good job on her driving lesson, and didn’t hit any trees or fire hydrants or oncoming police cars or anything. We practiced stopping and starting with the stick shift on all the steepest hills we could find. We went for CONTROL, and SLOWNESS. (Actually, we’d started practicing in the church parking lot, but wished we were in Gram and Gramp’s field with hay bales to practice parking around.) The hardest thing for Meg to do is drive like an inchworm. She prefers driving like a kangaroo. We've leapt and jumped so often from her taking her foot off the clutch too suddenly, I’m surprised I don’t have a cerebral hemorrhage. Later on, I mentioned that I was taking Meg to the Porters for a study session with Bryn, and letting her drive. Jonnie piped up, “Unwise. Unsafe. Unsafe. Unwise.” So before we left, I said, “Goodbye, Jon- It’s been nice knowin ya. Have a good life.” And he replied, “You’re gonna die. But not alone.” (Both he and Meg think very fast “on their feet”.) As it turns out, I didn’t die, and we all have lived happily? ever after. We got an anonymous note in the mailbox telling us that our longtime mailman, Monty Brower, recently had a stroke. (He was almost ready to retire.) This anonymous neighbor asked everyone to send him a cheering-up get-well card via the Post Office, which we did. I thought that was a thoughtful, “above-and beyond” thing to do…to organize alerting all the neighbors like that! It really touched me that someone would take the time to put that message in everybody’s mailbox. Just a little thing, but it will mean a lot to Monty.

One day a few weeks ago, poor little Jonnie was so tired and worn out he was at the point of tears. But then he abruptly announced,, “I’m going to work out” (with the weights and exercise machine in the garage.) I asked him, “Why?” He said, “I need to. Both David and Dad told me I did.” (He wants to get buff like his big Bro.) !!! We’re sticking to our rule of “no TV on school nights”, with the rare exception of the Discovery Channel if all piano practiced, chores, and homework are done. Dad rented Family Man, but we had to turn it off and return it unwatched due to unsuitable scenes. We’ve decided it’s practically impossible to find decent movies. Dave, we’re excited about your new sales job for American Home Security in Philadelphia this summer – except the kids are all so depressed you won’t be coming home. They all love and look up to their favorite Big. Bro. You’ll have to spend some time at home before leaving on your mission in the early fall. Michelle found a copy of “Heloise’s Helpful Household Hints”, and carried it all over the house, immersing herself in it. Soon she was cooking up a powerful herbal concoction to steam her face over, and giving herself a fresh lemon manicure over a towel at the table. She also froze all the wax-dripped candlesticks to facilitate wax removal, and did a bunch of other experiments. (I’ll have to hide “Heloise’s Helpful Hints Book 2”.) Dad has been losing his glasses right and left. Sometimes I think he’s losing his mind. He has special computer glasses, and then other pairs he wears for reading and driving. I think we will need to buy him two or three pairs of each prescription, just to keep our sanity. I’ll lock one set up for dire emergencies only. ! He’s been working hard on a new revised business plan and presentation to the business manager CEO of a big 52-member radiology group down in Long Beach, which happens this week. He’s been correlating all his various software and monitor displays, working every spare minute on it. He’s been truly excited about the possibilities, more so than I’ve seen him in a coon’s age. He’s taking a lower medicine dose through April or May (which will make it a year), and feels much better. I’m not sure if I can stand Dad when he’s in a good mood; his energy levels are too high, and he wants to do too much! I personally see nothing wrong with a little nap in the hammock every so often. (Once a month maybe??) (I wouldn’t know for sure; it’s been so long since I’ve taken one.) Dad bumped his head hard fixing a leaky water softener outlet flex pipe under the house (which had dripped on a bag of Karate outfits and mildewed some of them, but the dark, thick mildew came right off when I sprayed TILEX mildew remover on it.) Fortunately his head was already so hard it didn’t do much damage.(!) Corey and Scott (your cousin) had their baby girl, Shelby Rose, the first week of January – after an unfairly short labor !

I’ve been enjoying my series of classic tapes entitled “The greatest Top 10 Hits of 1842”, etc. Jonnie has unfortunately developed a taste for some of that noise on some of David’s old custom CD’s (the stuff that’s sometimes mistakenly called “music”), but I have high hopes of reeducating and reclaiming him. I still remember how Sarah told us about the guys at BYU who shaved horizontal stripes all down their legs, like the Cat in the Hat’s hat. I guess kids have a certain amount of weirdness they have to outgrow. Jonnie said he learned in science class that the electricity from a singe bolt of lightening would power all the lights in a whole town for a year – if they could harness it! And here’s a thought for you: “What we ARE is much more important than what we HAVE BEEN, and what we CAN BE is much more important that what we ARE.” (Bro. Barlow or someone from BYU has that on his business card. Think I already shared that with you. But it’s worth repeating.)  Popiels  generously keep leaving bags of avocadoes on our gate. We try and share them. I experimented with two different wedding cake recipes, and recipe B (White Cake ll from the Joy of Cooking) won hands down. We mixed Cool whip and vanilla pudding for a fun “frosting” that wasn’t too sweet or greasy. Take care of yourselves; we are so proud of you all. Sammie, I’m especially worried about you and the “killer semester” you say you’re having, but remember: it’s all just a matter of perspective. You can handle it just fine; it’s just that YOU have to believe that!  Brett, Jonnie LOVED the letter you sent addressed just to him. The kids absolutely LOVE getting their own mail. We think about you every day, and hope the Portuguese still comes more naturally for you than the English! Lania and Pedro, thank you for being so supportive and concerned about everybody, with all you have to do yourselves. Thanks so much for your regular calls. Except I hope Peter will stop dominating all the conversations, so somebody else can get a word in edgewise every so often. (!!) (Pedro, you know we love you. Just the way you are. Hope you can endure your mother-in-law’s painful attempts at humor.) I would send some warm California sunshine your way, but somehow I’m afraid it would evaporate when it hit those cold Rocky Mountain altitudes. Give yourselves hugs and kisses on the tops of your little brown heads from your Madre!

March 3^rd, 2005

Dear Children-Users of Me,

I am your bathroom. This morning I had to send out an emergency signal to the BRT (Bathroom Rescue Patrol), as I was on the verge of death due to drowning – drowning in junk, trash, soap scum, grunge, and gross neglect. I had almost become toxic – toxic to the human body and spirit. I was in great pain – it pained me to be so dirty and cluttered. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I was lonely; as you should realize, I spend most of my days and all of my nights alone and in the dark – uncheered by the entertaining spectacle of marathon group make-up applications or agonized adolescent facial examination. I was desperate. No one had attended to my needs for so long, and I couldn’t help myself. I am, after all, a big inert mass of porcelain, wood, faux marble, and soap-spattered glass. I have no legs but your legs; no arms but your arms. Yet I DO have mirror-eyes all along my back wall, and I see perfectly what you have done to me. (OK, well, sort of perfectly, in a hazy, through-the-smudges sort of way.) I have a heart (that pumps every time the handle gets pushed down, or the spigot gets turned on), and clear liquid life forces that course through their appointed duties as a result. My heart is loyal and true, and has never let you down in your time of need. (OK, hardly ever. Everybody’s entitled to a little plumbing problem every so often. But you have to admit I’ve been remarkably trouble-free. Unlike you guys, who are very troublesome to me and my hygiene.)

You had left me toilet-tissue-less, of all outrages. My lap was overflowing with wet/sticky/messy: hair cleaners, hair conditioners, hair shiners, hair dryers, hair curlers, hair straighteners, brushes, barrettes, bottles; packets, pills, pastes, powders, pads; combs, creams for moistening, creams for drying-up, creams for clearing up; creams for covering up; creams for cleansing, cream soap, cake soap, liquid soap, powdered soap; sprays, squeeze tubes; SIGH. Tweezers for taking out; applicators for putting in. Clothes, Q-tips, towels, gels for gloss, gels for body, gels for straightening out, gels for spiking up. Razors, roll-ons, spray-ons, wipe-ons, rub-ons; back brushes, scrub brushes, tooth brushes, hair brushes, fingernail brushes, blah blah blah blah blah. It was too much. I called for help.

Dr. Madre responded promptly. She came and fixed me; gave me relief. She saved me from you. She patted me kindly and cleaned me up. She appreciated me. She just about freaked out when she saw how badly (or, actually, how well) you had abused me. She put on her war feathers and went to war. You guys are in busted boodles trouble, big time. Heh heh heh heh.

So NOW, you have to pay her a DOLLAR every time you use me – for whatever reason. She will be getting a pay lock for the door. At the end of the week, if I am spotless, she will refund the money. If not, she will grow rich, you will grow poor, and you will never go to college - and will spend your adult life mopping floors at McDonalds during the night shift (and scraping gum off the undersides of the tables during the day shift). All from neglect of me, your favorite friend every morning and every night. More favorite to you even than my cousin, the Kitchen – since some of you actually spend more time in ME.

So, STRAIGHTEN UP or SUFFER.

Sincerely,

Mr. Bano (Your poor neglected, abused Bathroom)

Wed. 1-8-2020 family letter

MIscell - and I do mean miscell - thoughts:

Mark is such a hunk.(OK, I had to write a sample sentence for some computer testing we were doing, and he was standing right there at my elbow. So I figured to feed his - already expansive ego.)  I want a new nose. (my current one is red and stuffed up from the cold that ate Salt Lake, which I got there visiting all my kids and dear but Germ Factory grandkids for Christmas.)

Mark left reluctantly for work (wants to retire so he can stay home and WRITE/TEACH in SummaShare); I had a choice: load the dishwasher and sweep kitchen floor, or write this.)  (!)  Decided we always have dirty dishes and floors, and they’re like spider webs: constantly reproducing. A thought undocumented, however, is lost possibly forever. Which for some of my thoughts might be best - but oh well.

Later:   Just pulled my car outside the gate and left it parked there so I could close said gate and keep our three felines sort of off the road. Noticed that I have the piled- up car of a homeless person. Well, maybe I am homeless. My home is missing under piles of junk. Which aren’t junk, but legitimately useful items – which just don’t have a home of their own, so they’re taking over mine. So what’s (who’s?!) more important: the items or me? Obviously. It IS painful sometimes being the only lone Maximalist in a family of increasingly rabid minimalists (I shall heretofore take it upon myself to find all Marie Kondo books and destroy them. Except destroying things goes against my grain, So I will probably put them all on a shelf somewhere – which does not exist- where they will take up still MORE of my missing home.)

I have a daughter who has a big house with the closet space I’ve always dreamed of, and she is of course a minimalist. (Her top shelves, especially, hold a whole lotta really expensive AIR.) But that’s also because half the storage is only accessible to either NBA players with hormonal abnormalities, or else African Dinkas or Rwandan Tutsis – on stilts. What WAS that builder thinking. However, if they install a nice collapsible ladder in every – and I mean every – room, they should theoretically be able to manage. I say theoretically, because practically speaking, I doubt they’ll ever have to reach up there: they’ll never have enough stuff to stow – because they don’t want it. (Although when you think about it, it would be nice for hiding early Christmas gifts, or incriminating old High School photos, or that bag of Oreos you don’t want to share with anyone under 40.) But they have so many lower shelves available they probably won’t ever need the nosebleed ones. Because they’re just different. Even my daughter, who I swear is genetically related to me –(unless there was a switcheroo in the delivery room when I was all drugged up – which I wasn’t, so I know whereof I speak). She utilizes something called “interior design” in her living quarters. Things have to look good, and be pleasing to the eye. She doesn’t want to own one atom more than is absolutely necessary. Instead of keeping bins of kids’ artwork, she takes photos and tosses it. (A digital file requires her ideal amount of physical space.) They had a 20 yr old bathroom that had to go because it was so antiquated. (I didn’t toss her when she turned 20… Moreover, I have a 40 y.o. bathroom that is still in daily use – but we’re holding out til mustard yellow bathtubs are back in style again. Everything comes back in style eventually, right?) And take my son-in-law, now. (Please!) (JK.) He insists on parking his car(s) (cough) in his MAIN STORE ROOM (which he insists on calling “the garage”). He is a strange one. The literal day after Christmas, they were loading a truck bed full of smashed down packaging, broken thises and thats, a denuded Christmas tree, and about 980 big fat bags of trash generated by 1.5 weeks’ worth of 15 house guests, preparatory to going to the dump. Their city trashcans were overflowing and they couldn’t stand the mess. They wanted their echo back.

I happened to see a random video of Tom Hanks at the Golden Globe awards, rolling his eyes at comedian what’shisname’s reference to having his new license plates made by Felicity Huffman (in jail – get it?) Anyway, I got to thinking about how celebrities are just people like you and me. Heck, Tom Hanks and I are practically the same. We were both born in the year --. (That’s A.D., not B.C., as my youngest son might crack.) We were both shy as children. He has 4? kids. I have 4 kids – plus 2 (or 3, depending on how I’m feeling about my husband.) He’s hetero; I’m hetero. He’s been married for a long time to the same person. I’ve been married a really long time to the same person. He’s a potential SAR (Son of the American Revolution): I’m a potential DAR; we both descend from Revolutionary War dudes. He wears a cardigan; I wear a cardigan – when my house gets cold. He says it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. (Well, I could be optimistic too – with a little practice). He has facial hair; I – well, so, not all analogies are equally useful, OK.

But we do have differences: He’s rich and famous. I’m poor and obscure. (Relatively speaking, of course.) He once talked to himself – and to a volleyball named Wilson. I talk to myself, too – but if I ever start talking to a ball I will commit myself. He was really good at hitting little balls (as Forest Gump); I am really good at missing little balls. Enough about balls already. He was sleepless in Seattle; I’m usually sleepless in SoCal. He sat on a bench and shared his chocolates with somebody; I don’t usually share my chocolates. (Actually that’s not true, but it makes good copy.) He said, “Houston, we have a problem.” I say, “Mark, we have a problem.” (Mark’s my husband. And the problem is usually computer related. And only when I’m using it.) But all in all, who is Tom Hanks but some guy I coulda been- if I’da been born a guy. Somebody I might’ve even talked to in the hall. (I wasn’t a snob.) Somebody with a few more zeros to the left of his decimal point, but not a zero of a person when all’s said and done. At least not yet. (Don’t blow it, Tom. You still got a LOOONG way to go, and lots of years before you sleep. You’re still a baby. You’re the same age as me.)

PS- Mark is Soooo smart.(He was standing at my shoulder again.)

Merry Christmas 2019

Thank you for (hopefully) still being our friends even though we haven’t sent out a newsletter since (insert post-Watergate date here). We’ve been going through quarter life crisis, which is rough, but still remember you - or else obviously you wouldn't have gotten this (or be reading it online if happily we've gotten the blog de-bugged by then).

We’re doing pretty good, except for getting targeted advertisements from assisted living facilities and cremation services.

And except for having an obese grey and white cat that confuses the laundry pile for his litter box. “Don’t worry, urine is sterile,” Mark said, with his usual perspicacity. We have a routine: Grab cat, stick his nose in it, and then squirt him with a water bottle while bellowing, NO NO NO NO!!” Does not appear to be working. Suspect cat is of small brain. Love him anyway, mainly because he makes a good foot warmer on cold nights in front of the computer.

Mark is still not retired (from the practice of looking at other peoples’ innards -radiology), and neither are any of our three vehicles – though they (may?) qualify for the automotive equivalent of late stage hospice. Kathy drove a silver Sienna minivan back when it was totally uncool, and she’s still driving it. But it’s probably going to get cool – as most vintage vehicles eventually do. Good thing our sense of self worth is not tied to our transportation (theoretically). Today in the church parking lot, we saw a charcoal grey Lamborghini shaped like a cross between a doorstop wedge and a little fighter jet. “Wonder who that belongs to?” was our first burning thought. (Or better, who belongs to it?) “Can you imagine going to Costco in that thing?” I mused. “First, you’d be freaking out trying to find a parking space where nobody would ding it”. And second, how the heck would you fit in twenty bags of cat food, forty cases of paper towels, and (all the other necessary paraphernalia for said cat.) Not to mention eggs, milk, chocolate almond bark, and the other absolute necessities. Wanda (the name Jonnie gave our old minivan when she was new) is lookin better.

The kids are out of the house now, so we decided to remodel. Couldn’t find/afford a post-wildfire contractor last winter, so we said, ‘how can this be so hard we’ll just do it ourselves’ – hiring guys as needed (and sometimes not hiring them as needed, but that’s beside the point.) The mustard yellow bathtub in the children’s bathroom was popular in the 70’s (can’t think of why). The abused hollow core doors have been replaced with vinyl shower curtains – temporarily (we hope). Re-textured the walls to look like an ancient castle (which they are: ancient, and our castle.) Ripped out the old Reagan era carpeting that used to be the color of  shoe scrapings.  We're now using  broom and dustpan on hardwood floors, instead of a wheezing vacuum on Velcro-like dirt-magnet wall-to-wall, and it’s so exhilarating. Kathy has developed a fetish for sweeping. It’s so psychologically gratifying – to know you’re getting ALL the dirt - a catharsis for the soul. Mark used to complain she never vacuumed, but that’s because we only got maybe 1.3% of the gunk up, and knew we were perpetually living on the rest of it...walking on it, dropping clean towels on it, breathing it all night. Steam cleaning only made the lower level of dredge rise to the surface the next day. Now we are living clean, relatively dust-free (but not cat hair-free) lives. Mark has started telling visitors to remove their shoes. (It’s getting embarrassing.) I just ask them to knock out any sharp rocks, tacks, razor blades, or stray pieces of broken glass they may have picked up in the tread of their soles. (I think they like me better.)

Same week:

This morning we went to our church congregation’s Christmas service project/party and made stuff to take to care facilities, where we then had a “singalong” with the “inmates”. My friend with the amazing voice (Marie- not Osmond) took charge of the singing. I got pushed into the front row, as everyone tried to hide behind me. (Maybe because there’s so much to hide behind? Hope I remember to delete that.) Anyway, I much prefer to hide behind somebody too, but can buck up and (sort of) be a “front row” kinda person if absolutely irrevocably necessary.

 

Which meant singing with gusto and smiling at all those very sweet residents of the Care Facility, who were all dressed up and expecting high-class entertainment.  That always slays me... having to be high class entertainment.  I'd rather be really low key and play the wallpaper; but as luck would have it, there's not a whole lotta call for wallpaper impersonators.  They say everyone in the world is hungry for leadership; eager to look up at somebody important on stage and be passively, comfortably led- instead of doing the leading.  I get that. I feel that. From wall paper to front row is not my comfort zone, but then neither is living in that place for a lot of those people, I bet.  So I can do this.

 

Now, Marie by herself (with several others present) could have improvised something lovely – but after making a quick inventory of the limited ancillary talent available (including me), she had the presence of mind to announce a room-wide “sing a long”, which was a rousing success.

Some scripture says the song of the heart is a prayer unto God, and I definitely felt angels in that room. The older people eagerly raised their hands and requested – practically entirely – religious Christmas carols!  (Political (in)correctness "be damned".) Joy to the World – Silent Night – Oh Little Town of Bethlehem – were sung heartfully. Afterward, on a whim, we went around and greeted each of them personally with a smile and a handshake. Again, I felt (what we’ve come to call “the Spirit”) impress upon me that here were very choice and beloved children of God… all with very different life stories, but all susceptible to – and the bearers of – love… probably many, if not all, much better and more giving people than me. I seem to have that experience just about every time I meet someone: I often get an overwhelming impression of their goodness, and of their possibilities. I love meeting new people, and feel that most strangers are just friends I haven’t had a chance to meet yet. Or as we see it in the church, “brothers and sisters” in the universal family of God. Anyway, so often this experience is heightened by singing with people (or in my case, making the attempt.)

 

The problem with being a member of the "LDS" Church  is that if you’re not musical, you’re like the only guy guzzling hotdogs at a vegetarian picnic, or the little old lady driving east on the foggy westbound freeway - in her (dented minivan?) - or the conservative white guy with the Maga hat at Berkeley. In other words, not – de rigueur. Epitome. Paragon. Beau ideal. Because,

 

The first thing they breathlessly ask you when you move into a new congregation is: “Do you play the piano/organ?” Before they even ask your name. (OK so I exaggerate. Slightly.) But I always have to lower my head and mumble in the negatory before slinking away. Of course, they’re still nice to you, but have a special affinity for the musically inclined. (Or a special desperation for them, considering how few kids get – and stick with - music lessons these days?) Probably because - what’s the first thing people think of when they hear “Mormon”? (besides “Donny and Marie” and cuss-free Vegas shows). “Tabernacle Choir”, of course. Why, a music teacher from the local university once brought his whole class to our church one Sunday, to hear the (expectedly) fantastical, sublime music. (Of course, it was a really off day for our temporarily anemic Ward Choir – limping along with the out-of-town-ed-ness of some major placeholder voices, and maybe minimal practice time due to helping Brother Jones who just had surgery, or whatever. Plus of course they never had any notice they would be on public trial that particular Sunday. It was not their finest moment, bless their struggling - but pure - volunteer hearts.) And of course we all go to church to give glory to God on High, not our vocal performers.

 

Nevertheless, we’re always asked if we’re going to join the choir.  I thought of replying, “why no – I do the ward choir a favor by NOT joining it”. (Not speaking for my husband, of course, who does in fact have some sort of a voice.) But as for me, they should send me a thank you note. Where’s my thank you note? Something like this: “Dear Kathy Mitchell: Thank you so much for staying away from rehearsals. As a result, we have a very high quality singing group. Please continue to exempt yourself. Most sincerely yours, your friendly local church choir.” You see, I warble about two notes: maybe A and B below middle C. A rather truncated range. Nothing with which to shatter crystal or to write home about. And I sound them with the tonality of a mating whale about 30 feet under. Needless to say, my number of ongoing record deals is - well, Taylor Swift is safe.

 

But today on the front row of the church group singing to the elderly people at the Care Center, I was singing with my heart – and surprisingly, the heart has an infinite range. And is never truly offensive. I like singing with my heart.

 

New topic: Last week I went to babysit my 6 month granddaughter while her parents went to an office Christmas party. I’d like to know where that term “babysit” came from. First, you don’t SIT on babies. Maybe it means to sit BESIDE them whilst they peacefully sleep? Not with this one. She was awake and wired the whole time, requiring my constant mental and physical engagement. I’d brought a laptop and three- inch thick pile of notes, just in case the kid got a sudden overwhelming wave of somnolence. No dice. Time for milk. Warmed the bottle. Try to cradle her tenderly in my arms and insert nice warm bottle into pink little mouth. But her back deeply arched in sudden fierce protest, mouth clamped tightly shut, head jerked away to the side, and limbs lurched into supportive rigormortis. This was not a neurological seizure; it was attitude.

 

Here the letter inexplicably ends. Due to an unusually long recovery time? Anyway, in case you're wondering how the baby feeding thing worked out, I got this epiphany and put her in her bouncy swing that was hanging from the kitchen door frame - and while she was madly bouncing up and down, I stuck the bottle in her mouth - then wooolah- the kid starts happily drinking like it's manna and she's starved. Bouncing up and down with each sip.  The most rhythmic meal I've ever beheld. To be a successful (grand)parent (and care home singer and practitioner of life,...), ya gotta be really good at improv.

Our friends go on cruises. Well, we go on cruises too. Up and down the plumbing (electrical, hardware, lumber,…) isles of Home Depot. (The house is getting older and needs the architectural equivalent of:  lung transplants (AC/Heating); major plastic (paint/plaster) surgery; and knee and hip replacements (doors).  The analogy breaks down with tummy tucks, which we DON'T need (architecturally, anyway): - want all the space we can get.  Whoever equated empty nesters with downsizing never met Kathy's book collection. Or....

We had Margaret’s family for the (Christmas) gift exchange. So, what do you want? we asked. “Besides a year’s supply of Prozac..” (She has a high energy night job as mom of a toddler who keeps waking up and screaming, and a high energy job night as an OB Nurse to women who keep waking up and screaming with every contraction, and you can only take so many caffeine tablets.) “Well, how about a benzo drip?” she answered. “Justin (her M.D. husband) says I need a benzo drip.” (which is an IV delivering a “happy, chill-out drug” right into your vein.) (I want a benzo drip, Mom said.) 

Jonathan is now home from his mission to Maine - where he drove a 4wd pickup, wore boots, met people who lived in trailers with holes in the floors, and learned to talk without r’s. (In one of life’s small no make that big injustices, he had all the lobster he wanted and he’s criminally indifferent to lobster.) “I bet you really feel pretty bad about yourself since you can’t even beat your old Mother at arm wrestling,” Mom said after she beat him over the kitchen island (using both of her arms against his one.) “Actually, I’m feeling pretty virtuous about myself for letting her win,” he airily said. OK so maybe. (Mom had thrown her whole body into it and his arm had not budged, until he got bored and suddenly let it go slack.) Jonathan has the sort of build that would easily qualify him as a Mardi Gras bar bouncer or personal escort to any ATM in south central L.A. He also has the sort of wit that even keeps Mom on her never-pedicured toes, and a mind that will revolutionize the auto parts industry – as soon as he finds …. (this thought never got finished. Enter the "end this sentence" contest and win - a chance to arm wrestle Jonnie. Hurry - he's only getting stronger- and more wily?!)

We went to Sarah’s house in Nashville for Thanksgiving. The food spread got professionally documented (by Sarah Clark Photography) and may get featured in Bon Appetit, who knows. (It even tasted good, though Mom discovered that Turkey oven bags will melt at a certain high temperature..in all the excitement she forgot what it was.) Michelle’s new husband Paul Dozier got down on his hands and knees to retrieve something the kids had dropped. “Wow, you could eat off this floor!” he exclaimed. “There’s a whole meal down here!” (Paul is a charmer. He is an “international economic analyst” for the Fed, and Janet Yellen once smiled at him during lunch.) Sarah lives on what was just a big old Brentwood cow farm when she was born near Vanderbilt, but instead of cows her next door neighbor is now the lead guitarist for Matchbox Twenty - yet they don’t practice in the garage - which we guess is a good thing, or it would keep Sarah’s baby up. (She’s already up. Every 15 minutes? or so - all night long.)

Sarah likes to call Mom while she’s barreling down the freeway, to help her stay awake. This makes Mom nervous. “Sarah, are you driving?”  Son in law Chris works for Asurion, the insurance company that caters to klutzy people who keep dropping their phones into water and stuff like that. The Clarks actually park both their cars in their garage, along with a big boat they inherited from Chris’s parents (now in Hong Kong). We somehow feel awed and a little alien around people who have garages they can park in. We can barely walk sideways through ours, and only after going on Medifast for three weeks. It’s a sad situation, really, and there’s probably some sort of therapy available, but Kathy is afraid it would (further) cramp her style. Which is already cramped, obviously. Son-in-law Chris said he would take her on an all-expenses paid vacation if she could ever get her car in the garage, but he knows he’s safe.

After a teary farewell, Sarah helped her children Facetime us the next day. “Ethan, do you miss Grandma?” “No,” he chirped. (Frankness is a virtue..?)

(That's all Grandma wrote. must'a gotten interrupted - but probably not by a call from Ethan...)

2020 addendum: Ethan rocks big time. Totally love that kid. We're great buds. He smiles at my jokes.

Feb. 4, 2002

Dear Mice,

One day last week we woke up to ICE all over the cars’ windshields, and the trampoline was white with frost. We scraped the ice off with credit cards, and Jonnie was picking up the frosty scrapings and admiring them. Poor kid’s never seen snow. We also had an earthquake a few days ago - supposedly one of 50 recent aftershocks of the Northridge quake of years back – but it wasn’t too bad. Just like being on a ship while it rolls over some big waves.

There was vandalism at the Moorpark ward building (someone smashed a lighted cigarette into the face of the Savior in a picture, burned a Book of Mormon on the pulpit, scratched some obscenities and the word “Satan” on the pulpit with a ballpoint pen, and razor-slashed a few of the pews.) In our building they smashed the big front window next to the front door, but didn’t enter. It was all boarded up for church the next week. I heard there was damage to other area LDS buildings, but can’t report details. The LA Times carried a report of it. The Moorpark building showed no signs of forced entry, so now they’re thinking it might have been left unlocked for a time.

Mish made French bread all by herself for the missionaries, and it turned out better than my bread! I was released from my achievement day calling yesterday (Sunday), and will be getting a new calling – probably on the ward Preparedness committee. Jonnie loved playing Star Wars Monopoly at Alex’s house; a neighbor had brought it over and said it cost $50.00. Jonnie wishes he lived close to other little boys, so they could migrate back and forth to each others’ houses.

Ginger has a wicked bad habit of jumping up on people enthusiastically, when they show her a little affection. She’s much too big for that, and I don’t know how to break her of it. Mrs. ___ (our piano teacher) has a daughter who just developed toxemia of pregnancy with high blood pressure, so they had to take the baby 3 months early by caesarean. The baby’s tiny, and has absolutely no fat on her at all. She had to strain with all her might just to breathe when she was born, and stopped breathing several times. They’ll keep her in the hospital at least a month.

I hear Sammie’s had several articles published in the BYU Daily Universe, with her first one being front page news! David, the ---'s told me how grateful they were to you for being such a good friend to ----, and warning her to stay away from certain particular boys you didn’t deem worthy of her attention. (I’m sorry such guys have to be at BYU, but as Laura observed, maybe they’ll be improved by the experience.) They said you had been just like a good big brother to her, and were very grateful for all your kindness.

I was visiting with older Sis. ---, who has diabetes, and she can only drink about 4 glasses of water a day, and no more, as her body can’t process the liquid – even if she’s thirsty! She said Harrison Ford drives up in his limo every so often to come and ride motorcycles with his good friend who lives down the street from her on      ). She has a big screen TV, and keeps it on a lot of the time to keep her company. She used to be a model, a professional photographer, a stained glass artist, and a world traveler! She also has a very nice family history album with photos of all her family and ancestors. She gets lonely, and I sure wish I had several clones of myself so I could do a lot more for people than I do. Sis. --- had surgery for a detached retina, and has to stay at home without much excitement for awhile. You know how sociable she is. It must be driving her crazy. We had a service come and spray all the trees and landscaping for mites, etc. plus to fertilize. David will be glad to know that we’ll have one less chore for him to do when he and Sammie come home during Olympics week in February. Jonnie and Mish and Mattie (Meg) have been weeding and cleaning up all the landscaping, several hours every weekend. Jonnie keeps very careful track of what Dad owes him. ! (He said, as I probably told you, “Mom, you’re going to lose a lot of money when your husband pays me what he owes me.”)

There are white puffy blossoms on a lot of the trees out here; it looks so pretty. (yes, in Feb - in Ca)

I took --  to the dermatologist to check out a strange rash she’s had forever, and he told her to stop taking long hot baths and showers, as it was causing eczema (very common). Jonnie had it as well. The Dr. prescribed a cortisone cream which cost $60.00 at the pharmacy, so on a whim I asked if they had a generic version, and they did – for half the price! It always pays to ask for generic meds (which are almost always virtually identical to the brand name ones, I gather.) Poor --. She totally loves her long hot soaks in the tub. (Note: not sure why that the previous stuff all got crossed out while I was just deleting a few selected names for privacy, but left it in to look forbidden and intriguing just - because.  People will ALWAYS read what's crossed out - especially carefully. And probably remember it a lot longer too. Somebody should do a psychological study about it and get written up and become collegiately important.)

Also, awhile back Michelle solemnly announced that “Today is my half birthday, Mom. What are we going to do to celebrate?” Apparently her friends all make a deal about their half b-days (the day that marks the exact halfway point until their next birthday), and some even get gifts, etc. We told her we loved her so very much, but in our current state of ":Life in this corner, Mitchells in the other corner; come out - Fighting!"  we weren’t exactly up to celebrating halfs in a huge way – other than hugs and kisses, etc. (2020 update: she turned out exquisitely well for having been half-b-day abandoned. At least on the outside. Not sure about enduring inner trauma - yikes.)

Dad wishes he had a laptop so he could do power point broadcast illustrations for talks, etc. (the image on your computer screen gets broadcast up to a big screen)…(remember this was written in 2002 - by a sadly serious non-techie).

The church has developed an "exciting" new youth program to replace scouting in the event that scouting had to be abandoned (due to lowering of standards or whatever), or for countries that don’t have scouting. It’s supposed to be very meaty and demanding, not just a “fluff” program of meaningless awards. Go meat.

Bro. ---- gave a "testimony" account yesterday in church about how he’d been sent to a surgeon to remove some suspiciously swollen nodes his Dr. thought could be cancer. But his wife had been continuously praying for him, and when they got there, the surgeon couldn’t find anything wrong with him. The lumps had disappeared! He said he wasn’t ever going back to a doctor again, it was such a nerve-wracking experience! – but he was so overwhelmed by the outcome. (Motto?: Prayer works- sometimes even visibly.  Doctors also (sometimes?) work. Mostly invisibly? (nonsequitur- meaning:  it don't necessarily follow, as Mark Twain would say-in his 19th century grammar)

Sis. ---r’s parents were both baptized into the ward, and are very sweet people. We have the missionaries coming for dinner, and I guess I ‘ll make a huge pot of mashed potatoes to go with the barbecued beef. I can’t believe how much some of these elders eat ('course there was that one dude from Idaho who loaded up with thirds but couldn't plow all the way through; I winced a little having to scrape it into the "round file"... Maybe some of Grandma Mitchell's wartime thrift has permanently rubbed into my psyche?) Anyway, not sure if the upcoming Elders are Idaho farmboys, but still need to go to Costco for yet MORE food - just to be safe.  Love you guys, and stay warm up there at balmy BYU - where the palm trees sway  - NOT (but ours do; just not at BYU- not to rub it in..)  - Madre who is REALLY for real checking out now -buh bye ;)