:Family Matters

So, we in the BAD Fam are wondering if Coco and Topaz are exchanging notes about our families. The two roomed together for a couple of weeks while Coco stayed at our house before Joy and Justin’s Open House and Coco’s trip West.

Topaz passed away the Saturday after Thanksgiving and we are missing her. She was a very sweet dog who loved our family. She cleaned up after us at the dinner table. (David told Bryan that he had to scrape the crumbs into the garbage when wiping the table instead of onto the floor now that Topaz is gone.) She loved watching movies with us and would chase her tail all the way downstairs to get a doggy-chew before settling down in front of the TV.

Some of my favorite memories are: Tom standing in the rain (when she was a puppy and before we had the back yard fenced) waiting for her to pee. Watching her run with Devin in the grassy, tree-shadowed paths of the Palmer Park dog run (back when Devin’s head only came up to my shoulder). Watching her run with Wendell Joseph on his paper route (he rode his bike and looped the leash around a handlebar). All the pictures David drew of her when he went to Roosevelt school showing her without a tail–and the many times he asked me, “when will her tail grow back?”

Kristi was always good at rubbing her belly and Charlie would patiently brush and pull out all those loose hairs. She was always losing tufts of yellow hair that gathered on the carpet and under the table and down the basement steps. Bryan was one of the first to chase her down the street when she slipped out the front door. A neighbor had to help him get her back that first day with a hot dog bribe (they used to be about the same size). As he grew older, and bigger, she accepted him as an Alpha male and would come at his whistle, or his short “Topaz.”

Sometimes it seemed like I could hear her thinking. I’m sure she thought of the outdoor lights as the “artificial sun,” and this past year she graciously allowed “the cub” (Franklin) to walk her around the short block after school.

She could always tell when a “dog person” came to the door. She made a “happy pee” puddle everytime our friend Cindy Stevenson or Tom’s sister Marilyn came in the door. She also really like a couple of my piano students and would come sit on their feet (and the pedals!)

Well, I only meant to make a short announcement, but I could go on quite awhile. Topaz was with us 10 1/2 years. When we see her next, we’ll know what her tail looks like!

Sylvia

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Last Monday, MGH having decided that it was time, we made our semi-annual pilgrimage to St George to visit Kyle in his official capacity as optometrist. The fun part of the process was picking out new frames which for me involves not so much style as will there be room for the progressive lenses I have gotten used to which allow me to see without the lines of traditional bi-focals. The center of my eye must match the center of the lens which excludes I would guess, conservatively, at least 99% of the available frames I could choose from. This means that I must try almost every frame on display, except for the very skinny ones which simply won’t work for my prescription. So there I stood trying on one pair replacing it, taking the next one in line, replacing it and on and on. At last I gave a great,

“A HAH”! “What do you think of this pair?”

Marian, who was helping me, took one look and burst out laughing, then responded with,

“Those are yours. They’re the ones you are replacing. No wonder they feel good.”

In my haste to try them all I hadn’t noticed that I had hung my glasses on one of the little support pegs in the process of replacing the almost- made -its.

Some days I wonder why I even bother to get out of bed. . . .

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Because our ‘unfortunate incident’ has left us in a jumbled mess downstairs I have decided that now would be a good time to rid ourselves of items that are acting like ciphers by holding space until such time as we might ‘need’ them. This is a task that is very difficult for MGH(My Good Husband) who grew up during the depression when absolutely everything was saved in might possibly be resurrected to serve again at some future time. Grandmother Waddington was like this. I can remember my father building her a deep cupboard that took up one whole side of her downstairs bedroom. It held an eclectic collection of items not the least of which was her vast accumulation of fabric. I can remember going into her room with the express purpose of wheedling her into allowing me to look and I must admit hoping I could fast talk her into letting me get my hands on an item or two, not that I ever was able to pull the wool over her eyes as she was very much aware of my intentions and was not about to allow me to plunder and leave in complete disorder that which had taken her so many years to accumulate.

One of my favorite items and my younger sisters too, truth be told, was the long skinny balloons, they were only about a quarter of an inch wide and about twelve inches long. that were carefully packed in cornstarch to keep them from sticking together. These were the kind that were intended to be twisted into shapes of animals if one were lucky enough to get them blown up in the first place as they were so narrow and hard to force air into that it is a wonder I had any ear drums left after blowing so hard. Having watched experts do this very thing I marvel at how quickly they can get that task done and get on to the fun part of delighting the children watching them in wide eyed amazement as the long tube is bent this way then shaped another until magically ears have formed and then a head with a pinch in just the right place then, with the addition of another balloon swiftly blown and added for the legs and body a long skinny dog appears, or a magical crown to wear proudly or any other of an amazing amount of fanciful creations.

I can remember one summer day when she let us have the last remaining ox to play with. How we eagerly disappeared out onto the lawn beside the big old green farm house where we spent several hours huffing and puffing–actually, I was the one who did most of the huffing for as eldest I had the most patience and also the most control over the situation which meant that I got to decide who did what which is one of the few perks that come with arriving on the family scene first (this might come as a surprise to those who have never experienced the responsibility that comes with being a first born but it does have some serious drawbacks). We would then carefully peruse the instructions that came with the balloons printed in such tiny letters that even our young eyes had a hard time trying to read them. We didn’t have much to show for the time we spent but were definitely entertained as we wiled away the hours that summer afternoon until it was time for chores which always had to be done no matter what else was going on.

When I was in high school gathered skirts were popular and we all had two or three which we would pair with a blouse. This combination was our primary wardrobe as jeans were not encouraged thanks to the forceful personality of Miss Grace Randell our Home Economics teacher. One of the first items of clothing she taught us to sew was a gathered skirt which we made without a purchased pattern following her instructions. We learned how to gather, to put in a placket, how to sew on a waistband and then how to hem. I think our next project was a simple sleeveless blouse where my sister Barbara quickly earned the honor of being the center of attention by cutting ‘on the fold’ which gave her two pieces where there should have only been one which meant Miss Randell was able to give us a true teaching moment using her mistake as an example for us to learn and turn to our own good when we too would err.

“Girls, you need to follow instructions carefully and make sure you understand what you are cutting before you actually begin. Since Barbara didn’t we will have to improvise by adding an unplanned strip which will be decorative as well as allowing her to join the two pieces of the front bodice together which we will do like this.”

She then showed Barbara and the rest of us how to measure and sew the additional piece required to join the front of her blouse into one piece as originally planned. Barbara then got to do the work and show the result to the rest of us as she completed her blouse front. I don’t remember her ever wearing that blouse. This was the beginning of her becoming an excellent seamstress. I’ve seen pictures of the dresses she made for two of her daughters weddings, and they weren’t the simple kind either but full of tucks and and trims with yard and yards of fabric involved–they were gorgeous.

Grandmother’s cupboard provided us the material for those skirts. That was not the intended purpose though for all the yard goods she had stored. No, its primary purpose was for the quilting she so patiently worked at day after day. As a little girl I can remember her sitting at her treadle sewing machine with her feet keeping the needle moving at a steady pace as she sewed the pieces she had so patiently cut out into beautiful patchwork quilt tops. (In those days, before rotary cutters were even thought of, each piece was individual cut from a template. Grandmother liked to use sandpaper for her templates because it would stick to the material so that the resulting piece was more accurate as the template didn’t slip like cardboard did.. Eventually the template would lose its shape and a new one drawn from the original pattern because it was necessary to have each piece cut correctly if it was going to fit right.) A person who knows how to operate a treadle machine makes it look easy. I, however, know that it isn’t as the one time I tried her machine all I did was break the thread over and over which was not at all how I imagined which left me quite discouraged about the whole process so I abandoned the intense desire I had shown when begging Grandmother to allow me to try. As she got older she began to piece by hand and that is how I think of her when these memories come to mind–sitting in her chair patiently placing careful stitch after careful stitch in the piece she was working on.

Somehow or the other I inherited many of the quilt tops she had so carefully worked on. While some of them I did manage to get quilted and into use there were many left in the cardboard box that they were given to me in. Because we moved so often in the early days of my marriage to MGH I got tired of lugging that box around and gave the contents away when we lived in Greenville, Iowa in the late 60’s. It is the only thing I have ever really regretted disposing of when the urge to ‘lighten the load’ has come upon me. At that time I didn’t appreciate what I had hold of but now, having taken up quilting myself in my ‘old age’ I understand and am saddened by my decision of so many years ago.

This brings me to the present where Wednesday last I found myself disposing of our beautiful seven foot artificial Christmas tree with its 1000 lights and revolving stand which has been on display in our home the last 5 years. Alas, when Brooks moved I lost my ‘lifter’ and as not even the combined efforts of me and MGH could muster up the necessary strength to put the parts of the tree together I just had to let it take up space last year. Space which I now find I need if I am ever going to sort out the confusion downstairs and so it is gone to Deseret Industries along with the dresser Ford left years ago and Bean’s crate. Old friends all with a lot of memories attached.

By the way did you know that Ace Hardware has artificial trees for 20% off? Well, they do and some of them are just gorgeous—especially the seven footers. I am so proud of myself–I didn’t give in to temptation and buy one, yet but who knows what might happen if Sherman stays around. . . .

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November 17, 2006

When Evelyn, my partner in crime (visiting teaching companion of many years) and I went to visit Ann H. a widow of four years who is truly one of God’s noble/wise women we found her usually immaculate home in disarray, but mind you, quite an orderly disarray (to see real disarray come visit my downstairs) with all the books and shelves moved from the room that serves as her library into her front room. She, of course, apologized for the confusion as she was having her home completely repainted inside and so it was necessary for each room to be emptied and its contents removed elsewhere temporarily until the painting was completed and everything could be returned to its proper order. During the visit she pointed out a long row of carefully stacked volumes and said, “Those are my journals. I began to keep them many years ago.” She then explained that she wrote faithfully every night before she retired the events that had occurred during the day that she found interesting/amusing/challenging/spiritual etc. She told us that it often gave her great solace to go back and read of the things that had happened as her children grew up, married, left home, her husband became ill and how she had grieved as she watched him suffer before his death. It was good, she told us, to be able to go back and find an exact moment when something of interest occurred and that it helped keep those memories intact for her as she aged. She then inquired of us if we too kept a journal to which Evelyn replied that she did but hers was more of the, “It’s been a few years since I wrote”, variety. Now, me, I think that is probably a good thing in her case as she probably holds the world’s record for surviving with diabetes, having lived with it for over 50 years while fighting its hold on her body. (The reason I say that it is a good thing is that if she were perfect—which she is very close to being she would be ‘translated’ and we would no longer have her sweet presence in our lives which is why I am glad there is an area i.e. journal keeping where she isn’t quite up to snuff and so allows her to remain with us longer.)

She shared the sweetest story in testimony meeting a few weeks ago. She said that she firmly believes that Our Father and Heaven watches over us and knows our needs better than we do ourselves. Her husband signed up with the Marines for what the recruiter told him was to be a four year ‘hitch’ but turned out to be for only three which meant that he went back to civilian life earlier than he had expected. Because of this his path crossed Evelyn’s and they met and fell in love. When he proposed marriage to her she told him that she did not believe it would be wise for her to marry as she was bound to need care as she got older and the diabetes progressed. He replied simply, “I will take care of you.” They have been married for over forty years now and raised three children—all of whom they consider their miracle children as Evelyn had been told by those in the medical profession that it would be very dangerous to both her and the child she bore if she were to become pregnant.

I also am an extremely sporadic journal keeper, which is just one of a very long list of things I struggle to overcome which one might think would have shortened as one got older, sigh. The reason I wish I had kept a journal is that with my memory being the way it is and by this I mean almost non-existent it is very difficult to place people and events. It was easier, I must admit when I was younger and could use the birth of my children as markers to help me recall past history but as my youngest is now twenty six I can’t rely on that method anymore.

The reason I mention this is that I have being trying and trying to remember how and when Coco came to visit us. If I had kept a journal I could simply have perused the record I had kept until I found the information I needed amongst the ‘it rained today entries and ‘we had baby potatoes fresh from our garden’ which I am sad to say make up a good deal of what I actually did write so anyone looking for juicy details hidden in my past is bound to be disappointed in the regard—not to say that they would have been successful anyway as my life has been quite ordinary with very little that would titillate or arouse the interest of others. The one thing I do regret is in not recording the clever things my children have said and done over the years—now that is something I would enjoy going back and remembering now and again as there is so much that is precious to me that is now gone from recall, at least in this life anyway. If I understand right we will all have to stand before the judgment bar sometime in the future and answer to our maker and to help us along we will have total recall of all the events of our life here on earth which could be quite interesting don’t you agree?

When all else fails, and for me it often does, there is always MGH(My Good Husband) who has this phenomenal memory of things past, especially his growing up years when he lived in Draper, but not even his gift of recall could help me when I asked him if he could remember when Coco arrived on the scene which left me fishing back in the depths of disorder which serves as my memory. Guess what, I finally sleuthed it out—Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me! Joy and Justin were married August 6, 1999. For their honey-moon they drove to Wisconsin where Sylvia held an open house for them. We didn’t try to go to the open house as we were planning a trip out to be with Sylvia in September when her baby was born. They agreed to bring Coco back with them when they returned home which became quite an adventure in it’s self as they hit a deer while driving through Wyoming which could have been fatal if Justin hadn’t kept his head and gotten the car stopped on the road which was made difficult because it was dark and the hood of the car popped up when the collision occurred. If he had turned just a little to the right he would have gone over the edge of the embankment and the car would have rolled. As it was they had a very large, very frightened dog that flew forward into the front of the car that needed to be calmed down, not to mention them. They were headed for Casper, WY where they had a room reserved at a motel that would accept pets which they finally arrived at much later than planned, that was the bad news, the good news was that they survived. Justin’s folks drove up to Casper and rescued the three of them and brought them all back to Cedar City. The car remained behind at a repair shop where it would stay for two months while the parts needed to repair it were shipped from Korea. MGH and I later drove up and retrieved it much to the relief of the young couple.

As for Coco—we took him back to Wisconsin towards the end of September when Franklin was born, where Ford’s circumstances had changed (just what that was I really can’t remember at all and neither could Ford when I talked to him by phone yesterday) so that he could care for his dog once more. I guess you could say about this whole episode that ‘all’s well that ends well’. We were even able to sell the chain link dog pen that MGH had purchased to keep Coco in while he was with us to a man who was doing some work with a back-hoe when the house next to us was being built which put paid and finished to the whole affair but left us as well with a lot of funny stories to tell each other about a really amazing super-sized clown of a dog that kept life interesting, to say the least, for all who met him. And now, having pieced all this together I can put it to rest having now in my possession a hard copy. . . .

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Every so often our Retirement Home becomes a refuge for an animal friend, mostly because I like dogs and cats of all persuasions but just a ‘tech’ because I have never been very good at saying no when someone needs help. This often causes great consternation for MGH(my good husband) who looks at my efforts with a somewhat jaundiced eye and, I will admit, has been the occasion of discord between us a time or two. Even so, he is usually good natured about my attempts to tie a ‘keg’ around my neck and bound out into the wilds to rescue the needy much like the fabled St Bernard of the Swiss Alps. He just looks at me, when my latest project has returned a beloved pet back to its rightful place and asks me if I have learned enough to keep me out of similar mischief in the future and I always answer “yes”, but much like a woman who has just given birth and promises that that will never happen to her again, I soon forget the pain and travail and find myself in the same kettle of stew all over again.

I have some wonderful memories from the ‘visits’ of our four-legged friends. Going over their names brings a smile as I list them; there was Sadie who belongs to my 86 year old friend Jewel and Indigo who claims Brooks, Nancy and Dakota as her subjects, their ages shall remain anonymous as only the very old or the very young enjoy others knowing that bit of personal information, including me. Mesa, a black lab with the sweetest personality you could ever want around your children belongs to our son Sherman’s wife Vicky. Her only fault is wanting to go outside every twenty minutes which is a good thing if one considers the alternative. Jordan’s dog Lucky who looked over her shoulder as she turned to look at me when I called her back and who I heard say, plain as could be with the look she gave me, ‘ha, ha you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man’ before disappearing around the corner of the house and out of my life. Jackson the black Dalmatian with white spots who started out as Joy’s dog and ended up Ford’s and last, but certainly not least Coco.

Coco was a chocolate lab that Ford bought for Kim when they first started dating. Kim, who, had recently lost custody of her girls and was very discouraged about the situation. Ford, who has a gentle, understanding nature (which he tries to hide under a gruff exterior), bought her a puppy in the hopes that having a small animal to care for would help ease her sorrow a little. It was love at first sight for the two of them—well actually, make that the three of them as the little fellow quickly warmed his way into their hearts. All was well until Kim moved to Chicago to live with family there and as no dogs were allowed Ford took Coco who was no longer a cute wiggly pup but a gangly, still growing teenager who resented the time he spent alone in an empty apartment while Ford was at work. He made his unhappiness known by barking in a deep bass which soon had all the neighbors up in arms. In
desperation Ford called us and asked if we could take his dog for awhile. The rest is, as they say, history.

When we first met Coco he was the size of a small pony. MGH, while agreeing to take him in said absolutely ‘no’ to having him in the house. (I might add here, that having grown up on a farm he firmly believes that all animals belong outside.) With that in mind he purchased a chain link dog pen that slid in under the deck on the back of our house and gave Coco protection from the weather—it did not, however give him what he craved most of all and that was companionship. He immediately began to voice his complaint to all the world and the world responded by calling our neighbor, who also had a barking dog, and whose phone number all the neighbors in the apartment behind us had, and began complaining about the barking to her. Joy, who at that time was a single mom raising two little girls and attending SUU took time from her busy schedule to come over and ask if we would like to try the no-bark collar she had found helpful for her dog. We gratefully accepted and immediately put it in place around Coco’s neck. Thank heavens it worked is all that I can say as life as we knew it might have ended right there for us/Coco as I have no doubt an angry mob would soon have descended on us en masse in the dead of night with murder in their hearts for the disruption to their slumber. . . . not that I would have blamed them as we too were finding it hard to sleep as his very loud deep bark bounced off the surrounding buildings and echoed back and forth through the neighborhood with only a slight pause here and there as he stopped to breathe.

Because he needed exercise and to make up for all the time he spent alone I tried to take him on a daily walk. This required both MGH and I to get him ready as the prong collar that allowed me to stay upright was impossible for my small hands to squeeze open and place around his neck so MGH would come out with me to get this part done. Coco was always glad to see him and showed it by placing both of his front legs on MGH’s shoulders the better to give him big slobbery kisses.

Coco never failed to impress us with his athleticism. He could stand flat footed in his pen and jump six feet straight up until he looked over the top. MGH often claimed that he would have been out of there if the deck hadn’t stopped him. As for the walk itself, that consisted of my hanging on for dear life as I called, “Back, back”, to show who was really in control. At least that is what I said when I wasn’t yelling, “‘Ware the dog”, to any passerby who happened to be sharing the street with us all the while smiling as if barreling down the street faster than a speeding bullet was the normal way to travel with ones dog.

When it came time to take him home we stopped to visit my sister Kathy and her husband Gary in Iowa. Kathy had to get up early and had already left the house for her teaching job. Gary had told us the night before that he would be sleeping in to try to catch up on some of sleep he missed by staying up so late visiting with us the night before (he keeps banker’s hours you see) and that we should feel free to fix ourselves breakfast if he wasn’t up before us. My sister Barbara happened to be there as well and so after getting our car packed I returned to the kitchen to visit with her for a few more minutes while MGH got Coco taken care of. I think I neglected to mention that the ‘prong’ collar only worked if Coco was in agreement with the direction we were heading. If he decided to do something else he would give a lunge and was off and running, leaving me no choice but to raise my voice calling “Coco get back here right now. I mean it”. As he humored me most of the time on our walks I had never passed on this bit of information to MGH. So when MGH knocked on the door to the kitchen and stuck his head in to let me know that he was ready to leave he was totally unprepared for the lunge Coco gave that allowed him to break free and charge into the room to ‘greet’ me, like a long lost friend.

My first thought on seeing him was that we had a bull in a china shop situation as the room was filled with Kathy’s lovely collectibles. Without consciously thinking of the consequence of my actions I jumped up from my chair in front of him trying to block him from further entry and if I were lucky possibly grab his leash or collar as well. Hah! All that happened was that he just put his head down and ran between my legs where I was quite startled to find myself astraddle his back with my feet no longer touching the floor. I knew then that the situation was now in the hands of a higher power. I remember Barbara crying out in alarm, “Are you alright?” Of course I wasn’t, but being a Gano I yelled out that I was before completely losing my balance and pitching to the floor. By this time MGH had grabbed the leash and was quickly exiting the scene with the excited dog. Thankfully no damage was done other than to my dignity but I have often wished we had caught it on video tape and sent it to America’s Funniest Home Videos as it would have been a sure winner!

I will never forget Coco as we met up with Ford—how he absolutely refused to ride in the back seat and insisted on being right up front where he lay with his head on Ford’s lap for the small distance left to travel.

It is with great regret that I must pass on the sad news that Coco died on November 7th 2006. Not from getting hit by a car as I would have predicted as often as he went AWOL. Kim told me that would never have happened as he was always careful to travel on the side of the road. Nor was it from some shot gun wielding farmer unhappy with the fact that his purebred cocker spaniel had been impregnated by this roving Lothario. No rather it was from eating a half a pan of brownies and then getting into Brauke’s Halloween candy that did him in.

He will be sorely missed by all who knew and loved him.

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Our insurance premium just went up! Yep, when Bryan came back from the road test the examiner told him very seriously, “You have a lot to work on, but you did pass.”

Tom and I are taking full advantage of the situation. Both of us sent him out that night to fill up our cars with gas.

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There has been quite a dry spell between postings, sigh. I had fully intended to write more about my memories of the Burris Ranch and those who lived there in my next missive but life intervened in the form of ‘wastewater’ backing up through the drain in our basement on October l6th. This occurred because the main drain, which runs down the street in front of our home, is clay which means the joints leak. (Newer drains are made of plastic and can be sealed tightly; at least that is what one gentleman from the Cedar City Wastewater Dept. explained to me when I tried to find out what was going on.) The cottonwoods that line the street in front of the chapel which is the third building down from us, not being at all fussy about where they quenched their thirst must have thought that they had found the ‘mother-lode’ when they found the weak link in the drainage system as they proceeded to fill the area with their roots in their eagerness to ‘belly-up’ right to the ‘bar’, so to speak, until they succeeded in plugging the drain which meant that the ‘waste-water’ had no place to go and so, having great need, found that our house and the neighbors would work just fine to relieve the pressure.

Our entry into this sad tale begins when Sherman’s wife Vicky caught me just as I was going out the door to run some errands and asked if there was a reason the floor was wet downstairs.

“Good grief”, I muttered to myself, “that dratted washing machine has given out after ten years of hard use. I’ve been afraid of this happening”. Reluctantly I put down my purse and keys, changed direction and headed down the stairs, instead of out into the beckoning world, where I found water snuggled into the cracks of the tile that Ford had so carefully laid the week before, and which I had planned to begin grouting that day, as well as in the carpet in MGH’s office, laundry room and bathroom with a corner of the downstirs bedroom also catching some of the flow.

My mind whirring through the possibilities of who could clean up the mess quickly arrived at the conclusion that that would be me. Having reluctantly reached that understanding, I acted on the theory, for you see, I am nothing if not scientific in my reasoning, that the sooner started-the sooner finished which I believe ranks right up there with Einstein and Darwin and maybe even surpasses them in a practical manner, so to speak. That meant dragging my faithful Hoover carpet steamer down the stairs after finally remembering that I had parked it in the coat closet the last time I used it. (Please do not try and deduce from this when the last time was that I used it because you would have to factor in my inability to quickly access information I have filed in my memory systemwhich eventually gives me what I ask for even if it is several days after the request for information was made.

After slurping up water for several hours I began to wonder if it really was my washer at fault–Sherman had suggested this possibility earlier and I had breezily dismissed that idea-but now, doubts had begun to set in especially in view of the fact that all the clothes Vicky had washed the day before had been folded and put away which is not the usual condition of a laundry room with a washer on the fritz. A daring thought entered my mind at this point–what would happen if I tried the washer to see if it actually was broken, I mean what was the worst that could happen? I might get electrocuted but the more likely thing was that I would have to mop up more water but that was rather a moot point now. By this time anything sounded better than what I was doing so I quickly sprang into action and gathered up a very small load of necessary white items and tossed them in the washer. Thirty minutes later I had my answer, it wasn’t the washing machine. . . .

That was when I began to realize that the problem might be bigger than just a washing machine not working and that I had been merrily sucking up who knows what for the last several hours. I then remembered that there had been a truck from the Cedar City Wastewater Dept. parked in front of our neighbors that morning when I retrieved the paper so I headed outside to see if it was still there. It wasn’t, but there was another city truck stopped in the road in front of our mailbox with the cover off the man hole that led to the nether reaches of our fair city. I finally tracked down ‘the person of interest’ responsible for said truck and told him my sad story. He listened and then accompanied me into the house and after sizing up the situation told me the story of the thirsty cottonwoods and how they had just finished cleaning the roots out and that the situation was now under control and would probably never happen again. He also called his boss and we soon had others from the city coming down for a ‘look’ and, as a result, more calls were made until finaly the company they contracted with to clean up after backups arrived and made quick work, when compared to my little Hoover, of disposing the ‘water’ in the carpet in MGH’s office as well as the other nooks and crannies in the downstairs that had managed to be low enough to attract a visit or at least given a nod too in the case of the newly tiled but only partially grouted floor. They also took out said carpet and cut off the drywall about a foot up off the floor so they could disinfect the floorboards as well. So we were cleaned and dried in a couple of days. I absolutely refuse to think about what we managed to track through the rest of the house in the interim–sometimes it is best not to go there. . . .(In this case I am talking about imagination as we do have to go to all the other rooms in the house–we really don’t have any choice in that regard.)

I really thought, back in the beginning, that we would be put back together quite quickly but that was before I found out that Cedar City required two estimates for everything that had to be done i.e. drywall replaced and taped\painting\carpet laid/plumbing to reattach the vanity and as each of these steps has to be done by a different person who, they all tell me, are scheduled out past January. . . .and that’s just the ones who gave us an estimate–some have come and never replied back and so here we sit with our downstairs torn apart and my hair which didn’t need any help disappearing, succumbing even faster as I tear at it in frustration!

Thus ends my sad tale as I stare glumly at our belongings spread out over the newly tiled but as yet ungrouted floor downstairs and I wonder how this will all end. . . .

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