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!)