:Family Matters

August 24, 2008

So, there I was just minding my own business pushing my squeaky cart with the wheel that refused to go along with it’s compatriots trying my best to make it appear that I had everything under control even if I was hitting every other display as I made my erratic progress down the aisle at our local super sized Wal-Mart when a cart with a little boy of about 4 or 5 positioned like a figurehead on the prow of a ship came to an abrupt stop in order to avoid a collision which, to be sure, is not all that unusual as it is impossible to see round the corner of an aisle without the aid of a periscope which, so far, are not standard issue on grocery carts nor likely to ever become so which means survival is up to the individual customer and indeed, could very well prove to the world that Darwin knew what he was talking about with his theory of why some species of plants/animals survive while others sink into the black hole of forgotten failures which he seemed to think had something to do with fitness. MGH gets quite irritated with Darwin and his theories which I know because seeing the name Darwin is like waving a flag in front of a bull—it brings his alpha maleness to the fore and makes him feel like it’s necessary to take a good hard charge. This results in much irritation being expressed to me, HGW(His Good Wife) generously sprinkled with his own ideas of why this ‘isn’t so’ one of which is that while the fittest are out battling with each other as to who is going to be top dog with the ladies the ‘weaker’ males are busy taking advantage of the situation and end up siring all the next year’s youngun’s which really has nothing to do with what I started out to tell you but just sort of happened in the heat of writing this scintillating report on overheard remarks at ‘where America shops’ which translates into MGH’s ‘the great unwashed’ as that is how people of small means are looked at by those of large means, which again has nothing to do with the price of tea in China but is just put forward as an aside on my part to avoid my reporting of just what truth I heard uttered from the mouth of a child which was, “Wow, we almost hit that old lady”. Startled, I looked around to see if there was anyone else and saw, alas that I was the only one in sight which forced me to the reluctant conclusion that I was the ‘old’ lady being referred to. ME! How could this be? And here I have believed all these years that age is only a number and this little bundle of innocence has the gall to say I look old and furthermore in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the entire store. Can’t he tell that I am not, and I shudder as I write this, OLD? I mean the calendar might say that I am but I don’t have to believe it do I?

“Say it ain’t so Joe, say it ain’t so” said the little boy to his hero ’shoeless’ Joe Jackson who had just admitted his complicity in throwing the 1919 World Series along with eight of his team mates on the Chicago White Sox team. Now I find myself feeling like that little boy needing reassurance that something I have always believed is still true—age is only a number even if one looks as ‘old as the hills’ and people ask you all the time, When are you going to start acting your age?

I am, however starting to notice some, for want of a better word, ‘perks’. This, again occurred at Wal-Mart just last Saturday as I took advantage of an end of season markdown on cedar mulch which I intend to spread around my plants. Having snagged one of their garden center carts I loaded up four bags of the stuff which I am glad they sell by the bag and not by weight as they all feel like they have added ten or so pounds of extra moisture while sitting outside, and proceeded on my way back to the check out counter. The two gals manning this station saw me coming and immediately came rushing out to rescue me with one of them cooing, “Here, let me help you with that. Why that load is bigger than you are.” The upshot of this was that the younger one pushed the cart to my car, after having my coin of the realm (credit card) accepted, and loaded the bags into the trunk for me. Wow! That was really quite nice of them wasn’t it. I just wished I could have taken at least one of them home with me to unload it as well. However, never fear as I have discovered how to get from the front to the back of the house with a heavy load and a minimal number of steps. All I have to do is drop the bag of whatever over the side of the deck and bingo—there it is down where I need it which you dear reader must not try at home because it could be disastrous if not performed accurately and please don’t ask me how I know this.

So okay, its good to have help with heavy items but can you believe this, a middle aged man at Tuachan where Vicky treated us to Les Miz last month which was really neat but requires the navigation of more than a few stairs to get to one’s seat. At the end of the performance I stayed to collect our belongings as Vicky was carrying Aviendha who had fallen asleep and MGH has all he can do just to get himself where he needs to be in a reasonable length of time. So there I was making what I thought was pretty fair speed considering that my hands and arms were full. I hadn’t stopped to catch my breath and only had one more flight of steps before reaching the top when this gentleman takes my elbow and says in a solicitous tone, “You look like you could use a little help”. What could I do but thank him?

On the bright side: A reporter interviewing a 104 year-old woman asked. “And what do you think is the the best thing about being 104?” She replied, “No peer pressure.” I could live with that. . . how about you?

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July 20, 2008

I wonder if it is safe to keep my feet on the floor, which alas, isn’t really a choice, at least not in my current corporal form which means I must continue on as I am presently constituted as I haven’t quite mastered walking on air yet, not that I am really attempting such a feat as I believe it is reserved for the hereafter and while every day brings me closer, I am not quite there yet. It’s not that I am paranoid or anything about bugs because I definitely am not—just ask those who know me best and they will confirm the truthfulness of the above statement (Barbara perhaps)? (I know for sure that they will if you show them a Mexican passport (money) which MGH explained the meaning of to me just yesterday thereby proving once again that one is never too old to learn something new.) I hesitate to bring this sensitive topic up because no one likes to admit they have strange things running around their home but I believe in full disclosure even if it is me I am disclosing on. It all began like this.
There I was happily reading the doleful news of the day and the interpretation thereof as contained in my lap top when I caught sight of something moving with great rapidity towards me where it took refuge under the chair I was sitting in. This happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to react normally which, for me, is the old ‘find something heavy and whack them good with it’. Sad to say this is not the first time I have seen one of these little buggers with their zillion legs which while amusing to hear about in casual conversation with some poor soul actively engaged in the ongoing struggle of ‘them’ (bugs) against ‘us’ (stewards of the planet) it is not nearly as funny when I find that I have become the poor soul.
Out of curiosity, (Which I have in such great abundance that MGH, at least in the early days of our marriage, used to tell me, “Curiosity killed the cat”. To which I would respond quite smugly, “Ah, yes, but satisfaction brought it back”). I sought for further light and knowledge on the subject in that readily available source of, sometimes reliable information, Wikipedia where I found out that I have been invaded by centipedes which I can consider a blessing as they eat other bugs or a bane if I get bitten by one which shouldn’t happen if I can move faster than they can which ordinarily would have me rolling on the floor with laughter at the thought as I can’t even keep up with a toddler anymore so what chance would I have against a bug with a hundred legs?
The above thoughts have stirred up an ancient memory from my past and has to do with mother and her ongoing battle with the cockroaches that took up residence in her kitchen when we were living on the farm. Being Mother she battled courageously using every ounce of her native intelligence and ability which was formidable at anytime but never more so than when the health and well being of her family were at risk. She read and studied the matter extensively trying first one remedy and than another but nothing seemed to work and to be honest I don’t know what she did to get rid of them as I left home before the battle was won but I think she used something like corn meal which when eaten by the little critters swelled and blew them up—or maybe it was plaster of Paris which gave them a fatal case of constipation when it hardened, at any rate, it seems like she found something that worked.
I too have dealt with them on an up close and personal basis which occurred while living in the home MGH moved from Garfield to Draper and then renovated which is a whole ‘nother story in and of its self so I won’t go there, at least not at this time. I think they must have been sharing accommodations with us for some time with my being oblivious to them as I was busy learning to be a mother to the ready made family I had acquired along with MGH as well as trying to finish my degree work at BYU and being pregnant which kept me fully occupied. It wasn’t until Sylvia was born that I discovered our ‘guests’ one night when I went into the kitchen to find something I needed. When I flipped on the light there, to my horror, I saw ever inch of the counter top covered with a heaving mass of the brown, antenna waggling, free loading cockroaches which even as I gazed in horror at the nightmarish sight were disappearing before my eyes as they melted into the cracks and crannies of the kitchen.
I wish I had some heart warming story of how hard work and persistence cleared our home of these pests, but alas it wasn’t until we moved to Iowa that we were able to rid ourselves of their annoying presence although, now that I think about it the wonder was that we didn’t move some of them with us. Perhaps it was because someone was watching out for us but more likely it was because I was pretty darn careful while packing to look and shake before placing anything, and I do mean anything, in a box although even that shouldn’t have worked—but as I said earlier, we did not move them to the, by now, cockroach free kitchen Mother worked so hard to achieve.
BYU was not so fortunate as Darlene took a few of our ‘friends’ back with her after visiting us for a weekend while a Freshman attending BYU. They hitched a ride in her suitcase and from there moved into the Heritage Hall she was living in which then required a visit or two from the exterminator. Sigh. When Darlene told me about all this she said the school was trying to puzzle out where the source of contamination came from so they could keep it from happening again. Since they didn’t ask me I didn’t volunteer my thoughts on the subject which was that they needed to see that my sister didn’t come for another overnighter at my home.
In case you were wondering, MGH had his sister Thelma call the exterminator after we moved who kept coming until the house was freed of its unwelcome guests. We then sold, on contract, the little white house with it’s purple trim that sat down below the canal bridge there in Draper. The people who bought it lived happily bug free ever after and later sold the property for mega bucks when Draper was Discovered 30 years later which is further proof, in case you needed any, that timing is everything and if we had waited to sell we would be rich too.
P.S. Ask Kyle about how big cockroaches grow in Taiwan where he served his mission and he and his companions kept them under control by throwing darts at them.

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July 13, 2008

Memory is a strange thing, at least where I am concerned, selecting this bit or that from the information accumulating in my personal collection when I put in a request which, while I am grateful for any response at my current age I can’t help but wish for a little more information than I usually receive. It is not at all like a computer program that allows one to store related items in folders to be brought forth on demand such as, I think I would like to recall what happened on such and such a date and with a click the information is brought up and presented to you for your perusal. (I believe complete memory retrieval will occur for me when I stand in front of my Maker at the Judgment Bar when ALL will be recalled as my life fast forwards from beginning to end.) No, memories, at least for me right now , surface in snippets with some bright and treasured gems emerging every so often to be greeted with great excitement while others seem to have gotten shoved into some forgotten corner of my mind or where ever such things are stored. I have greatly enjoyed the increased contact I have had with Barbara as the press of work and raising families has given us time to visit whether by phone, as most often occurs or face to face as the Lansingh’s have taken the time to include us in their list of people to see as they gallivant around the country/world to visit their daughters where the biggest attraction for them, by far, is grandchildren! We often regale ourselves with stories from our growing up years and what one has forgotten the other sometimes can fill in.

We each remember shared events a little differently. Of course this brings up the old saw about how there are always two sides to every story which when mentioned causes heads to nod sagely in agreement until some wiseacre in the group asks what happens if it is a three car accident? As for who to believe I think it was Winston Churchill who said that it was historians who have the last word so all you non-writers of the world be warned if your version isn’t on record—Barbara, this means YOU!.

As an example, MSB(My Sister Barbara) has a memory that she clings to from our childhood that she loves to present to me as proof of what a hard life she led as number 2 daughter amidst the Gano Girls which she tells like this, “When we were little you rolled off the seat on top of me and gave me a bloody nose”. I have no memory at all of the event but, have so far, been unable to convince her that she errs. When I gently suggest that perhaps this is just a figment of her imagination she humphs, and no one, and I do mean no one can humph the way MSB can humph, and tells me that I wasn’t the one who got the bloody nose thereby trumping my ignorance with her facts.

This is an ‘event’ that occurred when we were very small and could fit, by curling up in a fetal position on the floor of the car which we often did on long car trips when we were tired of sitting up and there wasn’t room to lie down on the back seat especially if it meant sharing the space. I am guessing Barbara was down on the floor trying to sleep and that whoever was driving must have needed to brake sharply which dislodged me from my position on the back seat onto her. I mean, I teased my sisters and perhaps once in a while took advantage of my exalted position as eldest but by and large I believe I treated my siblings quite kindly, with the exception of a time or two when I asked for just a taste of their freshly made BLT which I loved then and still do especially if they are made with home grown red, ripe tomatoes with lots of ‘white stuff’ slathered on the bread, and they acquiesced, because I could be quite persuasive if I do say so myself, being willing to exert either force or flattery—whatever it took, and my ‘taste’ allowed me to consume half the sandwich in one bite including most of the bacon which of course pulled out as well. The wonder is that I didn’t choke on my ill-gotten gain. But, hey, rank does have some privilege doesn’t it, or what good is it? But, by and large after carefully ruminating on this subject I find myself to have been quite benevolent where my younger sisters were concerned.

This was before the era of the modern cars where there was actually leg room for the adult back seat passenger unlike today where the assumption is made that only the legless or small children will ride there. Just as an item of interest, when my sisters and I were growing up there was always a fight for who was to sit in the front seat of the car next to the window, which was always Mother’s if she was with us, as that was perceived to be the ‘best’ seat in the house, other than the driver, so to speak. Dad finally tired of our bickering and told us that the back seat was reserved ‘for big’ people the front for babies and so persuasive was he that we actually came to believe him and started to fight over who got to sit in the back. To this day I have never found riding in the back seat to be demeaning—I mean, after all who doesn’t want to be thought of as a big person?

Of course, this all occurred in the long ago past before children rode in car seats until they weighed 48 pounds or were almost five feet tall which means that I would have been riding in one until my teen years if now were then and if truth be known I probably still ought to sit on a booster seat just to keep the shoulder strap on the seat belt from decapitating me in an emergency situation. That, or the air bag, will no doubt be the cause of my demise in an auto accident as I am vertically challenged enough that if I move the seat of the car back far enough to be safe from the air bag I can’t reach the accelerator and believe me it gets old pretty fast holding ones leg several inches off the floor for more than a few seconds so like a lot of things in life it comes down to the lesser of two evils so I move the seat up and pray for protection. But then I grew up in a kinder gentler time when there were not nearly as many cars on the road and for the most part they didn’t travel at high speeds. During WWII the national speed limit was set at 35 mpg in order to conserve gas for the war effort and that would have been the approximate time frame for MSB’s bloody nose which I allegedly gave her and for which she has never forgiven me to this very day some 60 odd years later and for which I feel obligated to remind her, she will have to answer for when she stands in front of the Judgment Bar— and while she might have trouble accessing her memories—HE won’t. . . .

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