Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
If your dancing laugh and punctuated speech could be preserved, I'd do it. I would take you to the bottling company and tell them to bring a fleet of semi’s because that is how many bottles I would buy. I sure it would fizz over with giggles and princess stories. It would never miss my daily dose, your sweet elixir healing all my ails. Once my order was delivered I would give them a permanent quota to fill. Luckily I have you right here with me. No need for the manufacture of Anna Juice, it is much better fresh, anyway, my ballerina twirling, morning snuggling, picture crafting, gum hating, honey mustard loving girl.
Monday, January 24, 2011
This week I was to fill my blog with my children. Jack is already playfully displayed. Yet, I must take a break and let recent events enter in. I am not good with death. I would rather it not exist. I mean, I always tell Aaron that when we are old and close to dying that will lie next to each other and say “One, two, three, die.” Then we will be transposed to the afterlife with out a moment without each other. We will be true eternal companions. I think the same of my family and close friends. My faith in life after death stands firm. I just don’t like the separation feature.
When I was young I remember my sister telling me of going to stay at Grandma’s. She and my older brother would go and stay for a week eating Fruit Loops for breakfast, baking sugar cookies with a hit of nutmeg, walks to school playgrounds, watching the Disney channel, and an infamous trip to the Spanish Fork McDonald’s. There would be talk of the infamous “you’ve got corn on your face” dialogue Grandma and Grandpa would have while eating a supper full of vegetables from their own garden. It made my mouth water waiting for my invitation to stay. It came and all my expectations were met I that tiny white house in Payson. My cousin Kirsten and I would spend hours down in “Aunt Becky’s room” playing Barbies. Dolls that seemed to have been preserved for us. The Zebra swimsuit and handmade dresses. It didn’t even compare to the ones I had at home. I had one that I could twist up her hair in a multitude of dos. Yet, the stale hair of the retro set seemed more satisfactory.
All those trips seem to mesh together in a big mass of memories. Yet as I type, I want a bowl of Fruit Loops. I have forgiven her long ago for not teaching her left-handed granddaughter how to crochet. Yet, last night all I could think about was the warmth she had given our home with all the baby blankets, comforters and afghans. Not to mention the dish towels, washcloths and bath linens that she made. This morning, I spotted Jack’s quilt. She was over ninety when Jack was born and here is an expertly crafted frog quilt. The only request she made is that she held the tiny receiver of her gift. She held each one of mine. My big babies over-filled her tiny lap, commented on how the boys looked like Aaron and Anna was just like me. When it took a while for my last two cherubs to arrive, She told me it would come and I believed her. She was right and her quilts welcomed them into the world. I feel so remorseful for ignoring and excusing myself for not making the long trek to Payson to see her and letting her see her progeny.
I was paid the compliment that my eyes resemble hers. Our eyes that squint and crack when we smile. That is how I see her. That is how I love her. Only if I could resemble in so many other ways. She was constant and firm. I will always see her in that white house on top of the hill. That is where she wanted to be. She fought to be there. She would have been there if she hadn’t had to relent to more care these last few weeks. I think I might have a bit of her stubbornness, I am not easy swayed from my own ideas. Yet, on her stubbornness is a virtue.
When I heard of her death, all this that seemed vaulted rushed out. I have drowned in it and basked in her memory. I think today I need to pick up some Fruit Loops.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
John Preston Nydegger
I must confess that some days seem wasted. Like when we used to get the newspaper and forget to bring it in until two days later. It would be wet, or wrinkled from drying the the sun after being unintentionally watered. Then it would sit on the counter and, since we don’t have recycling with our garbage service, thrown out not browsed or picked through. Days seem to speed by unnoticed then left for pick up
I don’t want it this way. I remember holding Jack after my most painful childbearing experience. The intense cry he released pacified me, calmed my hips and back. I examined him over and over again. His stick-up blond hair and narrow feet. His intense gaze when he heard my voice. He knew me. I held him a few days and nights later. Days and nights that swirled and heaved with unexplained crying and uncomfortable recovery. I was a bit disillusioned that the instant bonding process had left. Yet, he looked at me as I spoke, and I was repentant. Our souls seemed to leave our bodies and tie together and then a piece of that union was sent back to each of us. I began to understand his wails and fusses. It wasn’t always instant but, we worked on it together.
It seems so long ago that all this happened. Yet, luckily when I look in those eyes and he purses his wet red lips, I remember that tiny babe. He still finds my eyes to get his jumbled messages across. In them, I find the decoder I need to recycle this memory and help him navigate.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Partying princess style
General Sherman came in November for a brief stay. I was surprised to find out his whiskers were drawn on.
Loved Arches despite the bugs and heat.