More Mini Memoir

I announced to my parents that I'd picked up mission papers from my BYU bishop when we were at the hospital. My Mom sat in a chair, next to my Dad who was in a hospital gown and hooked up to IVs in his hospital bed. He'd just been diagnosed with cancer.

My parents were less than thrilled.

I wanted to go on a mission, but I began to think that it wasn't the best timing. I did not want to lose my father. I especially did not want to lose him while I was away. . . . on a mission. So I did what any good Mormon girl would do. I prayed.

I remember telling the Lord that I wanted to serve a mission, but not if my Dad was going to die while I was gone. In a rare stroke of confidence, I felt perfectly fine about leaving. My father, I believed, was going to be around for a long, long time. I felt it. I felt it strongly enough to go ahead with my plans for a mission. I don't think that ever before, or since, I've had such strong confidence in a decision that was based on nothing but prayer and maybe, faith. I can't imagine doing such a thing now.

My mother said it was harder to send a daughter than it was a son, but she hadn't sent a son. Not yet.

My Memoir, today

If I were to write my own memoir, I think that every day I'd write something different. Today, though, the first two paragraphs would go like this:

When I was eight years old I leaned against the glass windows at the Salt Lake International Airport. I watched my grandfather be wheeled out of an airplane on a stretcher. He was taken to LDS Hospital where all the doctors smoked. Six weeks later he died of cancer. He was still an LDS missionary.

The words “LDS Mission” and “cancer” were synonyms in my family. It seemed that one always sparked the other. Or visa versa.

Wow. That is so uplifting, I know you all want to read it. :)

God Bless the USA

I never thought I'd live in Utah. My husband always said that hell would have to freeze over before he'd ever willingly moved back to "happy valley--a place he'd hated as a freshman at BYU. (He transferred before he could ever become a sophomore). But move to Utah we did. To our surprise, we liked it. Loved it, even. We didn't want to leave.

I came to Wyoming with trepidation and uneasiness. There was no doubt that it was different. I had lots of worries. One thing I worried about was education. My kids had loved their school and their teachers. I couldn't imagine that the quality of education could compare to what we'd just left.

I met our neighbors on our second day here. I met their daughters. Two beautiful girls. One was returning to the University of Wyoming in a few days. She was a sophomore. And the other? She was leaving the next morning for college.

"And where are you going?" I asked her.

"M.I.T.," she said.

And then I remembered: this is not just Wyoming, it's America.

I haven't worried since.

Just Finished

I just finished reading this book. The premise is that you can use writing and creativity to lose weight. I think this only works if you don't keep M&Ms next to your laptop. Or chocolate stashed in your writing room. Or in drawers all over the house.

In Stephen King's book "On Writing," he talks about how scared he was that he'd lose the ability to write if he got sober. For him, the writing and the getting wasted went together. He didn't think he could do one without the other. But he could. He did.

On Saturday, I went to a local coffee shop and wrote. And drank a huge mug of hot chocolate. There were no M&Ms involved.

Baby steps. Baby steps.

We Must Have Heroes

When I lived in Utah I did some freelancing for a local magazine. I was assigned to write a piece about the President of the University of Utah's wife, Suzan Young. I interviewed her at the President's house just off campus on The Avenues. Her life was fascinating and there was a lot of information that didn't make the article.

For one, her daughter has a pilot's license. This intrigued me.

"What made her want to do that?" I asked.

Turns out, that her grandmother had been a pilot. During the second world war she'd ferried bomber planes from where they were manufactured (in Texas) to the San Francisco Bay area where they were handed over to the military.

I thought about this for a long time. Growing up, in my small town, I saw women who were secretaries, teachers, nurses, dental assistants, and little else. I knew no women doctors, lawyers, writers, poets, or pilots. To become such a thing never occurred to me. I don't blame the women in my life. My mother and grandmothers were all smart, capable women who told me I could be and do anything I wanted to do. I never wanted to be a pilot, anyway.

But oh, how I long to fly.

Baby or Toddler?

At what moment precisely does a baby become a toddler? Is it when he takes his first step? Or when he climbs up and then falls off the kitchen table? Maybe it's when he no longer wants to snuggle into your chest when he's tired.

My son is becoming lots more work. As a baby, he slept and ate and smiled and laughed. Now he climbs and sometimes falls. He empties out drawers. He makes messes. He makes funny noises and tries to mimic his Dad. Yesterday, after I got him dressed he went to the front door thinking that we were going somewhere. We weren't.

He can climb up the bunk bed ladder. He stands on his tiptoes and plays the piano. He tries to feed himself. He plays with his Dad's cell phone. He likes to poke his head into the washing machine.

Two days ago I found his Dad's cell phone in our front-loading washer after I'd just washed a load of towels. It was soaking wet and totally ruined.

I think we have a toddler.

Pie for One

Next week is Thanksgiving. I won't be making pie, but some of you might. While you're at it, you might as well make some of these:

Pies in a Jar.

Aren't they adorable? And you can freeze them and give them as gifts. I think they look scrumptious. If you like pie. Plus, did you notice the free labels? There. The work is already done. Oh, except MAKING the pie. Yeah, that's a biggie.