Memories Are Made Of This

I love Valentine’s Day. What a great day to remind those we love that we care about them and appreciate all they do for us. Okay, maybe we should do that every day, but I have to tell you—I know this sounds a little like bragging—but I have a young son who is going to make his future wife very happy one day. He’s one of those guys who love to spoil the girl in his life. Luckily for me, right now, that’s his mother. :)

He is all for giving chocolates, perfume, flowers, homemade cards, favorite chick flick, a special dinner out, and a bear made at Build-A-Bear by him personally every year for Valentines Day. (He hasn’t offered to buy me a new house yet, I suspect that may be next. lol. He has a HUGE heart.) Granted, this can take quite a toll on the ol’ pocket book and half the fun is watching his dad squirm because, although dad doesn’t deny that his mother deserves the very best on this very special day, ALL of these things together can add up very quickly. In the end, it’s fun to see what the two of them come up with. They are both very good to me. In all truthfulness the very idea that my son would even think of wanting to do so much, touches me more than words can say.

However, there is something that makes me sad this year. Ever since my boys were young, I, along with each boy have had a blast thinking up crazy designs for their Valentine boxes that they would take to school each year. The more crazy and outlandish they were, the better. Wow!What good times we’ve had.!

One year when Pirates of the Caribbean was so popular, we made a treasure chest full of coins and jewels. Another time we made a basket ball hoop complete with a basket ball, there was a guitar hero looking guitar, and we even made a toilet complete with bath rug and flusher that said “You make me feel all flushed.” We had some crazy boxes, but what meant more to me was the time I spent with each of my son’s making their boxes with them.

Well, after years of drawing, cutting, and gluing, my boys have grown up and those creating adventures are now only memories. My oldest is married and has a child of his own and my other son is going to his first Junior High Valentine’s Day dance. Gosh, I hate to see little things like this come to an end. We had such fun.

I still love Valentine’s Day and all that it represents. This year when I give my boys their Valentine’s, I’ll probably hug them a moment or two longer and tell them thanks for the memories that I have. I sure cherish them today.

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”

Tips for Aspiring Authors

I've been saving these for a day when I was too uninspired to think of anything meaningful or uplifting to blog about, and that day has come. Sorry, but I hope you enjoy them all the same.

1. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
2. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
3. Also, always avoid awkward, affected and annoying alliteration.
4. Never ever use unnecessary redundant repetitions.
5. Avoid run-on sentences they are hard to read.
6. No sentence fragments.
7. Verbs has to agree with their subjects.
8. Avoid commas, that are not necessary.
9. Writing carefully, dangling participles should not be used.
10. Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
11. Don’t verb nouns.
12. Employ the vernacular.
13. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
14. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
15. Remember to never split an infinitive.
16. Contractions aren't necessary.
17. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
18. One should never generalize.
19. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
20. Comparisons are as bad as clichés.
21. Be more or less specific.
22. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
23. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
24. The passive voice is to be avoided.
25. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
26. Who needs rhetorical questions?
27. Don't never use a double negative.
28. Do not put statements in the negative form.
29. A writer must not shift your point of view.
30. Don't overuse exclamation marks!!!
31. Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
32. Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
33. Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.
34. Last but not least, avoid clichés like the plague, they're old hat.

Oh, The Saints Marched Right On In!

Okay, I'll confess . . . not only did I watch last night's Superbowl game, but I've become a huge Saints fan the past few years. So if you are acquainted with what happened during last night's game, you'll know that it was a great moment for anyone who loves the New Orleans' Saints. (For those who didn't see that game, the Saints won against the highly favored Colts team, 31—17.)

For years I had never been much into football. Then my youngest son insisted on participating in this sport all through middle school and high school. He was the shortest center our high school team had ever featured in that position, and earned a couple of awards for his efforts. (His nickname was Mighty Mouse.) I spent most of his games covering my eyes whenever he went up against players who were twice his size. I'll never forget the freshman game when someone tapped me on the shoulder and told me to watch the game. I had closed my eyes because my son was up against a huge giant of a kid, someone who weighed around 300 pounds and stood at well over 6 feet tall. My son weighed 120 pounds if he was lucky and was about 5' 3” at the time. You can understand my dismay. Devin was going against this guy on offense and defense. As a result, I brandished my purse a great deal and threatened to swing it while marching out into the fray.

When people kept insisting that I pay attention to what was taking place during that game, I looked out onto the field, and saw that my son had hold of the giant's leg. The guy was literally dragging my son along as he hurried toward the goalposts with the football. Devin refused to let go. When the rest of the team saw how hard Devin was trying to hold onto that huge receiver, they ran after both players and helped Devin bring the guy down, preventing him from scoring another touchdown.

I felt like I was watching a similar struggle last night. The Colts came out, anticipating an easy win. And they quickly made the first few points---the score was 10 to 0. My husband, who is an avid Colts fan, was ecstatic and told me to not feel bad when my team lost. When I informed him that a certain lady hadn't sung yet, he just grinned.

Then suddenly, the Saints came alive, and they played their hearts out. They ran plays that caught the Colts totally off-guard. And they won!!! I'm still grinning. ;)

I should explain. I spent two weeks in New Orleans when my husband was sent there on a special assignment for his company. We arrived nearly a year after Katrina had wreaked havoc and what I saw has forever touched my heart. Not only did I fall head over heels in love with the area, which is gorgeous, but I came to have a healthy respect for the residents who were determined to rebuild. I saw boundless courage and raw optimism. I witnessed firsthand some of the heartbreaking damage that had occurred in that area, and the outpouring of civic pride as strangers helped each other out as best they could.

The Saints football team helped a great deal with the effort to rebuild. And their success has meant the world to people who have lost so much. So yes, I cheered for them all night long, impressed with their tenacity despite the odds. Their win is a win for their city, a place of triumph and endurance where the historical theme of joie de vivre (joy of living) is inherent in their ability to survive challenging trials. I suspect there is a lesson in there somewhere for all of us.

Black History Month

"This month is black history month." Those words on the television caught my attention as I peddled furiously on my stationary bike a few days ago. They've stayed in my mind as I've viewed the horrendous pictures and stories coming out of Haiti and read emails from my nephew who is on the board of directors of an orphanage in that devastated country. I've been pleased to see people of every ethnic and religious grouping providing relief and working together there. And as I've watched both black and white rescuers working side by side and thought of the term "black history", I've thought about my own journey to awareness regarding race.

Growing up near an Indian reservation, thinning beats alongside Hispanics, and knowing the hospitality of wonderful Oriental neighbors, I never gave much thought to black people or racial differences. It just wasn't something that came up around our supper table. In fact, I never even saw a black person until I was in the fourth grade and two little black girls began school in our little three room schoolhouse. They only stayed a month or so, but in that time my friends and I, with the best of intentions, made their life miserable and scared them half to death. Their tiny braids sticking out all over their heads, their pink palms, and huge round eyes fascinated us. Besides we'd heard the stories on radio and the few televisions in our community about black people wanting to go to school with white kids and we thought our little backwater school had suddenly become as important as those in the news. We became very proprietary over those children. They were tiny and shy while the rest of us were tough, rowdy farm kids. In our quest to show how thrilled we were with the new status we thought their presence gave us, we gave them the most challenging roles in all of our games, pushed them far beyond their comfort zone, and made them the center of attention. We used the N-word freely because we didn't know better. Every chance they got they hid and we often found them crying. It never crossed our minds that they were afraid of us. To this day I wonder why we weren't better prepared to see those children's needs and what experiences had led them to think they had to accept our well-meant bullying. Were our parents and teachers, both black and white, as ill-prepared as we were for this experience?

A few years later, at another place, a train derailment resulted in the escape of a black prisoner. Soon pickup trucks filled with men bearing rifles or shotguns were slowly patrolling country roads. My father excused me from irrigating, told me to get my book and go sit on the corral fence in front of an old bunkhouse. I knew an elderly black man lived in the bunkhouse, though we seldom saw him. He stayed to himself most of the time and disappeared inside his house whenever I showed up at the nearby barn to help with the milking. It wasn't until years later while reading Faulkner that I realized why my father gave me that odd day off from my usual chores. He knew, just as Faulkner's character knew, no trigger happy bigot would shoot toward the bunkhouse if he caught a glimpse of the old man and mistook him for the escaped convict while a little blonde girl was sitting right in front of his house.

As a teenager I visited a large city with several friends. We boarded a bus one day and made our way to the back seats. The back seats were our privileged domain on the school buses we rode back home and smaller children knew better than to invade our highly esteemed territory. Imagine our shock when the bus driver ordered us out of those seats and informed us only colored people sat there. It just didn't make sense that though we got there first, we weren't allowed to sit in our choice of seats and when one of our parents later explained the rule to us, it still didn't make sense.

There were few students in the schools I attended who were black until I reached college. Even then there were only a handful. It wasn't until I entered the work force that I discovered petty instances of bigotry because of race. I was also shocked to discover some people used race as a trump card to avoid responsibility. Shopping with my future bi-racial daughter-in-law for her wedding dress and photos was another eye-opening experience that convinced me racial bigotry even in the Mountain-west with its low percentage of black people was alive and well.

Now I see my grandchildren play with children of other races seemingly oblivious to color. I smile at pictures of a grandson taking swimming lessons where he's the only white child in the class. I see five different races or ethnic groups represented in my LDS ward sacrament meeting. I eagerly open an e-mail from a dear black friend. There's a picture in the newspaper of a black fireman carrying a white child from a burning house and on TV there's a black doctor and a white nurse bending over an elderly Haitian woman with crushed legs.

I'm not sure how I feel about "black history" being segregated from American history or world history. Isn't it time to integrate the history of the black race into the history of mankind? It seems to me that no one race is responsible for human advancement, nor for the cruelty and failures of this world. We're really all in this together and just as all races are represented in bringing aid to Haitian suffering, it seems to me we've had enough time to get past this race thing and start being just people, just Americans, just part of the human race.

 

What the world needs now, is love sweet love.

When I was a little girl, whenever I had a fight with one of my friends, my mom would make me call that friend and apologize, whether I was wrong or not. I hated it at the time. But as an adult I can see the wisdom of it. Especially when it comes to family and loved ones. Does it really matter whose wrong. Isn't the relationship more important than the pride we hold wanting to prove we were right?

A few weeks ago I got my feelings hurt. Basically someone said something very mean to me. They were so quick to judge me and accuse me, and it really hurt. How I wished they would have talked to me. They would have learned that my motives were pure and I meant no harm.

A dear man and former prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Gordon B. Hinckley, gave a talk entitled, "The Need for Greater Kindness," in the May 2006, Ensign. In this talk he said this,

"I see all around me a marvelous outpouring of love and concern for others.

Think of the vast good done by the women of the Relief Society. The shadow of their benevolent activities extends all across the world. Women reach down and give of their time, their loving care, and their resources to assist the sick and the poor.

Think of the welfare program with volunteers reaching out to supply food, clothing, and other needed items to those in distress.

Think of the far reaches of our humanitarian efforts in going beyond the membership of the Church to the poverty-ridden nations of the earth. The scourge of measles is being eradicated in many areas through the contributions of this Church.

Observe the workings of the Perpetual Education Fund in lifting thousands out of the slough of poverty and into the sunlight of knowledge and prosperity.

And thus I might go on reminding you of the vast efforts of the good people of this Church in blessing the lives of one another and with an outreach that extends across the world to the poor and distressed of the earth.

There is no end to the good we can do, to the influence we can have with others. Let us not dwell on the critical or the negative. Let us pray for strength; let us pray for capacity and desire to assist others. Let us radiate the light of the gospel at all times and all places, that the Spirit of the Redeemer may radiate from us.

In the words of the Lord to Joshua, brethren, “be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God [will be] with thee whithersoever thou goest” (Josh. 1:9).

Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone tried being a little more kind; let people in front of us on the freeway, smile at each other, offer to help someone in need, not be so quick to judge, give people the benefit of the doubt. Every since the experience last week, I've tried harder to make an effort to be kinder. I don't know if I've made a difference to anyone else, but it truly has made my days happier.

I've always loved this song and think it has a wonderful message for us. Click on the link and you can watch the video.
Jackie DeShannon - What the World Needs Now is Love lyrics

Horrible things are happening- am I allowed to be happy?

The day I learned of the earthquake in Haiti, my stomach just fell. I looked at the images on my computer screen and wondered how on earth people ever pick up and carry on after that kind of horror.

I watched with pride as my church quickly sent relief planes and help was sent from LDS people across the border in the Dominican Republic. Certainly I don't mean to toot the LDS horn to the exclusion of the many, many other organizations that have provided help, I just was so proud to be part of a group that quickly offers compassion and help. I also have noted with extreme satisfaction LDS.org's main page, encouraging members worldwide to contribute however we can.

I saw images of bodies piling up, of mass graves, of crude burning pyres right alongside the streets, people pulled alive but broken from the wreckage, mothers grieving for lost children and children for parents, and it made my heart hurt. To know that the country suffered so horribly before the earthquake made the calamity seem like salt in an open wound.

The first day, I saw an outpouring of shock and grief. The days passed, and I noticed a shift. Supporting Haiti was becoming a political thing. People were angry at Hollywood for taking up the cause. I heard snide comments that President Obama only cared about the issue because the victims are black. I became very angry. Who cares if movie stars are helping people who are living through hell? It's not Haiti's fault. And when someone lifts a hand or donates money to make a life a bit better, where is the crime? How could this thing have possibly become political?

And then, I found myself thinking less about Haiti and more about my own life, my own problems. It's only natural, I know this. I would catch myself praying for things and then wondering how I possibly had the right to worry over little things when my Heavenly Father has other children who need him now more than I do. I suppose the beauty of God is that he can care for us all, and I know that, but I was reminded of how I felt after 9-11. I would laugh at something silly or find joy around me and then feel a twinge of something. Guilt? Probably it's guilt. A sense of sorrow for a moment that I'm finding joy and other people are living through unspeakable pain.

I remember when Saturday Night Live came back on the air after 9-11. It was a beautiful, welcome relief. It was done with love, with gentleness, it resurrected the knowledge for me that, even when horrible things happen, good still exists. We should grieve. We should help. We must do all we can to lift the hands and heads that hang low in hopeless agony. We must also cling to hope and joy and faith in a Maker who allows things to happen in this life, possibly to show the rest of us how to be humane, how to love and serve.

As I continued to watch attempted relief efforts in Haiti, and still do watch, I am reminded that, as the Proverb says, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." That we must cling to hope like it's all we have, and work as hard as we possibly can for the betterment of our own lives and those within our realm of influence. I know that the problems and trials in my own life, while in comparison to others may seem small, are still real and I can pray for help without feelings of guilt or inadequacy. I will keep it in perspective- one of my favorite quotes from Robert Fulghum is the notion that there are three kinds of lumps in life: a lump in the oatmeal, a lump in the throat, and a lump in the breast. I've learned to try to categorize the lumps and make sure I'm not acting as though I've a lump in the breast when really it's a lump in the throat that may not deserve as much attention as I'm giving it. And yet, the lump in the throat may still need a prayer or two, and it's ok.

My heart continues to ache for those who are suffering in Haiti, and everywhere in the world where unspeakable things happen that I know would test my faith and my sanity. History is replete with examples of hell on earth, and yet in those stories there are silver linings to the clouds, blessings from a benevolent God who sees all and loves all, and sometimes those blessings come through not only his angels in heaven but also those he has stashed here on earth. They are all around us.

I'm going to try to be an earthly angel. And to smile and feel joy and hope, even when things are bleak. The human spirit is resilient, and we are here to learn from the pain and find joy in the journey. So I answer my own question that, yes, even when horrible things happen, we are still allowed to be happy. I find comfort in that.

Sharing Books

Like Nancy, I'm not a huge fan of January. Well, in theory, I am—the idea of starting over, a fresh, new beginning and all that, and since I have a birthday in February, it's another feeling of a new year ahead of me. What am I going to do next? What's going to be different this coming year? What am I going to make different, and better? It's a time to look forward and back.

But since I'm still in the middle of evaluating my life, and since I hate revealing my self-absorption, I decided to write about something we all have in common, reading and books. I have enjoyed many LDS books but there's so many I haven't read I'm going to write (briefly) about a few of my favorite non-LDS series, books I've read more than once and may well read again. With so many books to read, it may seem like wasted time rereading books, but sometimes reading a familiar book is like spending time with a good friend: it's comfortable and comforting and I know exactly what I'm getting. So here goes.

1. Mrs. Pollifax. This is one of my all-time favorite series. I love spending time with Mrs. Pollifax. She's an older woman, a widow, her children are grown, and she's involved in a variety of good works but she feels unused and uninteresting. When her doctor suggests that she do something she's always wanted to do, she knows immediately what she wants to do: be a spy. And through a serendipitous chain of events (and some effort on her own part) she's sent off to Mexico to pick up a package for the CIA. A simple errand, certainly nothing dangerous. But...what would be the fun in that? I love that Mrs. Pollifax is rather an ordinary woman, nothing special about her except that she is curious about people and about life, that's she's a nice person and a good person, and in a tough situation, she's tough, too. She surprises herself and surprises others with her creativity and ingenuity. The last books in the series seem not to have the qualities I like in the first books; maybe the author was tired of her character (Agatha Christie was said to have detested Poirot by the time she was done with him). But the first 8 or so are marvelous.)

2. The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. When I read the first book several years ago, it didn't really do much for me at the time. Rather than one lot sustained plot, the book seemed like a collection of short stories, one solved mystery after the other. But I liked it well enough to keep reading the series, and once again I was drawn by the main character. Like Mrs. Pollifax, Precious Ramotswe decides to do something new, in this case, start a detective agency. With no actual experience detecting but with a lot of common sense and a good heart, Precious takes on all manner of mysteries, from cheating husbands to mysterious deaths to missing merchandise and missing children. I love the language (and the narrator for this series on audio is fabulous) and the simplicity of the people and the place evoked by the language. I feel absolutely inadequate to describe what the author is able to accomplish in creating his characters and this wonderful setting that manages to be both exotic and simple at the same time.

3. Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum. I hesitate to mention these books because they are pretty "worldly" but there is much that is right with them. A determined but very human main charactor, two fabulously described men--both incredibly sexy (my favorite after Kerry Blair's Greg Howland, my ideal man :-) and a range of characters both rotten and hysterical. Stephanie's grandmother is a delight—and a menace at funeral viewings—her stoner friend from high school is just funny, and Bob the dog—well, he just makes me laugh. Stephanie’s adventures and misadventures in bringing people to justice are endlessly creative (she's a bail bond enforcer, or "bounty hunter"--but only because it's the only job she could get). I know I wasn't going to talk about LDS books but I have to say I thought Betsy's Murder by the Book had a lot of the same charm--the main character with a bit of an attitude and a penchant for Pepsi and Moon Pies, the attractive men, the fire/bomb that comes too close (Stephanie has a fair amount of bad luck that involves explosions). Oh, and both main characters have their mothers, and societal expectations, to deal with. Happily, I feel good recommending Betsy's book without reservation, which I can't do with Evanovich's. But this is my list so I'm including the Stephanie Plum books.

4. Kinsey Milhone, by Sue Grafton. Kinsey is a private detective, also single (I think I’m seeing a pattern here, although Precious Ramotswe does get married at some point in the series). Kinsey is a pretty low-maintenance type of person—trims her hair with her finger nail clippers, and her idea of a good meal is McDonald’s. I’ve read all the books from A Is for Alibi up to U is for Undertow, and I think the author’s maintained her quality without showing obvious signs of fatigue with her character or series. I don’t remember a lot of individual plots but Kinsey is often assigned to find missing people and usually the cases go in unexpected and often dangerous directions. Of course, they do. If they didn’t, who would read the books? I like Kinsey because she’s determined and sulf-sufficient, more of a loner than the other characters I’ve described, and she has her own issues with family which often work well with the larger plot of the story.

5. Lisa Scottoline's Bennie Rosato books. Bennie runs an all-female law firm and Scottoline's Italian heritage shows wonderfully in her characters, settings, and plots. And she's just tells a dang good story. Loved Vendetta Defense, which an Italian friend gave five thumbs up to (what can I say, she's Italian).

In talking about favorite books, as with thanking people, there's always the danger of forgetting something and someone. But here are the ones I've enjoyed. I’d love to hear about other authors and series.