K thru 6

OK. I don't know why this came to mind, but as I was driving home from school the other day I started thinking about elementary school.  My going to elementary school, to be exact. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking about originally, but I started wondering what people might remember from each grade of elementary school.  So, like it or not, here are some of my memories from each grade:

Isn't this a great outfit?

Kindergarten:  My teacher at the beginning of the year was Miss Robb, but then later my teacher was Mrs. Jones. They looked exactly the same, but obviously must have been two different people.

I remember standing in a circle and learning "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean." There was a girl in the class named Connie, so I figured Bonnie must be a girl's name, but it was kind of weird to call her "My Bonnie" (like my hat, or my shoes).

I knew how to write my first name and wanted to learn my last name.  We had a board with all the kids' names on it, and I wondered if John's name was the beginning of Johnson.  I hoped not.

I got to have the classroom guinea-pigs at the end of the year.

1st Grade: My teacher was Mrs. Atchley, and her husband's family was from England.

I remember sitting in a group and learning how to make the sounds of each letter. The teacher would sit in front of us, say the letter, and tell us how to shape our mouths and where to put our tongues. "W" was particularly funny because we were told to pucker up our mouths like we were going to kiss someone. 

I tested on the fifth grade reading level, and after that I got to read books to the class almost every day during story time.  I sat in the teacher's chair and read them stories (of my choosing).

2nd Grade:  My teacher was Miss Davis, the notoriously mean, scary teacher. (Actually she was nice. :-) )

I kept misspelling one word on a spelling test and I had to take the test over and over and over again.  The word was "let's."  I just could not figure out how to spell that word other than
"L E T S!" After I'd retaken the test in utter frustration and about a million times, Miss Davis finally pointed out that I was missing the apostrophe.

My mom started working as a county clerk this year (she'd been a full-time mom until then). I was so excited when I heard her tell my dad that she was going to go to lunch with the girls.  Was she going to take us all out of school for lunch? It wasn't until the day of the lunch in question that I realized she meant the ladies she worked with and not her girls.

3rd Grade: My teacher was Norma Gross (Mrs. Gross was a friend of my mom's).

I remember being lined up with the other kids in Mrs. Miller's reading class (we rotated), and outspelling all of them. I could spell all the words in the third grade spelling book.  She went to the back of the fourth grade book and asked me to spell "astronaut." I remember hesitating on the last syllable, but it seemed like "N A U T" was the right way to do it. Then she went and got the other third grade teachers (there was Mrs. Gross, Mrs. Miller and Miss Robin Hood.  Cross my heart and hope to die!)  I spelled "mathematics" for them, and who knows what all else, until I got tripped up on "piece." (I before E.)  The teachers' consensus was that they just couldn't believe it; I felt very smart.

I got to start in orchestra (violin) this year even though usually you had to wait until fourth grade.  I'm sure my mom pulled some strings—by the seventh Johnson kid everyone at Western Hills Elementary School knew my mom pretty well. :-)

4th Grade:  My teacher was Mrs. Olsen.

The Sunshine Family

If we got our work done early, we could color a picture to put on the bulleting board. I was sure to get my work done early every day!

The girls in the class made houses in their desks for their "Sweets" dolls. (Sweets was the baby of Mattel's "Sunshine Family.")  We had everything from furniture to dishes to wardrobes in our desks.  This was all OK with the teachers as long as the babies napped until recess time.

I read The Hobbit  for the first time; I loved it.

I went to speech therapy because I couldn't say my esses (sssssssss).  It worked; I can say them now.

Western Hills got a man teacher this year. I never knew men could be teachers!

5th Grade:  My teacher was Mrs. Christensen, another mean old lady teacher. (Actually she might maybe have been as much as fifty, and she was very nice.)

I was in a fifth/sixth grade class (only about eight fifth-graders) so I got to go to Mill Hollow with my class instead of waiting until sixth grade.  (I got to go in sixth grade, too! :-) )

There was a boy named Ricky who all the other kids teased mercilessly.  "Ricky's fleas!" was what you said when you tagged someone at recess.  One day we had an assignment to write about ourselves.  A few days later Ricky was sent on an errand for Mrs. Christensen and she read us his essay while he was gone. He talked about how sad he was, and how everybody was so mean to him and he didn't know why.  We all felt lower than dirt—at least I did.  We stopped picking on him, and I think a few even befriended him. It all still makes me a little sad.

I quit the violin this year because Max, a sixth-grader in my class, was also in orchestra and I didn't like him. (Augh! Can you believe it!  Augh! Augh! Augh!) Oh dear! I was probably not such a very nice child.

I got second place in the schoolwide spelling bee.  Although another girl in our classroom won it, Max said he'd been rooting for me.  Eeeeeewww! (I didn't know what "rooting for" meant, but it was gross that Max felt that way about me.)

I played a piano minuet by Franz Joseph Haydn in the school talent show. The secretary said I played as well as her teenage daughter, and I thought I was so awesome.

I started dance lessons this year (not in school). This was possibly the single most exciting thing that ever happened to me!

6th Grade:  My teacher was Miss Taylor.

Kim moved into the neighborhood and was the very best friend I'd ever had.

I was in the school spelling bee again, and I got out on the word
"excruciating."  This was excruciating because that word was a spelling/vocabulary word of mine that very week.  I spelled it
"E X C R U T I A T I N G," and I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it.

I read The Martian Chronicles, The Once and Future King, The Crystal Cave trilogy (not really for children, and I didn't like it or particularly understand it), and I started The Lord of the Rings, but I gave that one up.  I read lots of long, hairy grown-up books this year.

In ballet classes, I earned my pointe shoes this year.

So there you go.  I could go all the way to 12th grade, but I'll spare you for now. ;-)

What do you remember most from elementary school?

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!

The truth comes out

I have almost no memories of my Grandma and Grandpa Johnson. I don't even know how old I was when they died; only that I was very little. But I was talking to Melanie about them the other day, and I shared this memory with her:

One day we were visiting at Grandma and Grandpa's house, and my mom had to change Denise's diaper. (This would have made me about 3 1/2 or 4 years old.) In my memory, Mom asked me to take the cloth diaper into the bathroom and rinse it. Well, I'd seen Mom swirl the dirty diapers in the clean toilet, and even flush the toilet while she held onto the corner of a poopy diaper. So I did this. Unfortunately the diaper went down the toilet too, and Grandma and Grandpa got really mad at me.

As I told this story to Melanie, she laughed and said, "I know! That happened to me too. Grandma and Grandpa were so mad!" 

She elaborated: She knew she was in trouble, so she didn't 'fess up to actually flushing the toilet herself. She told them that something had fallen from the lid of the tank and hit the flush handle and the diaper went down.

"Yeah!" I reminded Melanie, "It was a big jar of Pond's cold cream." I remembered this part of the story vividly.

"That's right!"Melanie laughed.

Huh! Now there's an amazing coincidence! That is exactly what happened to me. I took the diaper into the bathroom to help my mom by rinsing it out in the toilet. But when I flushed it, the diaper got away, so I told the grown-ups that a jar of Pond's had fallen onto the flusher.

But suddenly, after all these years, I see this story in a new light: It wasn't the four-year-old who was asked to take the diaper and rinse it in the toilet; it was the nine-year-old—Melanie!
Whew! What a burden off of my mind!

Grandma and Grandpa Johnson
that's me in the bottom right corner, probably about 2 or 3 years old.
Grandma is looking at a poodle that's next to her left foot.

Here's the Answer:

I bet you can just hardly wait! The first picture was taken in September 1983 at the Homecoming dance, and the second picture was taken in February 1984 at the Jr. Prom. But, no, that is not the only difference. The difference is this: In December of 1983 I had jaw surgery to correct my terrific overbite. So Tami was very close when she said the difference was my teeth, but Stephanie wins the prize (although it seems she had some inside knowledge). On the other hand, Tami did say that I looked attractive, so maybe she wins. ;-)

From the time I was 14 until I was 18, my mouth underwent all kinds of trauma so my smile could go
from this

to this.

See, besides the excessively crooked teeth and the fangs, I had a huge overbite. I could put my forefinger sideways between my top and bottom teeth; my lower teeth touched the fleshy stuff just behind my top teeth (sometimes even cutting it) if I shut my mouth tightly. So when I got my braces in October of 1981, I also got a treatment plan that included jaw surgery. Over the next couple of years, as my teeth got straighter and straighter I wondered exactly when this surgery would happen.

It was finally scheduled for December 5, 1983. So in November that year I was going to see the oral surgeon all the time, and I had all kinds of impressions taken of my teeth and bite. (My favorite—NOT—was when they stuck this big, waxy plate (which was about the size of a dinner plate, I swear) in my mouth, and I had to bite down on it without shifting my jaw forward or backward at all. They had to do this one about three times before I got it right. (Gag me with a dinner plate!)

I went to the hospital on December 4. I was actually kind of excited, and not really super-nervous to go and have this major surgery. I did get really dizzy when the hospital staff drew my blood for all the preliminary testing they had to do; not dizzy from the blood-draw itself, but when I saw the six little vials of my blood.

That evening Dr. Lind and three other kids and their parents, and my parents, came into my room to discuss the whole procedure. He was doing similar operations on those three kids on the same day as my surgery. (I was going to be third in line.) Basically, the surgery would be like this: they would saw through my lower jaw, move it forward to the right place and put screws in to hold it there. My mouth would be wired shut for six to eight weeks—so I couldn't do any damage to myself while I healed—giving my body time for new bone to grow and fill in the empty space in my jaw. [I think of this now, and I can't believe how calm I felt about the whole thing. It's really grisly, isn't it?]


I spent the night in the hospital, and the next day they came in and prepped me for surgery. I'd had general anaesthesia before, and every time this is what happens: They give me the I.V. with the drugs in it, and then they get busy doing other things. I lie there and watch them, and I'm thinking, "I don't feel sleepy at all. Hmm." I keep watching them, and pretty soon I realize they are coming toward me with scary-looking instruments. "Oh no! They think I'm asleep and I'm not!" Then someone asks me a very difficult question, like my name, and I am completely gone. Amazing how that works.

The next thing I knew, I was lying in bed and a light, cool spray—as if from a humidifier—was misting the lower part of my face. I don't know if I tried to talk—No! I think I tried to pull that thing off of my face. But someone came right on over and let me know that the surgery was done and I was doing fine. Actually, I was really groggy and out of it.

The next day I was given a lunch menu. I had choices of grape juice, apple juice, orange juice, tomato juice, V8, chicken broth, beef broth, milk, chocolate milk, and jello (not set-up). They encouraged me to choose as many as I wanted. I stayed in the hospital for one week; during that time my family came to visit me pretty often. One time my brothers, Wendell and Mark, were visiting. They made me laugh which caused a little twinge, so they called the nurse, who gave me some pain-killer, which quicky put me to sleep. As I drifted off, I thought what a bummer it was that all my company would be leaving now. It got pretty boring in the hospital; I'm not one to enjoy lying around doing nothing. Once in a while, maybe; but not all the time. :-)

Well after one week in the hospital, I got to go home. Between the day that I checked in and the time that I checked out, I lost ten pounds. They sent me home with a pair of wire-cutters that I was to carry around with me at all times, in case I threw up and found myself choking on it—in an emergency like that I could cut the wires so my mouth could open. But, they said, that wasn't very likely; probably if I had to throw up it would come out my nose. Great.

My only other instructions were how to keep my mouth clean (no toothbrushes); and to keep "eating," but not to use a straw—the suction would be strong enough to mess things up in my mouth—and not to eat very hot foods. Well, eating was kind of difficult. It wasn't just the wires holding my mouth closed, but there was also a U-shaped plastic plate between my top and bottom teeth. The plate had impressions of the surfaces of my teeth in it, so it would fit perfectly and not slip (remember the impressions made with the wax dinner-plate?). The only empty space was in the very back of my mouth—where there's no teeth.

My first Saturday home I was so hungry that it was painful; I was sick to the point of headache and severe nausea. My dad asked me what was wrong, and I started crying when I told him I was hungry. (Somehow my family and friends seemed to understand me very well when I spoke, in spite of all the mouth-gear.) Dad was willing to get me anything I wanted to eat; and if it had to be liquid, I wanted Skipper's clam chowder. So he drove me all the way to Skipper's, bought some clam chowder and took me home. I went to lie down while he fixed it for me, and I fell right asleep. When I woke up he brought me the soup, which he had very sweetly put through the blender for me. That was the most awful-looking thing I'd ever seen! You wouldn't think that putting soup in a blender would make it look so bad, but it turned this really awful, inedible-looking gray color. (Canned chicken-noodle-soup looks even worse!) After all the trouble Dad went to, I did eat the blender-chowder, and it still tasted very good; but I couldn't bring myself to blend up my food any more. I existed for the next two months on Lipton Cup-a-Soup, sometimes thickened slightly with instant mashed potatoes (mmmm. Think about how yummy that is!); I drank a lot of milk—including strawberry-flavored milk, fruit juices and tomato juice or V8 juice. Eventually I got to a point where I could slurp up yogurt and milkshakes too. To this day I do not like Lipton's chicken-flavored soups, and strawberry milk is intolerable—not even strawberry ice cream for me! (Although I still love V8. Go figure!)

I don't remember having a lot of pain, except for the one incident in the hospital. But I must have, occasionally, because I remember telling Wendell how awful the pain-killer tasted. He said it wasn't yukky; it tasted like bananas. And to prove it, he stuck his finger in and tasted it. I just thought he was weird. To me that medicine tasted truly awful, and was to be avoided unless I was half dead with pain. (Strangely, one year later when I had my wisdom teeth out, I was allowed to use the same pain-killer if I needed it, and . . . it tasted like bananas).

Since I'd missed the first week of school in December and Christmas break was coming up, my mom let me skip school the entire month of December. So I spent a lot of time with Wendell and Mark, who were just out of the Navy. They took me to my check-ups, and took me shopping a lot. One time when we were out, I saw my reflection in a store window. Now I had seen my reflection in the mirror plenty of times and it was obvious that my face was very swollen, but because of the lighting at the store I saw for the first time how bruised up my face was—all yellow and green and purple! I was shocked, and I told my brothers, "I look terrible!" They said just to tell people, "You should see the other guy." That was the first time I'd ever heard that phrase, and I thought it was very funny.

It snowed A LOT that winter. Lots of times when I was out with my brothers there would be big, fat snowflakes flying down. When I was feeling better I wanted to drive the car sometimes. But my mom didn't want me to drive; she said, "If the car slides and you get stuck, you won't be able to scream." You can't argue with that kind of reasoning (especially with your mouth wired shut), but I did get to drive sometimes after all. Fortunately, I never needed to scream. Whew!

The whole time my mouth was wired shut—from December 5, 1983 to January 31, 1984—I craved apples and pizza. I didn't miss the Christmas food too much; I still got egg-nog, which I like, and after the Christmas dinner Wendell made a truly excellent turkey soup (which I didn't blend up, but had some of the broth). But I was always saying that I wanted an apple or some pizza. The day I got my wires cut my parents were going to take me to lunch any place I wanted to go. I was so excited—we would definitely go out for pizza!

Was I in for a surprise! First of all, remember the handy wire-cutters I was supposed to carry around? Well, the nurse had a really hard time removing the wires from my mouth. She really had to pull and struggle with them. I'm sure I could have done nothing to save myself in an emergency. (Although the wire-cutters came in really handy for craft projects later.) But the real surprise came when she finally did get the wires loose. My jaw just dropped open—just like you see in cartoons. Thunk! Owwwwie!! I had never considered that those facial muscles would be so weak. It was a real effort to close my mouth again. Dang! So much for pizza—and certainly no apples for a while. But my parents took me out to a Mexican restaurant, and it was soooooo yummy! In fact, Mexican food is still one of my very favorites.

It literally took years before I no longer felt the exercise of chewing food—the muscles in my temples would hurt from it every time I had a meal. (If you don't believe me, you can ask Bruce—and I didn't start going out with him until more than a year after my surgery.) Suddenly I discovered that apples had thick, tough skins, salads were really a lot of work to eat, and bread was really, really chewy—never mind meat. (Hmmm. Is all of this why I am such a foodie now?)

About a month after I had my wires cut, I was in Dr. Lind's waiting-room, waiting for a check-up. There was this girl there talking to her mother, but I couldn't understand a word she said. I felt really sorry for her—what could be wrong with her? And then I realized that her mouth was wired shut. My goodness! Is that what I sounded like? (Is that my voice? Is that my voice?) I asked my brothers about it later and they said, yes, I sounded just like that. I was amazed that they ever understood anything I said to them.

Well the whole thing was kind of amazing. Was it worth it? I think so. Would I do it now? Heck, no! I don't think I'd be that brave! But maybe I would. I do think it was worth it; I rather like my smile.

And Bruce likes it too!

Can You Tell?

Aside from the obvious—fabulous 80's hairstyle, dresses, backdrops, etc—can you see a difference between this picture:

and this picture?

Leave your guesses in the comments, and I'll reveal the answer in the near future.

Here. I'll even put them right next to each other, so you can look more closely. :-)

Can you tell what the difference is?

Dumb!

I pulled a muscle in my right calf last night. :-(

Jason was saying he could jump really high without bending his knees—if he's in the swimming pool. This was in reference to a conversation/contest we had a few weeks ago, when he asked if I could jump without bending my knees at all. It just so happens that I am very good at jumping without bending my knees, having learned it in ballet class when I was about 13. What you do is pull up all your muscles tight to your center—tighten the back and tummy, squeeze the butt cheeks, pull up the legs—and then you just point your feet hard. So, in slow motion, you would rise up on the balls of your feet, and then keep going, pushing off with your toes. That last little push from your toes propels you into the air, and you can just bounce up off the ground, doing it over and over again—like a bouncy ball.

So last night I told Jason it was cheating to do it in the swimming pool. Then Lindsey started jumping, but she was bending her knees slightly. So I stood up to show them how it's really done. I got in six or seven jumps, but then I think I shifted positions too fast—my weight wasn't centered right. And as I went up I felt a terrible "POP"—like a violin string breaking—in the back of my leg. Pulled the muscle for sure. Bruce got me up to bed, and got the leg propped up and put it on ice. I was very sad; not just because it hurts—and it does, a lot!—but because that was a really dumb way to injure myself.

Since then I haven't been able to walk properly. In fact, this morning it is hurting all the way up my hamstrings, and my toes feel tingly—which is really annoying! I can't straighten the leg, or flex the muscle. I have a wonderful limp—and to get around I have to keep my leg slightly bent and keep up on my toes, supporting myself heavily on countertops, walls, furniture . . .

Well I looked online. Rest, ice, compression and elevation for at least the next two weeks, and then I can start working at being as good as new. What a drag!

Dumb!

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!

Perspective

"I couldn't love anybody as I love you."
"Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you love me?"
"Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?"
"No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you liked me of course, but I never hoped you loved me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me."

—from Anne of Green Gables

When I was growing up, and particularly as a teenager, I never felt like I had friends. Not that I was bereft, or unhappy. I could talk to people; they seemed to like me well enough. But I didn't really have anyone who would come hang out at my house or who I thought would go shopping with me. I knew people thought I was talented, but I didn't know if they really liked me. I felt like I could join in their conversations sometimes, but I was never sure how much I really added. And, unfortunately, before my senior year I was never involved in any school groups or clubs that would have automatically given me a common ground with other kids. I had a few friends in each class that I chatted with, casually—while we were at school, but none that I was really close to.

A couple weeks ago, as I was looking for pictures of Kim and me, I came across some letters and notes that I'd gotten from different people during my teenager-hood. It was kind of an eye-opener. First of all I found a couple of pathetic letters from a boy who had a major crush on me—but that's a story for another time. I also found a note from a guy we'll call "Cliff." Cliff had come to my surprise 17th birthday party [which is also a story for another time]. In his letter he mentioned that maybe he and I could go on a date that summer (I was really surprised when I read that a couple weeks ago—I didn't remember it at all); he also signed my yearbook and gave me his phone number. I also found a letter from a girl named Lori who was a year older than me, and had moved into my ward when I was about 14. I smiled at her and said, "Hi." the first time I met her—I always do that. When we saw each other in church or at school I'd chat with her. I didn't feel like I'd done anything exceptional. But she really liked me. In her letter she told me how much it meant to her that I'd been so friendly and how comfortable I'd made her feel when she moved in. I remember receiving that letter and feeling surprised at the time; I really hadn't done much.

Looking back, I see now that I probably could have had a lot of friends. I think maybe people really liked me. I could have dated a few different guys, and maybe even had another best friend for a couple years (Lori moved away after about two years). It surprises me because those letters and notes I just read don't match my memories at all. Perspective.

But now there's this funny thing going on in my mind, because I kind of feel the same way as an adult as I did then. I can get in on conversations with people; we are pleasant together. I see ladies in my ward who really seem to be best of friends and sometimes I feel kind of wistful—like I wish I had a good girl-friend close by. I don't feel like I could just drop in on someone or ask them to go out and play with me—as if I would be imposing on them. I still know that people think I can do anything—it surprises them when I admit to something I can't do well. This is probably just my own insecurity speaking, but sometimes I feel like people admire me from a distance, but that I'm not really someone you'd get close to. Does that make any sense?

Last night we had a Relief Society friendship dinner. I chatted with everyone in the group and I fit in well enough; I believe I contributed intelligent and sometimes even witty conversation. After the dinner my former visiting teaching partner came and said how good it was to visit with me and how much she'd missed talking with me. I feel the same way about her as I did with Lori—we got along well, but I didn't think I'd done anything exceptional; certainly didn't think I'd been missed. I had another person last night tell me how glad they were to talk to me. Maybe I'm kind of slow; but I am beginning to be surprised by the realization that people truly would be my friends. They seem to really, actually like me.

Friends Forever

When I was growing up, my very, very, absolute best friend of all time and in the whole world, was Kim Shakeri.











[That's Kim in about 6th grade, I think. I think that's me in about 6th grade too. I hate that picture of me, but I guess that's what I looked like.]
I didn't have many friends when I was little. That seems strange when I grew up in a house with eight children, but that's how it was. Melanie was five years older and had no use for a little pesty girl like me. And besides that, it took a long time for her to forgive me for usurping her position not only as baby of the family but also as the only girl in the family. When Melanie and her best friend played Barbies, I'd ask to play with them; they'd say OK—but they made sure that my Barbie's house was as far from theirs as it could physically be. And their Barbies were never home when mine came to visit! It was usually like that when I wanted to play with them. They even made up a song about me once: "Contamination! Contamination! When Loralee comes around, you better run away. Contamination! Contamination!" (I didn't know what contamination meant, but I could tell it wasn't good. And I could still sing it for you, but I won't.) I got over it, and so did Melanie. As she got older we liked each other better and better. Now she's my best friend—after Bruce, of course.

I was popular enough in elementary school; kids liked me. But I have never been one to have a whole group of close-knit friends that I would hang out with all the time; I did best one-on-one. Hilda (not her real name), my best friend through most of elementary school, was difficult. Sometimes we got along great; but lots of times we were not speaking to each other. One time—when we actually were speaking and, I thought, getting along—she made a point to tell me that I wasn't her best friend, some other girl (whom I'd only met once or twice) was her best friend. That hurt! But when we were getting along we had fun; and she was still the best friend I had around.

In sixth grade this new girl, Kim, moved in. I thought I might like to get to know her, but "Hilda" said, "Let's not be friends with that new girl." And she said that she wouldn't be my friend any more if I befriended Kim. Well, that's not a dilemma; it's a no-brainer—for an adult. But that ultimatum was a big deal to an eleven-year-old kid who needed a friend.

It was hard for me to avoid Kim since she and I were in the advanced reading group together—a group of only six kids (and she and I the only girls). We went for a few weeks trying to ignore each other (Kim thought I was a snot—Hmmm. Wonder why?). But I still thought I'd like to get to know her. I finally told our teacher my problem, and she advised me to just try playing with Kim—even suggesting that "Hilda" might not be such a good friend if she behaved that way. So I invited Kim to come play with my dollhouse; we really hit it off and after that we were inseparable. We would walk to school together—which meant one of us walked all the way past the school to pick the other up. Every day after school we were together for hours, either at her house or mine.


Kim and I played lots of silly games together; most often it was Barbies, sitting behind my dollhouse. My Barbie, named Karen, was a wizard and hers was a Nina Ballerina doll; obviously she was a world-famous ballerina. Oh yeah!—and they had a pet tiger (named Kitty—how original!). We played Robin Hood together. Since Kim was a lot taller than I was, she played Little John and I played Robin. We made up our own country; we even had a national anthem (I remember the melody, but not the lyrics; and, no, I won't sing it for you). Kim and I both had little sisters who were three years younger than we were; our country was constantly at war with them. We often had tea with my toy china tea set. We were very proper, and gossiped with "English" accents; her name was Adeline and I was Elizabeth. We had sleep-overs as often as our parents would permit. We liked the same kind of music and books; we could talk about anything, real or invented, and completely understand each other. And we had fun!

Kim's parents were divorced, a novelty in my world then. It was very sad for me when summer came and she spent the entire vacation in California with her dad. But we wrote each other every week; I haunted the mailbox that summer. It was a happy, happy day when she came back to Utah for the school year.

Kim was more social than I ever was and easily made new friends in seventh grade. Again, I was popular enough; I could talk to just about anyone, but I wasn't tight friends with anyone else. Kim and I didn't have any classes together that year, but we did have lunch together and walked to and from school together. Things were pretty much the same between us, The Inseparables.

But at the end of seventh grade, tragedy struck: Kim was going to live with her dad permanently. I was heartbroken. We still wrote to each other pretty much every week, but there would be no reunion at the end of the summer. I remember the first day of eighth grade, when my Health teacher called roll; Kim's name was on the list (the teacher couldn't pronounce "Shakeri"). It was all I could do to keep from crying. No one knew a Kim Shakeri—except me. [That's Kim in her 8th grade year. This is how she looked about the time she moved away. Funny; for as much time as we spent together I couldn't find any pictures of the two of us together.]

My time after school quickly got filled up with dance lessons and piano lessons (I'd done both all along, but now I was advancing and spending more time at them). Soon I got my job at the dance studio; my after-school days were completely packed. Kim and I still wrote each other frequently. I don't know if she truly realizes how important she was to me, but I never had another friend like Kim until I met Bruce. (Except he and I didn't play Barbies, and we never had sleep-overs until we got married.)

Over the years Kim and I have kept in touch. Sometimes we've lost track of each other for a few years at a time, but then we find each other again. Now we email each other kind of sporadically (actually she's very prompt at writing; I'm the sporadic one). She's married and has two darling girls; she still has a wide circle of friends. I'm glad that I'm still part of that circle.

[Senior highschool pictures. Doesn't Kim look beautiful?]

Dentist

Anyone out there remember the Smurfs? I'm sorry about that. Well, there was a record album called Smurfing Sing-Song which had mostly a lot of dumb songs sung in Alvin and the Chipmunks-style. But there was one really cute song called You're a Pink Toothbrush, I'm a Blue Toothbrush.

You're a pink toothbrush, I'm a blue toothbrush

Have we met somewhere before?

You're a pink toothbrush and I think, toothbrush,

That we met by the bathroom door.

Glad to meet, toothbrush, such a sweet toothbrush

How you thrill me through and through

Don’t be hard, toothbrush, on a soft toothbrush

'Cause I can't help loving you.

Every time I hear you whistle. . .it makes my nylon bristle. . .

You're a pink toothbrush, I'm a blue toothbrush

Won’t you marry me in haste?

I'll be true, toothbrush, just to you toothbrush

When we both use the same toothpaste.

But that's not what I'm writing about. This week my whole family went to the dentist. My kids have had regular check-ups all along, but Bruce and I haven't had dental insurance for a while—this is the first time in about four years that we've been to the dentist. (Eeeeew, gross!) Well, we do still brush. The dentist's office couldn't accommodate us all in one day. I went with Lindsey and Brandon on Tuesday morning; this morning Bruce went, and took Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica; and this afternoon I took Michael, Jason and Ryan. We mostly came out all right. Ryan had a small cavity, and Jason had a small cavity. But Bruce has to go back for a root canal. Poor Bruce. All in all, we are glad we went.

Call me strange, but I've always liked going to the dentist.

132

132 is the magic number. I'm not sure why, but it's 132.

Yes, I am at it again. The weight-loss kick. This time there's a little more to it than just my vanity, although my vanity does play the biggest part in it. But I actually was told, at my last physical (in February), that the pinched nerve that plagues my hip joint (actually, my fanny) would feel better if I weighed in the mid-130's. The number 132 sticks in my mind as the perfect weight for me, so that's what I'm aiming for. (132 is almost smack in the middle of the dr.'s weight chart as well as the life insurance weight chart for someone my height and age, so I guess that's a pretty good place for me to go.)

The good news is, I already weigh 132!! I just have to trim off about 35.

So here are my top-ten, compelling reasons for wanting to weigh 132:

1. I will look better. You'd think health would come first, but I am strictly a girlish-girlie and so, yes, my looks come first.
2. My clothes will fit more comfortably. I hate it when my clothes feel tight. A size bigger is too big, so going down is the only option.
3. I will feel better about myself.
4. My pinched nerve will feel better—or maybe go away! Well, I hope the nerve doesn't go away, just the pinch.
5. I'm not telling you this one. ;-)

6. I want to firm up (or just lose) the saddle-bags and the pouch. I want that trim, lean feeling I had when I danced all the time. OK. I didn't believe it at the time, but I can tell you now that I felt awesome compared to how I feel now. Hindsight, you know.
7. I want to be more active without getting tired quickly. When Bruce and I were first dating we used to play tag and run around all the time. Now I get tired going up the stairs; I very much prefer the energetic feeling.

8. I'll feel like I can get the cute clothes.

9. Bruce says he'll be really proud of me for accomplishing my goal.

10. I want unqualified compliments. Instead of, "Wow! You look really great for having eight kids!" How about this: "Wow! You look really great!"

In the recent past my trouble spots have been: First, that I don't exercise much; make that hardly at all. (Which is really a funny thing because I really enjoy exercising and moving around.) I think exercise is going to be the biggest factor. Then, I eat really healthily (healthily?) but I really like food—and I'm a great cook—so I tend to overeat. (Coming from a family of plate-cleaners probably factors into that problem as well.) Anyway, I'm going to work on those two trouble spots.

And now, just for kicks, I will share my before and after pictures with you. "After pictures?" you say. Yes! I found this funny website that takes your height and weight and makes a model of you—you can even put in your hair color and hairstyle. Then you put in your goal weight and it makes the "after" model. (I have to confess that I spent too much time playing around making different models. Loralee's version of playing The Sims.) Bruce says my model's body is about right; hopefully the "after" model is about right too.

Doesn't that look just like me! (heeheehee) And doesn't my 132-self look great in a swimsuit?

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!

The Piano and Me

Some of my favorite memories about myself are connected with music. In fact they are of me playing the piano, specifically. So I’ll tell you about them:

The first one was when I was about 13 years old. I was taking piano lessons from a lady named Annette. I was a pretty good pianist by then—I knew that I could play anything I wanted to. (I don't know that quite so much now.) So in addition to my regular piano lesson I decided I would learn the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata as a surprise for my teacher. I had ulterior motives: I wanted her to teach me the second and third movements. Anyway, I worked on it for quite a while, learning the notes and fingering; but more importantly, deciding exactly how I wanted the dynamics to sound—where it should be louder or softer, what notes to emphasize, etc. Finally I was happy with it; after my next piano lesson I told Annette that I had a piece for her to listen to. I played it as I’d practiced and she sat very quietly and still through the whole piece. After I finished she was quiet a bit longer, then she said softly, “That was perfect.”

Wow! What a great moment.

When I was 14 years old I got a job as a ballet pianist at a dance studio. (As a side note, my first paycheck was about $82. Pretty exciting for a 14-year-old!) I also took dance lessons there; so between my piano skills and my knowledge of ballet I think I did a very good job. I worked there until I graduated from high school.

Well, occasionally LeAnn (the teacher) would have “stretch days” where she had her students do a lot of stretching and not much of anything else. A lot of us really liked stretch days, but the one exercise most of the students hated was doing the splits. So when it was time to do the splits LeAnn would always ask me to play a funeral dirge—just a slow piece of music appropriate for stretching to. One day I decided that, for a joke, I would learn a real funeral dirge to play the next time she asked for one. Of course it had to be very recognizable as a funeral piece, so I chose Chopin’s Marche Funèbre, Op. 35 (the one they use in cartoons a lot). It took me a few weeks to work it up, and by the time I was ready LeAnn went through a non-stretching spell, so I had to bide my time for a while.

Finally, one day she instructed the students to do the splits; she turned to me and said, “Loralee, a funeral dirge.” I was ready. The class was standing in fifth position, ready to go; LeAnn set the tempo, “Port de bras, one; two...” And I began playing the funeral march. I hadn’t even finished the first measure when LeAnn started laughing—I mean really laughing; and the more I played the more she laughed. She laughed so hard that the little girls who were on the floor in the splits started laughing too. She laughed so hard that she had to go sit down on her chair at the front of the class; and then she laughed so hard that she fell off the chair! Even better was when she had the next class do the same exercise and I played the same piece. The result was almost the same—except that this time she didn’t fall off of her chair. My joke was a tremendous success! And I still laugh when I think of it!

Another story:

In September of 1985, soon after I graduated from high school, I performed a solo piano recital. My teacher, Cheryl, suggested that I should do one and so we spent most of the year preparing for it. (I don't know why I agreed to do it; I always froze up when I played in recitals.) Anyway, I learned and memorized four pieces of music: part of a suite by Handel (five short pieces); Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique, Op. 1; Polichinelle by Rachmaninoff, and the Overture to Guarany by Carlos Gomes, a Brasilian composer (that one I learned for my mom). I practiced these pieces for at least three hours a day; I could play any of them flawlessly. I loved playing and I'd frequently stop at any place there was a piano—the mall, the church, friends' houses, etc, and play one or more of my songs—all from memory and all perfectly. Unfortunately in our preparations Cheryl and I didn’t factor in nerves. I could play all day knowing that people just happened to be able to hear me; but to have an audience there just specifically to listen to me was another story. So the actual recital didn’t go as well as we'd hoped it would.

I was nervous to begin with, and then a short way into the first piece I made a mistake. So I got even more nervous and things just snowballed from there; I made mistake after mistake and even forgot small passages. The audience (mostly family and friends) loved it anyway and told me how great it was. I thought they were just being very nice to me. We had tape-recorded the recital, but I didn’t want to hear all my horrendous mistakes, and just put the tape away. It wasn’t until about a year later that I actually listened to that recital. And you know, it wasn’t really so bad—in fact, it was really good! I definitely did not play as well as I could have, but it wasn’t nearly as horrible as I had thought either.

Anyway I was in my mom’s house listening to that tape on a summer day when my brother Gregory came over. He heard the music through the window as he came up to the house and he called to me, “Don’t you wish you played that well?” I was surprised! I told him that it was me playing and he said, “Oh, sure!” All right; OK, I was pretty naïve. I really believed that he didn't realize that it was a tape of me playing the piano. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he did know; but it was still a nice compliment.

Well, I have one more really good piano story to tell, but this is already a really long blog so you'll just have to wait in breathless anticipation until I tell it to you. I'm sure you are on the edge of your seats, but you will just have to wait!

When I was little...

This is actually a paper that I wrote my senior year in high-school. Let me explain that it is a little tongue-in-cheek; I was supposed to be writing an autobiography in the style of Mark Twain. I really do think my siblings are great people. Truly! Bear in mind that these are memories from when I was a very little girl--I mean, think about it, Paul and Melanie--who were six years and five years older than me--were still willing to play house with me. So the facts may not be entirely accurate. Anyway, it gives you a little look at the family I grew up in.

back row: Paul, Mark, Wendell, Peter, Gregory

front row: I am the blondie, Dad, Mom with Denise in her lap, Melanie

My parents moved to Kearns, Utah in the mid-sixties to the house where I now live. They did not ask my permission because I was not yet born, and didn't really care. I know nothing of the population of Kearns, or of Salt Lake City, or even of Utah, but before I came along the population of my family was eight (this includes my parents, my five older brothers and my older sister). So when I was born, I increased the population of my family by twelve and one-half percent.

I remember, as a child, thinking my older siblings to be the most wonderful people on earth. I don't know where I got this strange idea because, looking back, I see that it is not true. My dear brothers, Wendell and Mark (third and fourth oldest, respectively), used to find it great fun to shut me up in the basement, in the dark.

The dark basement was a wonderful place for a little child to be. It was cold, full of spiders, and I'm sure there were ghosts; their voices drifting down from the ductwork. Strange thing abut those ghosts, though: they sounded amazingly like my brothers. I can't explain this mystery, unless the ghosts were those of some long-gone relatives.

The one thing I remember most about Wendell is his arm. It seemed he always had a broken arm--always. Somehow, this talented brother of mine had been able to break the same arm, in the same place, and (I think) on the same date for three consecutive years.

Of Mark I remember little, except that when my cousin and I played house we fought over which of us got to be Mark's girlfriend. Actually Mark had plenty of girlfriends of his own (Mom called him a Casanova), and he didn't need my cousin or me to fill the position.

In the basement we had an old, upright piano. The poor thing was painted an ugly, yellowish-ivory color and it had a six-inch (or so) high mirror running across the top. Some of the keys were chipped and some were so dirty that they felt rough, and the two highest notes didn't play. On top of the piano was a brass clock with a glass case. The base of the clock was oval-shaped and was of brass as were the numbers and the works; it had a glass dome.

My brother, Gregory (the second oldest), used to sit and play the piano quite frequently. He nearly always included "The Entertainer" or "Joy" (a modernized version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring") in his repertoire. My cousin Wendy and I spent a lot of time playing spies; and Gregory was often the subject of our spying. We spied on him while he played the piano; sneaking around the basement, knocking over boxes, tripping and telling each other to be quiet. But Gregory always seemed to know when we were spying on him.

The basement was the place for playing house. It was huge and had one small couch, dozens of sleeping bags, and a washer and dryer that could all be used for furniture. Paul and Melanie (my fifth brother and older sister) used to play house with me fairly often; but we didn't call it playing house. It was "Butchie and Keiko" [say "kee-ko"--and they chose those names, not me]. Paul played Butchie, Melanie played Keiko and I played the poor, harrassed mother of these vicious children. I would pity anyone who had children as mean as they were; and no matter how naughty they were I could never punish them--they punished me! Sometimes, though, Mark would come to my rescue--he would play the dad. He kept me amused by giving outrageous orders such as, "Turn off the sun!"

Upstairs was different. There you could smell furniture polish, floor wax and baking bread. You could hear Mom speaking in Portuguese on the phone with her sister. Or you could hear soap operas, like "Dark Shadows" or "As the World Turns." You could see her watching her "novels," baking the bread or cleaning the house. Mom would ask us to help her with the housework; but, for the most part (as seems to be the case with most children), this was a hopeless cause. So we went away again, outside or to the basement, to be chased by ghosts, play spies, or play house, or whatever it was that we did. --1985