If you're not careful...

If you're not careful...
...you might miss it.

If you're not careful...
...and let yourself think that shopping is drudgery
...and crowds are annoying
...and things are so expensive this year
You might miss...
...the fun in finding something that's just perfect
...and knowing you're going to make someone you love really happy
...and realizing everyone else has someone to make happy too
...and feeling grand inside because it will all be worth it

If you're not careful...
...and you think a fresh snowfall means trouble
...because you have to shovel again
...and the roads might be bad
...and you can't wear those sassy new shoes because they have no traction
You might miss...
...the quiet beauty of gently falling snow
...the fun of catching a snowflake on your hand -- or on your tongue
...the beauty of a layer of white over everything dormant
...the reward of building a snowman or -- if you're too old to play --
...the benefit of a work out with the snow shovel

If you're not careful...
...and you think a calendar full of parties is complicating your life
...and all those letters you have to sign are making you crazy
...and all those goodies you have to bake are wearing you down
You might miss...
...the fun in connecting with friends who believe, as you do
...that all this is to celebrate an eternal gift we were given
...a gift of a Son by His Father, a gift of sacrifice by the Son
...and then you'll want nothing more than to celebrate by giving
...by loving, by appreciating, by sharing, by sacrificing
...by living busy, full, generous, crazy, rewarding, fulfilling lives

Don't miss anything.

Holiday lament

Wouldn't it be only fair if it were as easy to lose two pounds as it is to gain two pounds?

Movie review

The vote was 2 to 1 and I lost. Not surprisingly, the guys in the group wanted to see Quantum of Solace. My preference for seeing the movie Australia would have to wait until the odds were more in my favor.

I know nothing about Australia except that the picture in the ads looks a lot like the picture that has said Gone with the Wind all these years. And that Hugh Jackman is in it.

That's enough for me.

But it will have to wait.

So here's the synopsis on 007's latest:

Chase scene with cars -- check.
Chase scene on foot -- check -- with bonus: over rooftops of Sienna.
Chase scene in boat -- check.
Chase scene in airplane -- check.
Death defying leap from airplane -- check.
Broken glass -- check -- check -- check.
Destruction of historical renovation work -- check.
Destruction of contemporary complex -- check.
Destruction of you name it -- check.
Body count high enough to rid the world of all bad guys in one fell movie -- check.
Miraculous bullet dodging by main characters throughout -- check.
Gruesome murder of woman after sexual escapade -- check.
Relationship with strong-willed hard-to-guess-which-side-she's-on beauty -- check.
Tough-talking conversations with M -- check -- with bonus: she gets around more this movie.
Plot that's hard to follow -- check -- with bonus: has an environmental twist -- water over oil.
Anger and betrayal -- check.
Violence and destruction -- check.

Script writers these days have it pretty easy. They just take the above list and fill in a bit of conversation depending on whether their hero turns into a spider or a bat or is a British spy or an American with amnesia.

Chick flicks are in their own kind of rut. Fill in the conversation around the following and you've got one made:
Obligatory relationship with communication issues.
Obligatory argument over misunderstanding.
Obligatory ditching secondary someone at the altar.

Thank goodness there are movies outside the box.

But when you go to an action flick, you're saying that you're willing to suspend disbelief and love of innocence and peace and harmony and justice and take what comes, just as when you attend a chick flick you go in knowing you're going to have to suspend disbelief and accept that all the right people will eventually leave the wrong people for the right reasons at the wrong time. It's your choice.

So, did she like the movie, you're asking yourself?

I liked the shots of Sienna.

Strength and beauty

Don't let the delicacy of these perfect mum blossoms fool you.

This flower is no wimp.

It survived winter in my flower box, surprising me come spring when it started to grow without being planted again. Everything else in that box died and stayed dead as the temperature dropped and the freezing weather set in for months and months. What a surprise to find a volunteer.

More impressive than that, it survived my unpredictable watering all summer long. I'm just not capable of something as tedious as watering every day. And often it was near death by the time I got to it. But it perked up every time -- even after the occasional vacation where I just didn't want to ask any favors and was sure it would rain once or twice anyway.

So I give you these beautiful blossoms, not just for you to enjoy, but for you to appreciate. This beauty has strength. It survives. It thrives.

It inspires.

Microwave as art

After reading the article about the guy who's famous for taking photographs of the inside of an oven, I thought I'd try it.

Only just to go my own way, you'll notice this is the inside of a microwave.

Close up and not so.

So?

Do I have a future in microwave-oven photography?

Are these not the most artistic shots you've seen of a microwave oven?

Perhaps I should point out, though not crucial to the picture, that this isn't any old microwave. This is a brand-spanking-new microwave. I would not likely have taken a picture of my old microwave due to the splotches and splashes. But it is now gone and I'm happy to share with you this incredibly white (thanks to Photoshop because my adjusting of the white balance on my camera never quite worked -- and actually using Photoshop is something I generally avoid so it is progress) wonder.

A new microwave was necessary because our old microwave was haunted. The fan inside would start up if you so much as walked by. And if you closed the door after cooking something, the fan would go on again. And if you wanted, in fact, to cook something, the fan would sometimes go on and make you think something was cooking, when in actuality it was just blowing air.

My husband and I each had our own way of dealing with this. Sometimes we'd just leave the door open so the fan wouldn't have a chance and we could walk by without being freaked out.

But when we were actually trying to cook something and the fan did its thing but the cooker did not, I had a system of opening the door and pushing certain buttons in certain ways to get it to cooperate. My husband's methodology was to pound the door in a variety of areas until it bowed in submission. Perhaps the pounding was to show it who was boss. Perhaps it was to get frustrations out.

But the time came when the frustrations and the freaking out were happening all too frequently, so the old microwave was replaced by this exact replica to fit the space. So far so good.

So it works as a microwave, but does it as an artistic photograph?

It is William Eggleston who spoke lovingly of his oven picture. And Time included with the article his picture of a kitchen sink that was truly artistic. Kudos to Eggleston for making something mundane become somehow magical. And kudos to the rest of the world for honoring him for his passion and sight.

Artists need a niche. Something they can do better than anybody else. Something that will get them into the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and buy them an apartment in Paris.

Artists struggle with doing what they love and doing what will bring them popularity. It is a gift to manage both. Congratulations to Eggleston and his photographs.

Me, I think I'll stick with landscapes.

An impractical idea

Here's a suggestion for those who are starting their holiday lists: Buy Local.

And I'm not talking produce here. I'm talking art, theater, crafts and music.

I have become very well acquainted with a group of artists who put their hearts into their works. All they've learned. All they feel. All they want to express.

But their creation isn't really finished until somebody loves it enough to make an investment in it and take it home to love some more.

I've sat with these artists at festivals in the park, and smiled with them, at those who pass by on their way to the food booths next door.

We always need more food. But art?

I've sat in a gallery filled with art of every style and price, watching people rush past to the post office or the hair dresser or the bank.

There are needs more immediate than art. But are they of more value?

I found myself drawn to the little artisan shops when souvenir hunting in Greece. From a weaver I bought some bookmarks for my sons, from a potter I bought some little Grecian jugs for the family, from a crafter I bought some charming bracelets for my daughters. From the artist whose gorgeous pieces were selling for thousands of euros, I bought... a postcard. While my two euros wouldn't put food on her table -- nor would the money from the small items I purchased from the other artisans -- it would let her -- and them -- know their work was admired.

Throughout history musicians and artists have struggled. Without patrons they would have to leave their craft for more practical employment. Yet in many cases, their work has lived long past their difficult lives and delighted and enriched more people than they could possibly have imagined.

So this holiday season, if you can, consider skipping the Wal-Mart, the movie theater, the CD store for your gifts or gift cards. Consider art from a gallery or tickets to a local theater or items from a neighborhood craftstore.

You'll be feeding more than one soul.

Simple solution

Hold on, America.

So shortly after everyone stops paying their mortgages and the economy collapses, everyone stops paying their credit card bills (Marcy Gordon, Associated Press, October 31)?

What's with that?

And why is everyone hollering about corporate greed? And whining about the government taking over?

And when everyone's fretting about the federal deficit soaring to $1 trillion, how on earth did household debt in this country reach $13.8 trillion (Bill Powell, Time magazine, November 3)?

So we now expect the government to save us from ourselves?

What's wrong with this picture?

Listen, America. If you buy something, pay for it.

The Word as Art

Words can have beauty.

Of course they can have meaning and significance, provide insight and truth, but they also can have beauty.

And sometimes beautiful words can be found in the most unlikely places.

For years Time magazine has been a steady companion. I'm a cover-to-cover person and have often found, when an article strikes me as being so profoundly written with such interesting phraseology that I have to turn back to see who the author is, that the author is Nancy Gibbs.

Here's her latest, in an article about whether temperament matters in a president:
"But as soon as you make the list [of qualities a president needs], it mocks you, for history is a dance of luck and intent, and sometimes they trip each other."

That, to me, is beautiful.

Short in number of words, but long in thought-provoking content.

Or this, again from Nancy:
"Temperament is a special subcommittee of character: it is less intellect than instinct, more about music than lyrics."

Yes.

You can't just read it. You have to think about it.

David von Drehl gets a nod from me as well. In an article about the importance of experience to a president, he said:
"Experience, in other words, gets its value from the person who has it. In certain lives, a little goes a long way. Some people grow and ripen through years of government service; others spoil on the vine."

You don't just have to write well to say things like that, you have to think well.

I loved this little analogy he did comparing life to a state fair:
"A fair is both a world apart and the world in miniature...where the earnest industry of the 4-H pavilion exists alongside the low appetites of the funnel-cake stand and the thrill seeking at the Tilt-A-Whirl. Where the three stages of life are marked by a first sno-cone, a first French kiss and a first ribbon for baking Bundt cakes."

These insights from a medium that's made to be recycled within the week.

We somehow, as a society, have developed something akin to disdain for the media. We say they only bring bad news, we say they are biased, we say they just look for dirt.

But, in fact, we wouldn't have a free society without a free press. And when given a choice between a story of violence and a story of policy, we -- the readers -- choose the violent one. And sometimes the facts presage a certain bias, though we're certainly intelligent enough to know it when we see it. And sometimes it's been important for us to know about the dirt.

Nancy didn't tell us if temperament matters. As any good journalist, she quoted experts from all angles and looked at examples from all eras.

David didn't tell us that experience is the most important thing or not, but made us look at it through all eyes in all directions.

Lots of writers give you the facts. But some present those facts with such clarity and insight that they're giving you art as well.

And that is a beautiful thing.

And for what it's worth, for what I've read combined with what I believe, temperament does matter and experience doesn't. And I'll be voting accordingly.

The pale green table with nobody beside it

After I ordered a salad and my husband ordered a chicken dish, I could see by our waiter's face that something was wrong. But when I said I'd just have water, it was no longer necessary to read his body language.

"You have the best table in the place and you just order salad and water? You can't sit at this table if you don't order a meal." Besides, he said, they didn't have the chicken dish or any other dish besides fish, and when we told him my husband was allergic to seafood, he didn't even pretend not to be glad to have an excuse to send us out the door.

We tried again at the taverna next door, sitting at the little table along the waterfront, knowing we'd be enjoying our meal as the sun set beyond the sea. We made sure they had something besides fish before taking our seats, then again asked for the salad and the chicken.

"This table isn't just for people who eat appetizers," said our new waiter, not even pretending that the customer is always right or worrying that we wouldn't come back next month if we didn't get good service.

I'd been warned again and again about manners towards Americans by the French, but had never experienced anything negative in multiple trips to France. It seemed in the three days we'd been in Greece we were always making Greeks mad. It made us a bit jumpy, but we asked ever-so-politely if we couldn't perhaps sit at the table next to the table by the water, and order our preferred meal, be it ever-so small.

Because we don't drink alcohol and because we often split meals, there may be more waiters than one (or two in this case) who'd rather move us out. But we'd just had huge meals in Athens the days before and couldn't take home the leftovers because we had no refrigerator and hated to waste what we couldn't eat, (and wanted to save room for gelato) so we returned to our shared-meal m.o.

It was a great meal in an amazing setting and as the evening progressed, the entertainment became the excitement of the passers-by over the sunset and the saga of the little table by the sea.

Little Venice is a tourist-heavy area on Mykonos lined with cafes. There is a little path between the buildings and the tables filled with people walking to view the sunset or find a bar or a table or a good place to take a photograph. Many languages could be heard, many interesting people could be seen, and the view of the windmills in one direction and the setting sun in the other was like nothing we'd ever seen.

After we abandoned the little table in question, several more couples tried unsuccessfully. As soon as the first sat down, they were promptly told by a perturbed waiter that they'd have to order more than appetizers. They left. The next couple just wanted drinks. Had to go. The third couple. Same thing.

So it was a lonely little table all night long. And as our waiter chased the photographers out of our way because we at least were paying something, it was hard not to laugh.

We left a good tip. Not because we got good service. Not because tips in Greece are like they are in America. But because we hope next time the waiter won't judge a couple by what they order.

So that next time, the pale green table with nobody beside it... won't be so lonely.

What you've been waiting for

Stop philosophizing and show us the pictures, right? I know everyone's interested in my take on turtles and pool signage, but my guess is you are more interested in these:

Some might say I have a passion for photography. Others might call it a mental illness. It's true I can't take more than 10 steps without stopping and taking a picture when I'm in a place I've never been before and will likely never be again, and it's true that that can test even the most tolerant of companions.

But even sidewalks are interesting in Greece. And people and trees and boats and butterflies and ruins and beaches and you just can't let any of them get away.

There are the most incredible sights in the world. And it is the most wonderful thing to be able to capture them to savor again and again. And it is even better when you can share them with others.

So there's no hope for me. But not all that many regrets either.

While we're on the subject...

...of foreign countries that post restriction signs for English-speaking tourists, this one from Nagoya, Japan, which apparently includes a warning to native speakers as well, is one of my all-time favorites:

Looking around

So, we were sitting by the pool, cooling off after some major hiking around the caldera that is Santorini, when I noticed that something was missing:

The signs.

You know -- the signs around the pools in America that say, "No lifeguard on duty," "No diving," "No children under 14 without adult," "Take cleansing shower before entering pool," "No glass allowed," "No running," or, the one at my friend's backyard pool: "OOL. There is no "p" in our pool. Let's keep it that way."

But here we were in Greece and there was not one sign in sight at the hotel pool.

Not that we needed a sign. We can generally tell if a lifeguard is on duty and we generally know not to send kids alone to a pool. Further inspection showed that there was no fence around the pool, requiring no special key, but rather it was open, allowing a sweeping view of the lagoon and its islands without anything involving chain-link in the way.

Hmmm.

Greece in general seemed to have an absence of regulations, at least in comparison to those we are accustomed to in America. We entered and exited large ferries going between the islands without so much as going through metal detectors, much less having to throw out our four-ounce bottles of shampoo. We rented a car without having to point out all the dents (it would have taken a while) (the agent said she knew about all of them) or leave a credit card number with the rental company.

That was nice about Greece.

My husband says it's the lack of litigation that allows the lack of signs. I think there might be the impact of a cultural personality as well.

And it's refreshing.

And surely people -- American people -- will argue that there is a need for all those regulations and aren't we safer here from knowing everything from our restaurants to our swimming pools gets regulated.

Still, I will argue back, it was refreshing.

There was, however, an exception. Where the informational signs were almost always in Greek and English (see first photo below), when they did have to have regulatory signs -- the signs suggesting people not touch the historic artifacts or climb in the ancient temples (see second photos below) -- they were, for some reason ... only ...in English.

Ouch.

King of the Pond

One of the most amazing sights in a two-week stretch of amazing sights happened at the National Garden in Athens.

We were wandering through paths lined with exotic trees and shrubs, enjoying the greenery after spending time exploring the arid isles of Greece, when we happened upon a little pond full of little turtles.


I've seen turtles before. Turtles in ponds, in aquariums, in zoos. I, in fact, lived with a turtle in my house for some time -- thanks to a son's passion. Indeed, I have snorkeled among big turtles in the sea and tiptoed around them on the beach.


But these weren't any old turtles. These were Yertle turtles.


Perhaps you've read Dr. Seuss' charming story about Yertle the Turtle. Surely you haven't read it as many times as I have, but perhaps you've read it. It was a family favorite, as were many of Dr. Seuss' wonderful tales -- stories that brought rhyme, rhythm, and creative use of words together with humor, art and often even a thought-provoking message. Moral even, dare I say.

I had thought all along that Dr. Seuss had just made up the part about the turtle who used other turtles to get advantage. But now I think he somehow, somewhere, saw what we saw in this little pond and it spawned the story of the ambitious Yertle and his fatal flaw.

Yertle was king of the pond. But that's wasn't enough. He wanted to rise higher and be king of the house and the mule, which only drove him to want to be king of the trees and butterflies, bees and air. As the other turtles followed his command and piled one on top of the other so he could rise even higher, they became uncomfortable, then fearful, then miserable. It was a little turtle at the bottom of the stack -- with the name of Mack -- due to all the rhyming possibilities -- that eventually brought Yertle down. With a burp. Yes.

"And today the great Yertle, that Marvelous he,
Is King of the Mud. That is all he can see.
And the turtles, of course...all the turtles are free
As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be." -- Dr. Seuss


Ah, the beauty of words. Ah, the beauty of truth.


But the little turtles in the little pond in the National Garden in Athens hadn't figured it out.
















We watched for a while as they pushed and piled, putting their little clawed paws in each other's faces to force their neighbor down so they could attain a greater height or more sunshine, climbing up for a precarious moment, only to slide off someone's slippery back and into the water.













Only Dr. Seuss could show us a flaw in human nature by looking at turtle nature. Dr. Seuss, who taught us with stories of elephants and Sneetches, Grinches and "pale green pants with nobody inside them."
Too bad turtles can't read.
It would do them good.

Perfect sense

It occurred to me about halfway through the article on perfectionists that I might be one.

When I suggested it to the family members reading other sections of the newspaper around the breakfast table, they laughed.

Because they already knew.

How embarrassing.

How distressing.

How enlightening.

I might argue in my defense, and in defense of all others out there who I happen to know are also perfectionists because they're mothers, that good can come of perfection.

A perfect dinner that everybody loves, a perfect outing where all the items on your list are actually found and some are even on sale, a perfect moment when everybody's happy and everything's going as planned, a perfect feeling from accomplishment or beauty or peace.

Perfection becomes a problem, according to the article, when things are not perfect and personal failure brings self-criticism. Or when those around you are not perfect and your disappointment affects your relationships.

This makes sense.

So from now on I won't kick myself when I mess up.

And from now on I won't kick against life when things or people around me mess up.

Because perfectionists have stress that causes immune problems according to the article.

I will be perfect in not expecting perfection in me or anyone else.

And if I mess up...

...there I go again.

Perfect recent moments:

And a perfect quote from Sam Keen that solves all our problems: "We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly."

A memory

It has been at least 10 years since I saw her, sitting on her dad's shoulders, delighting in her surroundings.

But I have thought about her often since then, wishing I could be like her.

She was probably only three years old at the time, and probably not all that interested in the people and books her dad had come to see.

It was an outdoor book festival at a private university in Salt Lake City and some of us were there to sell, others to buy.

It was September, but unseasonably cold weather had come in, dusting the area with snow that morning. So as we sat with our books and our smiles and our shivers, we took turns complaining about the weather and how it complicated our lives that day. Everyone hunkered down, wrapped in whatever sweaters or wraps they could find to brace them from the wind, drawing inward against the chill, looking for an opportunity to run inside the nearby buildings and try to get warm.

But then I spotted this little girl, above the crowd thanks to her father's height, with an expression on her face that contrasted dramatically with all of ours.

Her face was towards the wind, and her smile was one of delight as it blew her hair back and tickled her eyelashes and whispered in her ear.

It's hard to describe the delight on her face. But easy to remember.

We were fighting the wind and the cold. Angry at it. Chilled by it.

She was embracing it. Delighting in it. Savoring it.

It might not be wind or cold that I'm fighting or angry or frustrated with.

It might be other vicissitudes or complications or annoyances in life.

But I hope to be able to resist hunkering down and complaining. I hope to be able, like that little girl in a cold and windy place many years ago, put my face toward the wind... and smile.

(Another stormy shopping day -- this one in Astoria. ) (Sorry I used the word "delight" or its forms so often above. I normally avoid oversuse of one word. But it fits best.)

Winning and losing

First I read about the hurdler who all of China is watching, the whole country hoping he will take gold at the Olympics. I felt sorry for the pressure he is probably feeling and hoped he would win.

Then I saw the picture of the guy from Cuba who also competes in hurdles, and could tell by his face how badly he wanted victory. And I hoped he'd win too.

And then I saw the picture of the guy from team USA and read his confident words and wondered if it might be good for him to have the victory.

That's the problem with the Olympics. Somebody has to win.

Competition makes the world go round, and starting this week, competition brings the world together to judge the best and to honor them.

People who've worked hard their whole lives, through hardship, through injury, through government pressure, through competition after competition, will put their best on the line.

And somebody has to lose.

I never was much of a competitor. I wasn't all that good at anything physically, so maybe it was a necessary defense, but I also found myself easing off a bit at Ping Pong, for example, if I could tell somebody wanted to win so badly it was killing them (yes, now all you who've beat me at Ping Pong must question the legitimacy of your victories!).

Music was the main extracurricular in my life. Though it can be competitive and there were the occasionally judged events, it is mostly complimentary. You sit there with your violin next to somebody else with one, across from a cellist and in front of others with drums, flutes, French horns and the like, and you all play your hardest and then everybody in the audience claps their appreciation. It's a win-win situation. You win by putting out your best and being complimented via applause, others win by being musically fed and expressing their enjoyment enthusiastically.

Athletics are different. You have to be faster, stronger, better, than the next guy or girl. And you win or you lose.

I'm glad we're supporting the Olympics. I'm glad Bush, in one of the moves of his I support, refused to consider a boycott. I'm glad nations of the world are coming together to honor sport and sportsmanship and work and success. I'm glad commentators will point out that just earning a spot in this particular competition is winning. I'm glad we'll hear so many inspiring stories of dedicated, highly-motivated, hard-working individuals.

I'm just sorry anyone has to lose.


















(Friendly games at family reunion - as close as I'm getting to competition this year!)

We're official now!

Imagine my surprise when, while wandering through the rows and rows and stacks and stacks and tables and tables of books at Barnes & Noble last week, I should happen upon the education section and see, staring back at me, my very own book.

Yes, it's finally happened. The moment we've been waiting for since my "Books and Authors" post in January of this year.

Added to the sensibility and readability of my book, I now have credibility, respectability and... availability!

These are all good things for people trying to prove they're authors not only because they can publish their own books, but because someone wants to read them.

I probably shouldn't have been surprised to see my book there. Afterall, it was me who, after writing tragically about not being in B&N, sent them a book to see if they'd like to carry it. It was me who worked frantically for months to get a distributor when they said they'd like to buy 100 copies but could only buy through a distributor. It was me who packaged 100 books in five different boxes and mailed them to four different places from Nevada to New Jersey. It was me who paid the postage to send them there, knowing I wouldn't make money on them even when I got my percentage after the distributor and bookstore and postman kept theirs.

Still, it was somehow a surprise to see "Keep the kids away from the power tools" sitting there, at about eye-level, cover out (not spine -- horror of marketing horrors) and waiting to be loved.

And now the miracle has to happen. Someone has to buy those 100 copies!

Someone who's perusing the aisles and tables and shelves at B&N has to choose my little book on what I learned about the world and teenagers and education by substitute teaching. Someone who's interested in people, in life, in learning. Someone who doesn't mind that it hasn't been featured on Oprah or isn't about anyone rich and famous. Someone who gets past the dislays on classics and New York Times best sellers and travel logs and science fiction fantasies all the way to the little section on education.

That will be the greatest and most welcome surprise.

Red, white and blue

He doesn't yet know the reason his Dad is gone. And that it has something to do with that flag.

He doesn't yet know the reason that flag's been placed next to his great-grandfather's grave. Or the significance of the word "veteran" on its stand.

When you're just old enough to discover things on your own, all the world's a playground and every object in it worth exploring.

But someday that red, white and blue object will be more than a new curiosity.

Someday he'll understand why his Mom had her baby without a husband nearby to hold her hand.

Someday he'll realize the sacrifice his great-grandmother made when she raised her first child alone for a time, as her husband flew fighter planes in the South Pacific.

Someday that flag will represent to him, like it does to so many in his family, love of country. And sacrifice.

Giving something of yourself. Going somewhere for someone else. Doing something inspite of fears or reservations or preferences, for something bigger than yourself.

_________

Dad will be home soon and Mom has lots of help from family. Great-grandpa got home and helped great-grandma raise six children all told.

The flag of the United States of America flies not only for them, but for all who believe in, and work for, and have been blessed by, freedom.

Leading or weaving

There are two ways to tell a story: my way and my husband's way.


My way is likely the result of journalistic training. Newspaper reporters are taught to tell the story up front -- the who, what, when, where and why first -- the "lead" -- and the details can follow for those interested in the rest of the story.


My husband, on the other hand, doesn't just tell a story. He weaves one.


He starts way back and fills in all the asides of interest (or not) and builds to the climax, with everyone sitting on the edge of their seats waiting for him to get to what finally happens.

Except me.


Because if it's a story I already know because I was there when it happened, I am positively apoplectic -- trying to bite my tongue and keep from getting to the end faster than he eventually will.


Take our Teton hike, for example.


If I were to tell the story, you would know right away that three miles into our hike to Ampitheater Lake, we ran into snow and had to turn back. If you were sufficiently amazed that this could happen in June, I would add that one of the kids just had sandals on, another thought he could hike two more miles in snow but stepped in one spot and sunk up to his thigh, or that we eventually noticed that everyone passing us had ropes and ice picks and crampons, etc. You'd get only as much of the story as you convinced me you cared anything at all about.


My husband, on the other hand, would more likely begin as we approached the park and noticed how low the snow was on the mountainside. He'd tell how we asked the ranger at the pay booth if the trail was open, and when she was unsure she asked another in the booth and both thought it was fine. He'd comment on the ranger we passed on the trail, who didn't mention the impossibility of such a trail for those dressed such as us, and on.


And you would be mesmerized.


Well, perhaps that isn't the best example of a mesmerizing story, and perhaps this isn't even one my husband would choose to dramatize, but we didn't see any bear so snow will have to do.


Perhaps a better story would be for me to tell about how when we entered the only restaurant overlooking the square in Jackson, which turned out to be a tavern, everyone was asked to pull out their drivers' licenses, but the guy at the door said he didn't need to see mine. And my husband could start with how I picked the restaurant based on its location and view (another way we two are different) and not its food or drinks or the sensitivity of its bouncer.

(I'll tell that story in detail if the picture my son took of me sitting next to a Budweiser sign shows up anywhere.)


There is no one right way to tell a story. I have very close personal children relatives that would make me very happy by telling more personal stories in any length or size or direction at all.

Stories are good, whether told with a lead or with a climax. Whether funny or interesting, profound or mundane.

And the people who tell the stories tell something of themselves in the telling.

Some of us just get to the end sooner.





















(Before it got deep.)

Family vacation

Beautiful people in a beautiful place. What could be more fun?

Gifts

A gift is when you wake up thinking it's time to work-out but see a sky filled with puffy little clouds and spend half an hour taking 100-some pictures first.

A gift is when you wander down to the waterfront to see the people gathering for the start of the Rose Festival and get there just in time for a fireworks show.

A gift is when you leave the restaurant after a dinner to celebrate your anniversary and stumble into an outdoor jazz concert on the plaza.

A gift is when you look out your window and see purple iris blossoms and yellow petunia blossoms and white and yellow and pink blossoms from plants you don't even know how to name because somebody else planted them for you before you even got there.

A gift is having your creme brulee work out on Father's Day even though you've never cooked it before and the directions for it are two pages long.

A gift is having time to get the things on your list done.

A gift is sitting on your back porch after a long walk and watching humming birds flit around.

Life is full of gifts. Around corners, in the yard, in the morning, at the park.

Seeing, feeling, smelling, tasting. A gift is being alive to celebrate each one.

Going back

It's a strange sensation to return to a place you've lived before. Kind of an out-of-body experience.


Driving down roads you once traveled daily, seeing sights that were so familiar and yet are now so rare, leaves one with feelings beyond words.


And in my case, that's really saying something.


There's where we used to pick strawberries. That's where I used to shop for frames. Somebody's best friend used to live there. That park was our favorite on hot days. We watched them construct that building. I used to go there for meetings.


We've gone on without those places. They've gone on without us.


But a big part of my heart is still there.


And always will be.




































Pictures from a park we used to visit every spring.
One memory is even of our little toddler falling in the pond!

Thinking out loud

I do judge a book by it's cover.

The front, the back, the pictures, the text, the feel.

And if I like it, I buy it and read it.

I also judge people by their appearance.

The hair, the style, the accessories, the attitude.

And what's outside again gives me a pretty good idea of what's inside.

In both cases, I'm sometimes wrong.

But not always. Not even often.

Then there are movies.

Movies have been judged by professional reviewers and many in the public before I make the time for them, so I start out with biases of all shapes and sizes.

My judgement over the years has come to be based on the dialogue, the personalities, the space between chases and shoot-outs and the morality of the individuals and the whole.

Those biases have set me against such innocent movies as The Little Mermaid, and for such unexpectedly thought-provoking movies as I Am Legend.

When it comes to action hero flicks, there is one standard that outweighs all others in my book: not how many times our hero dodges a bullet or explosion or nuclear holocaust, not how many people he wipes out of necessity while saving the rest of the world, I tend to judge an action-hero flick by the strength of its female character.

With that standard, Spiderman comes in last. Indiana Jones is good -- especially bringing back the strongest woman from the first three movies to bring closure to the last. Star Wars always has had strong women. Depends on the 007 movies -- most women are expendable, there only for their looks and entertainment value. X-men have weak and strong in all shapes and sizes and genders. Ironman brought a strong woman in a surprising way -- one who never fired a shot or dodged a bullet, but who wasn't walked on, was confident, clever, capable and interesting.

Give me a good cover, a friendly countenance and a strong role model and I'll give you a thumbs up. Every time.

Blast from the past:

Some very close, personal friends in super-hero action at Universal Studies -- 10 years ago.

An annoying realization

Now I remember -- I'm a wimp.

All these years I think I'd forgotten that or moved on from it or put it in my past or something.

But just today I remembered junior high and the gymnastics unit. To get a passing grade you had to walk across the balance beam. You know balance beams -- those things four-some feet off the ground that the Olympians do somersaults and flips on? I just had to walk across and I was so petrified that I had the entire class stand around and move along the beam with me to catch me if I fell.

I'd forgotten that in all the years of hiking up mountainsides and riding on ski lifts.

But now I remember.

Because I'm feeling wimpy again.

Everybody in my family is certifying for scuba diving and I just simply cannot do that. Possible reasons: 1 -- I love air too much to be so far from it and depend on a gadget for it. 2 -- The power of the ocean has been known to intimidate me when it's taken me places I haven't wanted to go. 3 -- Snorkeling out beyond the reef freaks me out because looking at the drop to deeper ocean makes me think of falling. 4 -- Deep and dark is way out of my comfort zone. 5 -- Sharks. Or eels or tiger fish or stingrays.

Add it all together and you'll find me sitting home once a week waiting for word that everyone survived the latest lesson.

Second wimpy thing this year: Angel's Landing. Though I've hiked the incredible Zion trail twice, I refused to take my family there because of the 1,000-foot drop-offs in every direction. Now they're going on their own and loving it. I could no more hike that trail again than jump out of a plane with nothing but a sheet tied to ropes to break my fall -- something else they've also all done.

So how does one deal with this annoying realization?

The options:
First -- look to all the people in the world who are wimpier than I am.
Second -- look at all the people who don't get scared by doing dangerous things and figure something's wrong with them.
Third -- remember all the brave things I've done even when they were scary.
Fourth -- accept my limitations and be grateful for those who are different.

I think I'll do number 3:

-Had three more babies even after knowing what it was going to be like from the first time.
-Learned to ski and keep skiing even though there's speed and steep slopes involved.
-Stood in front of a classroom of 30 kids with knives and tried to teach them to make cinnamon rolls (see "Keep the kids away from the power tools" by Louise R. Shaw).
-Fought pornography and those behind it, as a spokesman for a statewide constitutional amendment in Oregon.
And, currently:
-Drive the freeways of Salt Lake City on a regular basis (see "Stereotyping" blog entry).
-Admit to my inadequacies in blog format to anyone who might stumble by.


I'm happy for everyone who can jump out of planes and into deep oceans. I'm happy that now I'm over 50 I can just do what I want and don't have to pass a unit in P.E. I'm glad for the things that I've done despite my fears. I'm glad for those who understand my limitations and love me anyway.
















(View from as far as I got on Angel's Landing)

Rare indeed

When they first announced that gallery artists were welcome to display their work at the Great Salt Lake Bird Festival, I declined. 'Didn't think I'd have anything of interest to serious bird watchers. But then the woman in charge saw some of my sunsets and oceanscapes and convinced me they were just the kind of thing she was looking for. Yes, I could do sunsets and oceanscapes, and while collecting the framed pieces and putting together a few matted ones as well, I found some pretty gorgeous stuff. Seagulls were everywhere -- in front of lighthouses, flying singly above a setting sun, swooping in to land on a beach drenched in late-afternoon sun, flapping madly in bunches in front of my favorite monolith, Haystack Rock -- bringing life to an already arresting scene.

When I say "gorgeous," and "arresting," you may think I'm bragging. Not so. I don't take a lot of credit for my photographs. I only capture what God has created. I don't tweak it in photoshop, I don't enhance the color or move items around, though I have nothing against others creating their own art in that way. But in my case I see it, I love it, I push the shutter button, I share it.

So, though I'm not so sure serious bird-watchers are all that into seagulls, I was pretty pleased with the scenes I had captured and framed to share. Here's one:


















Two days before the Festival began I thought I had everything ready to go. Then, call it the randomness of the universe or call it another gift from God, my screensaver popped up with this shot:






















I love how my screensaver rotates through my thousands of pictures before going into hybernation after I've stopped using it for a while. This is a little trick my computer-savy son showed me, which greatly facilitates remembering -- and daydreaming -- and smiling. I sit for the 10 minutes and jump from sunset in Hawaii to family reunion in Utah to crocus in yard, to Japan to state capitol to graduation -- getting whipsawed to beautiful places and random memories.


But I'd forgotten about this Snowy Egret that I'd watched spread its wings, while I patiently squinted through my lens in Florida on the very first outing I took with a digital camera. I printed it up in time for the Festival and one of the bird-lovers there exclaimed over it, pointing out what I didn't know, that it is rare to find an Egret in a tree like that.


It is also rare to have it jump to your attention when you'd forgotten about it long ago. And rare for it to happen just in time to be shared.

And rare, whether in birds or in pictures or in moments, is to be treasured.

Stereotyping

Sometimes a thing is so widely done by so many in your community that it comes to represent that community to you as a whole rather than something done by just a few individuals.

Case in point: Driving. There are so many crazy drivers in Utah that I've come to think of Utahns as people always in a hurry, always trying to get an advantage over their neighbor and always distracted from what's safe or wise or considerate.

This became even more obvious when we were driving in Las Vegas and went to change lanes and someone slowed to let us in. Yes. Las Vegas. That never happens in Utah. If you try and change lanes, cars speed up because they're better and faster than you and the place they're going is more important.

And because that hasn't just happened once, but happens all the time, I've come to stereotype Utahns in a negative light on roads.

Second case in point: Basketball games. I once lived in a community where fans clapped politely when the opposing team was introduced, in respect to their talent and their reputation and their hard work to get there. This same community clapped in appreciation when a great move was made by the opposing team and recognized that every call against their team wasn't necessarily a booable offense of the referrees.

Basketball games here are an embarrassment to the community. The rabid fans are rude and insulting -- not just as individuals, but as a whole.

I'm a Utahn. These observations reflect as much on me as on anyone else, so let me turn them into suggestions: Hey Utah -- slow down out there and take your turn on the road. Recognize that good is good and bad is bad for every team -- not just your own personal favorite.

Stereotypes can change if we do.

Don't miss it

So yes, I've been getting too political lately. The state of the world, the concerns of nations.

A recent discussion with friends showed real concern for the future. With the problems in oil and food prices and mortgages and political controveries and refugees and religious hatreds, was there no hope?

Only one thing to do:

Celebrate beauty.

Here's some that's right close by.

Don't miss it.

It'll give you perspective.

Phone calls and letters

Sometimes you just have to say something.

It might take a letter, it might take a phone call, but sometimes you just can't sit back and let the status stay quo.

Take last week for instance. It was the phone book that got my activist cells going and I've never been able to run from the feeling that if something is not right in the world then steps need to be taken to change things so why not just start stepping.

The lady on the phone was very nice but very concerned when I told her I had been offended. She said they'd thought they were doing things right and they'd been doing it that way for 40 years and thank you for mentioning it and they'd talk it over.

What had rubbed me the wrong way was the listings in the phone book. Last name, comma, man's name and then -- in parentheses -- woman's name, then address and dash, dash, dash, phone number. Maybe other South Davis residents found that acceptable but I don't know why. I'm not a raging feminist, nor am I all that young and independent. But I'm not a parenthesis to someone else either.

More distressing than that they would ever consider doing this and that they would actually do it for 40 years, is that no one in South Davis County has apparently brought it up before. Since the 60s.

You can never pretend you have much clout in situations like this. But sometimes it only takes a suggestion.

Other times a suggestion isn't enough.

It wasn't a phone call, but what is famously known in my family as a strongly worded letter, that I sent five-plus years ago in my first correspondence with a President of the United States.

I've not often been brassy enough to try to bend the ear of someone whose ear is bent so often it probably doesn't hear anymore. But this was a case that needed addressing even if it just rated a check mark in the "opposed" column on a spread sheet placed on his desk at the end of a week. I had to try.

It included lines like, "America has been a country that has supported peace and stability throughout the world. How can we threaten war against a country that has not threatened anyone and apparently has no connection with the World Trade Center attack?" and "American has always been a good citizen. How can we defy the concerns of people around the world and the will of the United Nations?" and "You have lost the good will of other nations and of your own citizens...Please don't attack Iraq." It was dated March 11, 2003.

He didn't listen to me. And I don't know if the people at the phone book publishers will either.

I don't always have success. But I always have to try.

Isn't there a better way?

We were browsing the aisles of a boutique just down from L'Opera a trip or so ago, when I heard the commotion outside.

I had, in fact, just been pretending to browse since I'm a little out of my element in charming little Parisian boutiques, and rather more afraid of someone showing me the door with a "what makes you think you belong in here?" kind of a comment (or should I say, Qu'est-ce que vous faites ici?). But my daughter not only belongs but positively owns the place with her fashion sense and style so while she browsed in earnest, I just drank it all in.

The shouting outside was an interesting development, so I went to check it out. Some sort of a labor demonstration proceeded up the street. Several stopped to look, others went about their business unfazed.

Demonstrations are not uncommon in democratic societies -- or even in societies that want to become democratic. They are especially not uncommon in France. Good for getting the word out on strongly-felt issues. Good for making your point.

But there are demonstrations and then there are demonstrations.

I take issue with the demonstrations regarding the Olympic flame because they have become more than a cause, more than getting the word out. They are becoming destructive and offensive.

I will quote one sentence from today's Associated Press article: "On a bus carrying French athletes, one man in a track-suit shed a tear as protesters pelted the vehicle with eggs, bottles and soda cans."

Probably an athlete whose dream had come true when asked to carry the torch. Probably one who'd worked for hours a day for years and then more years to prepare for the competition now just months away. Probably one who wanted to represent his countrymen but now found himself under attack by those countrymen.

That is the wrong kind of demonstration.

And for it to spread throughout the world as the Olympic flame travels to bring the world together in a common celebration would be a travesty.

If you must -- carry a banner, hollar your slogans, cry for freedom of Tibet's oppressed or assistance to Sudan's refugees -- but don't throw eggs.

If we're trying to show concern for distant nations, let's also have compassion for our own countrymen and for those who are working so hard to bring the world together for a few weeks in August.

The grand idea that people from all over the world can come together to joy in excellence is incredibly optimistic. The thrill of watching athletes from countries as big as Russia and as small as Jamaica walk with equal optimism through the opening ceremonies should not be ransomed for this political issue or that one. The points can be made in less destructive ways. Let's be diplomatic. Let's work together.

Let's be good sports.

Head Fake

Just kidding. It's really not spring yet. But if the daffodils can survive a fresh blanket of snow, I guess I can too.