Tell A Tall Tale

I am so happy! I just finished my book.
And it is sooooo cool!

When I was little I had this book called Tell A Tall Tale. It was my favorite book for years and years—I played with it all the time.  Now, in my dotage, I've been fondly reminiscing on those golden years of my childhood, affectionately thinking of the beloved playthings from days gone by. 

Well, not really. 

But this book has been on my mind  recently (for several months) because one day it occurred to me that I could make a book just like it.  So I did it.  About four months ago I gave the story formula to my family and asked them for some ideas.  Then I tweaked their stories, wrote some of my own, illustrated them all, scanned them onto the computer, had them printed, and put my little book together. 

a few of the pages

Cute, I think. But what makes this book really fun (and another item for my North Pole Toys store)  is that it is a puzzle, too.

I just finished it this afternoon, and my kids have already been playing with it a lot. :-)  Yay! It makes me happy!

It must be Spring-time!

The ninja-birds are at it again . . .

I saw some movement from the corner of my eye . . . Starlings landing in my maple tree.

They wait in the tree, checking things out, and then they fly down to the lawn. We have a tree branch on the lawn—the first heavy snow came before the trees lost their leaves, and the weight broke several branches around the valley. It's a fine place to search for nesting materials. But that blue thing didn't fall off of any tree.

While his friend sits in the tree with a piece of nesting material in her beak, this guy nonchalantly flutters down to the rail of the deck. He stays there for a minute, and then runs across the railing . . .

. . . to the other side of the grill. Soon his friend drops down underneath the grill. I can see a little movement under there. Then they are both back in the tree, and then they fly away.

Here's what I find in the grill when I go to check things out.

The starlings are at it again . . . Springtime is really here!

Bus Adventure

On Tuesdays and Wednesdays I get out of school too late to go pick my kids up from school. So Bruce rides the bus to work, I leave the van at the train station and take the train into town; in the afternoon Bruce buses over to the train station and then goes to get the kids.

Today, on the bus, I was just sitting there minding my own business and playing Sudoku on my phone. At one stop a man got on and, even though there were lots of empty seats, he sat right next to me. He glances at my phone and says, "How do you text on that thing?"

I say, "I go to my 'contacts' list and enter the name/number that I want." and go on playing my game.

He says, "Text me."

Well, that was unexpected! I say, "I can't; I don't have your name and number in my phone."

He tells me his name and waits for me to do something. I say, "I don't have your number." and play my game.

He says he doesn't know if he can remember his number. He thinks for a minute and then slowly gives me his number. I nod, and keep playing my game, wondering— what's the deal here? Is he just friendly? is he simple? does he think I'm cute? (I wasn't this afternoon), is he looking for a friend? I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. I am very rude, I suppose. After a few seconds he says, "Give me your phone number."

!?!

I say, "I don't give out my phone number." And I wonder how long I will be sitting next to this man. But he got off at the very next stop.

And this little adventure is the most unusual thing that has ever happened to me on the bus.

Party, party, party

Since school's been out for me, it's just been a big party—or several. This morning was our ward Christmas party and breakfast. And last night Bruce and I went to what has become known as the "often annual Kearns High Christmas party." But actually, the party has nothing to do with Kearns High.

See, when we were cute, little newlyweds (in 1990) we decided to throw a big Christmas party and invite all our friends and their dates. Now a lot of our friends did go to Kearns high since that's where we both graduated, but we invited other people, too. The next year we hosted the party again, but most of our friends who were single the first year were now married. So we kept the party a little smaller—just us and our best friends from school and their spouses. And that's how it went for quite a while, except we rotated who was hosting each year. Our good friend, Scerinda (who did not go to Kearns High herself, although she married one of our Kearns friends) had it in her head that this was some kind of Kearns High reunion/Christmas party, and she expanded the guest list just a little. It's gone from five couples to six, to seven,—all Kearns grads and their spouses. We like all of them, and we've kept up with them, and we have a good time when we get together. But while Scerinda thinks of it as the "Kearns High" party, to us it's just our annual friends party.

Every year we have a nice dinner, lots of visiting and catching-up, and a white elephant gift exchange. It's really fun to get together with these old friends each Christmas-time. And we've gotten some great gifts—like "horny goat-weed" tea, an old prom photo, a Provo phone-book. But the most "beloved" gift of all is the hen on a nest.

See, that first year we threw the party we also started the white-elephant gift exchange. One of our young, single guy friends received a glass candy dish shaped like a hen on a nest—which we all thought he would dispose of promptly. We all had a big laugh when, the next year, David and his wife re-gifted the "Hen on a Nest" to someone else.

Since then that hen has made its rounds with the entire group—still in its original box. And the hen has acquired a friend too—a little turkey on a nest. After 20 years of being passed around, we've all had to disguise the chicken box so that no one knows who will end up with it at the end of the evening.

And guess what? Last night Bruce got the chicken! Yes, the chicken box was very cleverly put into a large box along with a ten-pound bag of potatoes. Bruce never suspected. And now the nesting hen will sit around our house—in its box—for a year. I wonder how we'll disguise it for next year's party?

By the way, I did wrap up my shoes and give them away last night. Ken Johnson got them.

Cat-Calls

Since I've started walking around Salt Lake City (although a very limited area), I've been getting cat-calls.

"Whoo! Shake it, baby!"

"Hey, beautiful!"

and just today, "Hey, Curly-Q!"

Always from young guys, and always from a distance or from behind. I wonder what they'd think if they could see that I'm almost twice their age? And is this flattering, in a weird way; or is it obnoxious?

I think I'd rather feel flattered than annoyed. But it is weird.

Weird!

Friday was a busy day. Painting cupboards all day, cleaning house and doing a little school-clothes shopping with the girls. So, once again, there was no dinner plan—or not much of one. This isn't entirely new this summer, or unique just to busy Fridays. I just plain old don't want to cook in the heat of summer, especially when I'm in the middle of a big project that has much of my kitchen scattered all over the place.

Anyway, I did have good intentions for Friday dinner. I got out about a pound of chicken and about a pound of shrimp to thaw so I could skewer them up and grill them. Yum! I thought I'd cook some kind of nice rice, maybe grill up some veggies too . . . Not bad. But by the time I got home from the store it was already dinner-time and everyone was starving and I just wanted to take the quickest, easiest route to dinner.

I asked Bruce, Michael and Jason (who were on the computer in the kitchen) what we should have for dinner besides grilled chicken and shrimp. Jason had made some banana bread while I was out shopping, and someone suggested having banana bread as the side-dish. You're kidding! Grilled chicken and banana bread, and nothing else? For dinner?

As I start preparing the meat, we are having this conversation:

Me: That's just weird.
Michael: Well, when I'm hungry, I don't care what I eat as long as it fills my stomach so I'm not hungry any more.
Me: Well then, why don't you just go out and eat grass? :-)

Michael: Well, it has to taste good. Banana bread is good.
Me: Banana bread for dinner? That's just weird!

Bruce: Why? I think it sounds great.
Me: Obviously you are all guys.

Bruce: I think it sounds good. People have cornbread for dinner.
Me, hesitantly: Well, yeah. (But I am thinking, "It's not the same.")

I start thinking fast. I could throw a salad together, and grill up some zucchini slices. I'd like some rice, or potatoes, or something, but there's not much space to work in the kitchen, and it's getting late. It looks like we'll have chicken, shrimp and banana bread for dinner—and the above-mentioned veggies to appease my sense of what's good for the evening meal.

As I'm skewering up the meat,
Brandon: "What's for dinner?"
Me: Grilled chicken, grilled shrimp and banana bread.
Brandon: Sounds good!

Boys are just weird.

For the Birds

Remember when we found the bird's nest in our Christmas wreath last May? Well we never did take the wreath down. Every time we thought we'd take care of that, we discovered that there was another family of birds flying in and out of the wreath. I figure that Christmas decoration housed four bird families over the length of the summer.

Finally we decided we might as well just leave it up for this Christmas. After Christmas, each time I thought about taking the wreath down we'd have more snow and an icy driveway, so we didn't want Bruce climbing the ladder right then.

Now it's spring, the wreath is still there, and we've seen birds checking it out.

A few weeks ago, in the nice weather, I decided it was time to start grilling again. Burgers, chicken, kebabs . . . Yum! But when I went to light the grill it was full of weeds and grass. Naughty kids! In fact, it looked like just the kind of thing Rachel or Jessica would do. I pulled out as many as I could, then lit the grill and burned up the rest.

A week later, when I went to use the grill again, it was full of weeds. Grrrrr! I guess I didn't say anything about it to the kids the first time. Again, I took most of them out and burned the rest. When it happened a third time I made sure to tell the kids not to pile weeds into the grill! They all denied doing it—and with such innocent faces too!

Yesterday I caught the culprit red-handed! Or should I say "red-billed?"

As I was sitting here at the computer I saw a starling land on the deck-railing right next to the barbecue. It was holding a red ribbon or paper in its beak. It looked around a little, and hopped along the rail behind the grill. After a minute, it hopped along the rail on other side of the grill without the red thing. Hmmmm. I started thinking about those weeds I'd been finding lately. After the bird flew away Bruce and I went to look and, sure enough, there were some weeds and the red thing sitting on the grill. But how did it get in? On further investigation we discovered that when the lid is closed, there's a two-inch gap on the hinge side. Aha! (Bruce says, "I thought there was bird-poop in there the other day, but I couldn't figure out how it got there!")

I've been watching this morning. Sure enough, this little bird and his friend have been coming and going from my barbecue grill all day long. They are very sneaky, looking around carefully and frequently stopping in the branches of the nearby maple tree—no doubt to throw those horrible, nest-burning humans off the trail.

I'm sure to the starlings this must seem like a marvelous nesting place—safe from the weather, dogs, cats and people. They're not going to give it up just because their stuff keeps disappearing.

My question is, how do I keep birds from nesting in my barbecue?

p.s. 2 1/2 weeks left to enter the fabulous poetry contest!

Odds & Ends

Kaylie's third-grade class has been working on some new inventions for the past month or so. Today Kaylie's invention goes before the patent board. Here it is:

The Snowplow Bike! (patent pending)

Kaylie's clever design allows the cyclist to ride his/her bike in the winter, while providing service for the neighbors by shovelling—and salting—their sidewalks. As an added bonus, the cyclist will get the workout of their life!

In other news, Jessica has gone curly.

A few pin curls, and lots of bobby-pins

A "Jemima" cap to cover it for the night

And, voila! A halo of golden curls in the morning!


And, finally, all Rachel wants for Valentine's Day is:

her two front teeth! (LOVE that smile!)

Rub-a-Dub-Dub . . .

. . . FOUR girls in a tub!

Uh-oh! Sounds potentially bad, but this isn't that kind of website!

When I went to school at Utah State University I shared a dorm room with four other girls. We got along pretty well, on the whole.

One evening, when I was tired but not ready for bed, I announced that I would be taking a bath before bedtime (since the five of us shared the bathroom, the announcement really was necessary). Stacey said that she wanted a bath before she went to bed, and since she had an earlier class than I did the next morning, she should go first. We bantered back and forth a little, and somehow it evolved into: "Wouldn't it be funny if we all got in the bathtub together?" So Stacey, Jessi, Regina and I put on our swimsuits, put our hair up, grabbed some bubble-bath and hopped in; Lisa said she'd forego the bath and take our pictures.

Stacey, Me, Regina and Jessi

Well we didn't have enough bubble bath to make a good, foamy tub full of bubbles, so we started pouring in our shampoo. Then the dish-soap. Finally I remembered a big, family-size box of generic-brand laundry detergent that I'd just gotten. So we poured some in and it foamed up very nicely. During the next two hours we used up all of the detergent, except for maybe about four to five cups.

After our goofy photo session was done we drained the tub and then all took turns showering off. Ironically Stacey and I, who wanted the baths in the first place, ended up being the last to shower--first Stacey and then me. (I ended up going to bed past midnight.)

Oh dear! We both got a rash, and then had dry, itchy skin for weeks!

Moral of the story: Never take a bath in laundry detergent.

First Date

Many moons ago, when I first started this blog and I was telling Piano Stories, I threatened to tell about my first date with Bruce. So, here's the story:

It actually starts in January or February of 1985. Bruce and I were really good friends, and we spent a lot of time chatting with each other. I kind of thought I'd like to go on a real date with him, but I was too shy to ask a guy—even a good friend—on a date. Anyway, on that day in January or February we were talking about the upcoming Senior Ball. I asked Bruce if he had a date yet (a good, broad hint is as close as I ever came to asking someone out. I only learned much later that guys just don't really pick up on good, broad hints.) He said he hadn't decided who to ask to the dance. "Who were you thinking about asking?" And he said he'd made a list of girls. He even told me some of the names on the list. This was my big chance to say, "How about me?" But I didn't. He ended up taking someone who was not me. :-(

Fast-forward to April of 1985.

Now the Junior Prom was coming up. Again, I hoped for an invitation from Bruce—but, no. Time passed, and nothing. We were just high-school friends, and I would graduate and never go on a date with him at all. Pretty soon it was Prom night. Oh well. [photo left: Kearns High School]

My parents were going to a wedding reception the night of the Prom (April 26) and I had resigned myself to a night of watching TV with my little sister, Denise. But then, one hour before the dance, I got a call—from Bruce! And he asked if I'd like to go to the dance with him! Would I! I told him I'd have to ask my mom first; she said yes, as I was sure she would, and then I gave him a definite "yes." Could I be ready in about an hour? Yep! "Where's your house?" I gave him the address, instructions to get there from the high-school, and told him, "it's the house with the really bright porch light." (I found out later that he thought the porch-light instruction was kind of weird, bordering on stupid; but he saw what I meant when he got there.)

Mom's front porch has a really bright light.

After we hung up I raced to the grocery store for some really important thing—probably either panty-hose or mascara—and I raced back home to shower and get dressed up. Fortunately I had a few nice, formal dresses—one from my sister Melanie's wedding reception, one from Jr. High commencement a few years earlier, and one from the church's Sesquecentennial Ball a few years before that. They all fit well; I chose the commencement dress, which was my favorite. And I was ready when he came to pick me up an hour later.

Wow! We look like babies in this picture! And kind of geeky too.
Aren't I brave to post this pic?

Here is the story behind his asking me out one hour before the dance:

Bruce had thought he'd have to work on April 26, and didn't ask anyone out. Turns out he had the night off—oh, man! So that afternoon he went and watched his friend David Kenley play a church basketball game and then went home with him. David was getting ready for the dance, and Bruce was sitting in the Kenley's livingroom feeling sorry for himself. But then David's sister, Kristen, came in and asked him if he was going to the dance. Bruce told her his sad story, and she said, "You have to go to the Junior Prom—you're a Junior! Isn't there anyone you know who doesn't have a date yet?" Bruce said there was one girl he liked, and he didn't think she was going. So Kristen asked who it was. When he told her my name she said, "She's in my ward!" and got him the ward directory. So I got the unexpected, but gladly received phone-call. (Kristen and David also told him it was easy to find my house—just look for the one with the bright porch light!)

Well, he came and picked me up and we drove to the dance. Now, believe it or not, I have a terror of dancing—-I mean, ballroom dance-style dancing. Because I don't really know how, so I feel kind of stupid (never mind that none of the other kids knew how to dance either). So I kept Bruce talking, and we wandered all around the reception center, inside and outside, and we had a lot of fun. Finally they started playing a big-band song that might be danceable (even for me)—In the Mood—and we walked out to the dance floor. [photo above: Jr. Prom reception center]

But, oh, horror! I felt the zipper of my dress pop, and it fell open to the small of my back. So I quickly excused myself to the bathroom where I spent a few frantic minutes wondering how I could explain this to Bruce without dying from embarrassment, and how we could get out to the car without losing my dress in front of half of my peers. But, oh, joy! It was a self-fixing zipper; zip it down and then back up again and all was well. Whew!

We enjoyed the rest of the evening at the dance, and when it was over we went to Leatherby's with Bruce's friends. David kept looking at me funny; I felt like I must be losing my dress again, but probably he was just amazed that I went to the dance with only an hour's notice. But it was fun! And it was the start of . . . something more than a beautiful friendship.

A short epilogue: About two months after the Prom, Bruce and I went to Lagoon (the local amusement park) and we saw the Kenleys there. Kristen said to me, "I can't believe you went to the Prom with him with only an hour's notice!" Wait! Whose idea was it? (But it was a good idea.)
And I still have the dress; it is yellowed with old age, and I'll never wear it again, but Bruce won't let me get rid of it. Awwww. Isn't he sweet (in kind of a silly, sentimental way)?

Lindsey models my aged dress.
It's almost a perfect fit—doesn't she look pretty in it?

p.s.

And for the last joke of the day, I short-sheeted my bed; yes, my own bed. Bruce went to bed last night thinking that I was a very silly girl. :-)

APRIL FOOL!

You know, I kind of like kid holidays. I like to surprise my family; and I like how clever I feel when I do it well. :-) (Yes, that is the real me.)

So I've been planning for this April Fool's Day since last year. Seriously; that is not a joke. I really have been planning this day for an entire year. I'll give you the run-down:

Unfortunately the first joke of the day was on me. Yes, I woke up to a gray, snowy, ucky mess outside. A slippery mess that I had to drive in first thing this morning. Bruce and I had a lot of running around to do this morning. First I had to take the kids to school, then go pick up Bruce from the mechanic, and then go to my cousin's house to get our hair cut. That would be 35 to 45 minutes of driving on a perfect day. It took an hour and fifteen minutes on those slick, slick roads. UGH!

my view out the front windshield this morning

But I delivered the first joke of the day to my kids. I woke up at 7:00 a.m, as usual; this is the time that I normally get the kids up to get ready for school. But I was inspired this morning; today I ran to every room and hollered, "Get up quick! Dad and I slept in—it's ten minutes to eight!!" Then I ran back to my room; after I was dressed I did the rounds again, "You guys! Hurry!!! We have to leave in five minutes!" Lindsey did catch me and say that her clock said it was only 7:15. "Well, your clock must be wrong." I said—almost with a straight face.

When Michael (usually the last face I see in the morning) came upstairs, he said, "Mom, it's not even 7:30 yet."
Then I had to laugh. And, "APRIL FOOLS!" say I. ;-) Michael tried not to, but I caught him with a little smile on his face.

Well, after the timely joke of the morning, we had the fun driving adventures. And after that it was pretty calm until dinner time—time for the joke I've been planning for a whole year. See, last year I was looking around online, at the last minute, for an April Fool joke to play on my kids and I saw this terrific dinner idea. The trouble was that I had to order one of the food items online; no way I could do it for last year. So I bided my time.

Check this out: This may look like an ordinary TV dinner, but no . . .


. . . The mashed potatoes are vanilla ice-cream with caramel topping; the peas are from a bag of "peas-n-carrots" candy; and the chicken nuggets are Hostess donettes, sliced to the appropriate size.

I saw the whole dinner on the Family Fun website last year. While I liked the looks of the mashed potatoes and peas (I could only get the peas-n-carrots online); I couldn't find peanut-butter logs to use for the chicken nuggets. And it took a long time for me to come up with something that would really look like chicken nuggets; I was pretty tickled when I thought of the donettes.

On the Family Fun website they just served the whole thing up on dinner plates—the TV dinner trays were my own idea. (And it was a neat trick to save ten TV dinner trays without my whole family getting suspicious.)

To top it off, I actually made real breaded chicken, real mashed potatoes and gravy, and real peas for dinner—er, dessert. Bruce, who saw me breading the chicken before dinner, thought that my joke was simply to put the meal I'd prepared on the TV-dinner trays. No one was prepared for the "dinner" they got.
Surprise! APRIL FOOLS!

(But now I may need to start planning for next year.
Who's the real April Fool?)

So, I was thinking . . .

. . . that here I am, asking how to get my kids to focus less on gifts and more on what Christmas is really all about, while at the same time I am making a mile-long wish-list. Hmmmm.
Is there a problem here?

Just Wrong!

The other day Jessica and I went window-shopping, just to get out of the house and see some new sights. We looked at jewelry (she kept telling me she wanted to look at jewelry, although she didn't know what "jewelry" was until we actually looked at some), we looked at clothes, we looked at Christmas decorations, we looked at toys. As we walked past the lingerie department Jessica said, in a thoroughly shocked tone, "That's wrong!!"
I turned around to see what she was talking about, and there was a mannequin dressed in a "Santa's helper" bra and panties. When I asked her about it, she said, "Santa Claus wears his own underwear!"

I guess she's right. :-)

Funny

Yesterday my kids were watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. When Milly is having her baby all the six brothers are downstairs pacing the floor; finally the baby cries and Gideon says, "I'm an uncle!" and he passes out flat on the floor. Without skipping a beat, Kaylie (in her little seven-year-old voice) says, "He's a carpet!"

I like my kids! :-)

Jessica

Today is Jessica Day. Mostly because she is just so cute.

Jessica was born fast; my water broke at noon, just as the nurse was coming in to check on me. So she went out to get the resident (my dr. was at another hospital doing a C-section), and while they were busy prepping the room, I said, "The baby is crowning!" So they hurried back to me and caught her at 12:09. When my doctor showed up--about half an hour later--he looked at me, looked at the room and said, "Boy! You sure made a mess!"

Jessica is a sweetie; she's always been a happy girl and all the kids like to play with her.

Today Jessica had her pre-school Halloween party. She dressed up as a witch--not a scary, Wizard-of-Oz witch, but more like an elegant Snow-white witch. I painted her nails blue and put make-up on her, and suddenly Bruce and I could see what she's going to look like as a teenager--she'll be a heartbreaker. Here's the conversation of the morning, between the three of us:

Bruce (to me): "I can see now what she'll look like when she's fifteen. She's gonna be gorgeous!"

He sees her grinning in the rearview mirror, and says to her: "Jessica, all the boys are going to fall in love with you."

Jessica beams.

Bruce and I laugh over this. Then Bruce says," They will all think you are a princess!" (more sunshine from the back of the van). "What will you do then?" he asks.

Jessica contemplates this for a moment and then says, "I will tell them I am a witch."

She may not really be a witch, but Bruce may have created a monster. After the preschool party Jessica informed us that "all of the boys loved me."

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

One day when I was a senior in highschool, during my AP Music class, I got a call from the office. There was an emergency and my sister needed me to call her.

This was the problem: Melanie worked for LeAnn at the dance studio teaching the littlest kids, and she had to choreograph a dance for one of her classes (about 8 years old). The song LeAnn wanted her to use was You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile; they'd even picked out the costumes they wanted to use. The emergency? LeAnn wanted Melanie to show her the choreography by that evening; Melanie had gotten a lot of the dance but was stuck in a few parts, so she wanted my help. I didn't have any trouble getting checked out of school, so Melanie picked me up and we worked it out.

The way these little-kid song and dance routines work is usually like this: There's some music that's sung, so you try to do actions that match the words but still look like dancing. Then there's a middle, instrumental section that, in this case, would be tap-dancing; and then there's an end bit where the song is sung again. So we came up with a really cute routine for the singing parts; the tapping stuff would be easy to fill in later.

That night, after the regular classes were done, Melanie and I did our dance for LeAnn. She loved it. "This is too cute for little kids to wreck it!" LeAnn said. She wanted to do it herself, with Melanie and me. She chose a different song and choreographed a dance for Melanie's class herself, so that we could do Never Fully Dressed.

Since Melanie and I were both at the studio every night, we would just stay after classes for about half an hour and work on our dance with LeAnn. Together we choreographed the non-singing part, and figured out how to take our bows at the end. It was fun—and it was way cute! (Actually, I wish I had a video of it to post for you.) Anyway, it was a BIG secret; nobody else in the studio knew we were doing it. Even at the dress rehearsal we waited until everyone else had gone home before we practiced it on the stage. LeAnn went so far as to make up silly names for us to put on the programs: Tillie Thun daThize, Tara Ra-Boom-Deay, and Boris L. TaDeth; that way no one would know ahead of time who was doing this dance. (Although I suspect that when we actually performed it people figured out who we were. LeAnn would have been an obvious guess, Melanie was eight months pregnant, and I was very well-known at the studio too.)

I cannot possibly describe in words the amazing feeling of being on the stage, and the feeling of everyone loving you in that moment; it is like magic! The moment we entered the stage we were a big success; people were laughing, and the applause at the end was terrific. Magic! That was the most fun dance I've ever done!

LeAnn, Melanie and Me

I love this picture; it always makes me smile—so I guess I am always fully dressed when I look at it. ;-)

The Other Side of the Story . . .

My mom loves to tell the story of when I cut Denise's hair. The way she tells it, she and my dad had been out for the evening; when they got home, they went into the bedroom to check on the littlest girls (Denise and me). Denise was asleep in her bed with a hat on. Mom thought that was odd. When she removed the hat, she was shocked to see that Denise's hair had been butchered! (Yes, "butchered" is Mom's word.) Apparently her hair was very short all over and cut to the scalp in some places. Mom also found one of our dolls with the same stylish hairdo. She says she made Denise wear a bonnet every time they went out, for a long time. That's how Mom tells it.

At last, after 35 or so years of concealment, here is my side of the story:

First of all, I'm not sure how old we were; I'd guess I was between four and six years old which would make Denise between one and four. But what I do remember is this: It was school picture time; that meant that in the evening you could take your whole family to the school and get a family picture for a really good price. So we went. And when we got there the photographer went on and on and on about how cute Denise was and, specifically, what beautiful, long hair she had. He just couldn't get over how much beautiful hair that baby had, and there was my mom agreeing with every word he said. And this little, blue-eyed angel was bitten by the green-eyed monster! After all, my hair was longer than Denise's, and it was a pretty color; but nobody was saying anything about that. Huh!
[picture: blue-eyed angel]

It was probably not the same night as the photo session. I remember my parents were not home. I remember that all my brothers and sisters were in the living room, watching TV. I remember trying to talk Denise into letting me cut her hair—maybe I even pointed out that Mom had short hair, or perhaps demonstrated on the doll. I don't remember what I told her. I do remember sneaking across the hall, through my parent's room, through their bathroom and into the kitchen to get the highchair, then sneaking all the way back to our bedroom with the chair. (How did my siblings not notice that?) I remember Denise "had to be in the highchair" so I could cut her hair.

I don't remember cutting her hair, or the doll's hair, or cleaning up or putting away the highchair. I don't remember what her hair looked like when I was finished with it. I don't remember putting Denise to bed with a hat on. I don't even remember getting in trouble—unless you count Mom telling the story over and over again for the whole rest of my life. :-) But that's just funny.

Now you know my side of the story.

I can't tell you if this picture is just before the hair-cutting, or the year after. I'm guessing it's the year after—see how short Denise's hair is?

Bonus Note: Surely you have all heard of the "Mother's Curse"—you know, the one where your mom curses you with children who are just like you. Well, Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica—hmmm; and I think Ryan, too—all went through about three years of scissor-happiness. It seemed like every time I turned around they were cutting their own hair, each others' hair, the cat's hair . . . sheets, T-shirts, pillowcases, you name it. Mom got her revenge!

Buggy

The other day my sister-in-law, Becky, told us of her life-long fascination with bugs. Her stories were very nice. Her timing is funny though, because for a couple days now I have been thinking of telling you about my own fascination with bugs. She and I couldn't think more differently on the subject. I will admit that bugs in their natural habitats are kind of interesting--as long as they stay at least two feet away from me. They must never touch me; and if only the bugs could understand, I'd like to make it very plain to them that I DO NOT LIKE THEM IN THE HOUSE! Not in my house, or in anyone else's house. I don't like the way they sneak up and catch you unawares, and scare the pants off you. I don't like the way the little ants clean up my kitchen floor (you'd think I'd appreciate that, but I don't). I look upon bugs with a disgust that amounts to absolute detestation!

Just for the record, I am quite sane.

Well, anyway, let me tell you about me and the water-bugs in Tennessee--the most bug-ridden state in the land of the free. Bruce and I and our little family lived in Tennessee for three-and-a-half years while Bruce went to school (a story for another time). And it was there that I was introduced to bugs I'd never imagined; the worst one to come into my personal space being the water-bug. (And let me tell you now, for the record, that people can give them cute names like "water-bug" but they are really just giant, ugly, disgusting cockroaches!)

Night of the Waterbug

The first time I ever saw a water-bug was on a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe it wasn't stormy. I'd just put the kids to bed and Bruce was out working, so I was alone in my kitchen, writing a letter home. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see this GIANT black thing creeping across my kitchen floor. It was the biggest roach I'd ever seen and it was heading toward me! (OK, up to that point it was the only live roach I'd ever seen--but it was in my house!) After squealing and jumping up onto the kitchen chair I realized that I had to do something or I'd be trapped, sitting on my table all night. So, gathering all my courage, I leaped past the monster into the laundry room where we kept the bug-spray on a shelf. I leaped past it again (so I'd have more space to make my getaway, if necessary), took aim and started spraying it. Well, all that did was make it mad. It ran toward me; I backed off, still spraying. I don't think I let go of the trigger for a good minute or two; there were clouds of bug spray in my kitchen and I could tell it would be me or the bug. Fortunately for me, the bug started getting a little confused. I was able to leap past it again and get a canning jar to clap over it. Unfortunately, to capture it I would have to get close enough to put the jar down over it. I summoned up all my courage and, standing as far away as possible, trapped my adversary in a glass prison. I left it there for Bruce to dispose of when he got home--no way was I going to get any closer to it than I already had!

After my horrid battle I had to open the kitchen windows. Then, to calm my nerves, I had to call all my relatives in Utah and tell them of my terrifying experience. I think they thought I was loony, and possibly over-reacting. I can tell you, that is simply because they've never come into close contact with a cockroach that is three to four inches long!

By the way, Bruce did not dispose of my foe. He saved it to show Michael (then about six years old). Michael named it "uglybug" (how appropriate). That bug lived in a jar in my home for another two days before they finally put it outside. I don't know why they didn't just flush it down the toilet!

That was water-bug story number one. Here's the second:

Attack of the Waterbug

One evening after a nice shower I was lying on my bed, bare-naked, air-drying and chatting with Bruce. (A side-note: it's nearly impossible for anything to really air-dry in Tennessee.) As we were talking my eye was drawn to the little breeze-way above our bathroom door. There was a water-bug up there and I could tell it was watching me. Bruce noticed the color leaving my face and followed my horrified gaze upward. Trying to soothe me, he said, "It's OK, it's clear up there." Ha! I could see that bug checking me out. I swear, it's little head was moving back and forth, looking me over and I knew it was going to fly down and land right in the middle of my back. Bruce said, "They don't fly." Ha!! Almost as soon as he said it the beastly thing took flight, aiming for the small of my back. Bruce, my hero, swung his arm like a baseball bat and hit it with his bare hand as I scrambled to make an escape. THOCK! It hit the wall. Did that kill it? I don't know, but we didn't see it again. It was a close call, but I survived it. I also made Bruce wash his hands.

Last story for the night; it was another lonely evening and I was sitting quietly in my kitchen, writing a letter to my family. (Have you noticed that these evil bugs wait until I am most vulnerable before they attack?) I will quote directly from the letter I wrote when it occurred:

Revenge of the Waterbug

"I just had near heart-failure a little while ago . . . I sat down at the kitchen table to work on some things. I sat here, very involved in what I was doing. and from the corner of my eye I see some movement. So I glance over and a giant roach (yeah, yeah--they call them water-bugs) is creeping out from under the table. It must have gone right by my bare toes! (At least it didnt go over my toes. After all, a roach is a roach. And this is a BIG one!) It got over toward the cabinets. Here's the layout: So I jump away and I'm trying to decide whether to trap it under a jar--which would be really scary--or spray it, which would be really gross (stinky). But I would have to go past it to get a jar, and it was moving pretty fast. So I sprayed it. Then it took off along the edge of the cabinet (away from me, thank goodness!) and disappeared into a little crack between the wall and the cabinet front--which put it right in my cabinets where I keep all my canned goods. And I'm thinking, "Bruce had better find that bug and kill it, or I'm never cooking for him again!" But at least I can rest easy and go back to work at the table (with my feet up), right? Ha! Just as I settle down, I hear this, 'click, click, click' of its feet in my cupboards. Then I hear it 'ping!' on the top of a can. 'Click,click, ping! click, ping! ping! click,click.' I shudder with each sound; violent shudders--the sound is coming toward me!" [I can't concentrate on my work. I cringe in terror, my eyes wide and my heart pounding. I am obsessed by the evil I hear coming closer and closer toward me.] "Finally it gets to my end of the cabinet. 'Scuffle, scuffle, click, ping! Scrape, scuffle, ping!' But at least it's trapped in the cabinet, right? Ha!! (Did I ever tell you this house is poorly built?) After a second, I hear a 'Thunk!' and there it is, about three feet from where this terror all started. Well, it is obviously not in as good health, so [I gathered my nerve and] I trapped it under a jar, where it is still giving me the shudders. (But it's Bruce's job to dispose of big, ugly bugs.) Then I went and looked under my countertop, and there's a big hole in the side of my cabinet where Beelzebub obviously reappeared from. This is why I will not live in Tennessee any longer than I have to."

Well, OK. Just one more story. As I was writing this, it occurred to me that I ought to include a picture of a water-bug. So I did a Google search. But when the screen full of bugs popped up I jumped away from the computer about three feet, shuddered, caught my breath . . . Yes, that's me. I had to reach my arm's length to click the mouse and get away from that screen. Find your own water-bug pictures!

The Piano and Me, part 2

By the time I graduated from high school I was an excellent pianist. I still had my job at the dance studio—I played for LeAnn about three hours a night, four nights a week. I was still taking piano lessons and I practiced formally about three hours a day; I also played with the school orchestra and I played just for enjoyment as well. I played the piano a lot! It was rare that I would see a piano and not stop to play it. When friends came over to my house they often asked me to play for them; they knew my repertoire—which was extensive (I could memorize a piece easily and quickly back then)—and they would frequently request songs. I was glad to play for them, because I loved playing the piano.

Well, the summer after I graduated from high school my family went to Arizona to visit my two brothers, Wendell and Mark, who live near Phoenix. Neither of them owned a piano and I was suffering from major withdrawal. One day we went to the mall with Wendell and Amy, his wife. As we entered the main drag of the mall, Hallelujah! The first thing I saw was a piano store! So I told Amy I wanted to play the piano, and she said to go ask the salesman; I did. He said it was all right as long as I didn’t stay too long. So I sat at one of the grand pianos, and tried to decide what I should play. There were so many fun pieces! Finally I wondered out loud, “What should I play?” The man said, “Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor.” That was a piece I’d been considering, having spent much of the last year learning it; so I played it. I was pretty oblivious to my surroundings once I started playing, and was surprised when I finished to be applauded by a large crowd of people standing behind me. Then my mom started telling me to play one piece after another, which I was glad to do. I probably spent an hour or so there, entertaining the shoppers (yes, and myself) before we went on with our own shopping. Amy told me later, “You should have seen that guy’s (the salesman’s) jaw drop!”

But here’s what strikes me as funny: I took that salesman completely at face value. It didn’t occur to me that kids who knew no music but “Chopsticks” probably came and asked him if they could play one of the pianos—probably daily. So it didn’t occur to me that he probably didn’t really want me to come and play; he was probably letting me play because he had to be nice. I was used to friends requesting songs from me (as I said before)—and Toccata and Fugue was a very popular request—so it didn’t occur to me that the man was probably being sarcastic when he told me to play a very difficult piece. I just took him at face value, and that’s what I played. About the time my concert ended, someone in the “audience” suggested that I should get a job at the mall demonstrating the pianos daily. I said thanks, and went on my merry, innocent way. I only heard later from Amy and my mom that the salesman was kind of crabby about the whole thing; maybe I had embarrassed him (which is too bad because that certainly wasn’t my intent). I was just playing the piano for my own enjoyment, unaware of the fact that in asking me to play such a difficult piece this salesman was making a kind of snotty request, probably hoping I'd go away quickly. But I can get a little chuckle out of the whole thing because I was naïve and oblivious to any sarcasm. And I did enjoy playing that piano!

Well, I don’t play the piano nearly so much any more. Being married with eight children, and having a house to take care of takes precedence over constantly sitting at the piano. And that's OK with me; it should be that way. People who hear me play now think I’m very good—and I am. But they should have heard me when I was teenager! It used to make me a little sad to think how good I was and compare that to now. Sometimes I do get frustrated playing because my fingers aren’t as nimble as they were (OK, sometimes they feel like big, fat sausages—but a little practice works that out). It can be a little frustrating, practicing and having ten or twenty other little fingers get in the way of mine—although that doesn't happen as much as it used to. I just don't really practice much any more—beyond playing for church.

But you know, the piano isn’t my great love any more. I still love music and I don’t want to lose my skill completely; but I don't really think I will. Every now and then I'll sit and play for fun; try to learn something new. But now I have other loves that surpass the piano; and that’s a good thing. Anyway, I still have my fun music stories to think of. And it was fun!