tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41989491607952394032024-03-13T21:44:59.204-07:00Musings from "OLD" ParadiseCarole Thayne Warburton's ramblings about books and pottery. Sometimes about writing. And Sometimes about life in Paradise Utah.C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-42693094537385321132023-05-11T11:10:00.000-07:002023-05-11T11:10:44.773-07:00Jumping Back into the Publishing Scene<p> Life is moving too fast! A year or two ago I met a new friend, Darren Parry. He came to one of our art festivals and in the process we ended up talking. I'd long been an admirer from afar of Darren and even had purchased and read his book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bear-River-Massacre-Shoshone-History/dp/1948218208/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1XZHSHDQW68EE&keywords=Darren+Parry&qid=1683827100&sprefix=darren+parry%2Caps%2C296&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Bear River Massacre: A Shoshone History</a> I became interested in the massacre site some 20 years ago when my husband and I stopped by to see the historical marker. I didn't know anything about it, but was dumbstruck that the monument was not to the over 400 Shoshone victims, but rather to the women of Preston who had cared for the soldiers who had killed them! When I started to research the event, I knew I wanted to write about it. But I'm not a historian, so I chose to write a modern day suspense/mystery/romance that could intertwine the history of the massacre through a fictional character Sky who is a direct descendent of Chief Sagwitch. Well, Darren is a direct descendent of Sagwitch. I asked Darren to read my already written and published book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Just-Paradise-Carole-Thayne-Warburton/dp/B0C2SG4PC1/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1683779514&sr=8-1&asin=B0C2SG4PC1&revisionId=&format=4&depth=1" target="_blank">Just Shy of Paradise</a>. To be honest, I didn't know Darren very well at the time and I was nervous about his reaction. But I had a feeling a could count on him to let me down easily if he didn't like it. :) Darren started texting me the very night I'd given it to him. "Holy Cow" is one of Darren's favorite exclamations and he'd sent that a long with the praise that if he wasn't so tired, he'd have finished it in one night--as it was it took him two. </p><p>Since that time, Darren and his wife Melody (also a good friend) have become awesome neighbors out here in Old Paradise (Avon). We have a lovely group of neighbors which include a bunch of bucking bulls--no lie--goats, sheep, horses, cats, chickens, and an assortment of wild birds in the spring. </p><p>Long story mad a little shorter. I got the rights back to my book and have recently revised it which means I made it better! Plus Darren has added an afterward to my story which adds a lot. Many thanks to Darren, but also my good friend Ashley Dymock who has the skills to make this happen from idea to published. Also thanks to Lori Nawyn for the awesome cover. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9g8jCc4DC8bMt3Y9pXCEezyaY03_fdlvYlhMuin9oTZQHZwtgRrgJx2xcgDk9yYfDNYVwlfFPAswYzXI9OFQTE5tf867TfFrULfbfGViUtNvcNk2Qz6MyavH3vhrx24ewIfUsrZhjqqTplflf6T3r6PeIDRvhLYkdeoKuZFyNj72_GnFOIBLTerD/s1782/LILY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1782" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9g8jCc4DC8bMt3Y9pXCEezyaY03_fdlvYlhMuin9oTZQHZwtgRrgJx2xcgDk9yYfDNYVwlfFPAswYzXI9OFQTE5tf867TfFrULfbfGViUtNvcNk2Qz6MyavH3vhrx24ewIfUsrZhjqqTplflf6T3r6PeIDRvhLYkdeoKuZFyNj72_GnFOIBLTerD/w400-h255/LILY.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKVF2En_fqzQbYDG5P_G6ku1RcwUhMsttwA3R8mZPRlBe_lnshfU-tRkad-OvhkexhvC8mgyNbwNUKCwjmsYNjrVjV8ZCgfozzUXCro6GK15V0M_zF5SeylHaA2VIDVEizNLcIvQYpgReP8yntxhxUE2OjNBQMbJ4Sr4tXQIG_cXQDvtIYgbgcVpL/s2666/Carole%20-%20Final%20Cover%20for%20ebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2666" data-original-width="1725" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKVF2En_fqzQbYDG5P_G6ku1RcwUhMsttwA3R8mZPRlBe_lnshfU-tRkad-OvhkexhvC8mgyNbwNUKCwjmsYNjrVjV8ZCgfozzUXCro6GK15V0M_zF5SeylHaA2VIDVEizNLcIvQYpgReP8yntxhxUE2OjNBQMbJ4Sr4tXQIG_cXQDvtIYgbgcVpL/w414-h640/Carole%20-%20Final%20Cover%20for%20ebook.jpg" width="414" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing is an important part of the story</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHHI4s9h6w4T7lSyHIF6dBlVjN9Wal_Qtkgbk32Mx7T7KrGDYL3jBtGsJ_ID3C95n0Pt-qmuHHGGlqkVAEpFtUrBF265UKAXiWeKJU5bx9l7Dl_HW9h6hUR7cdLAecXTw6ieN9wYQnonXmwXKqN5irZXyvWkMw2rHsp_20ettNKK3OrXVFiZl8ADC/s960/Cheif-Sagwitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="778" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHHI4s9h6w4T7lSyHIF6dBlVjN9Wal_Qtkgbk32Mx7T7KrGDYL3jBtGsJ_ID3C95n0Pt-qmuHHGGlqkVAEpFtUrBF265UKAXiWeKJU5bx9l7Dl_HW9h6hUR7cdLAecXTw6ieN9wYQnonXmwXKqN5irZXyvWkMw2rHsp_20ettNKK3OrXVFiZl8ADC/w324-h400/Cheif-Sagwitch.jpg" width="324" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chief Sagwitch and wife after the massacre </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievUUtYq3p3aiMNcfWt9ufZ6r7YayyeizKTl85TurqeTyCEfg6sbmqwYio9UG8v1nT286LqjVdLaSmdHdH4AVgOWf7RHLztxz2MbIYW-mkAa5M-VikKm9_vfRD9JO7DO_elDgED_y05FMITa6jwcQ4GhOnLTXLlCVqtUhba1YavTTlZBz3TEBdyD7T/s318/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="318" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievUUtYq3p3aiMNcfWt9ufZ6r7YayyeizKTl85TurqeTyCEfg6sbmqwYio9UG8v1nT286LqjVdLaSmdHdH4AVgOWf7RHLztxz2MbIYW-mkAa5M-VikKm9_vfRD9JO7DO_elDgED_y05FMITa6jwcQ4GhOnLTXLlCVqtUhba1YavTTlZBz3TEBdyD7T/s1600/download.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoshone Author, storyteller, and historian<br />Darren Parry</td></tr></tbody></table><br />C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-13265099060397347452019-11-03T13:39:00.002-08:002019-11-03T19:53:02.771-08:0040 Years Later<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It came as an impression in the still of the night<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A vision so real it gave me a fright.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I looked across the prairie as far as I could see<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">A group of men came walking to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">They moved forward with determined stride<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Until they stood by my side<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Four stalwart beings, immortal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">First, my father with his eternal grin<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, How I wished I could emulate him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Standing next to him was a man tall and strong<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Who fathered a woman and taught her of life,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The lovely lady I took for a wife.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The prophet Joseph was also there.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">He who had restored the truth through solemn prayer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">None of these had spoken a word;<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">They waited for the last to be heard.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">We've come for you, the Savior said.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">But I'm not ready to go, I solemnly plead.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I've not finished my task or prepared the way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Would you please come back another day?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When they'll be back I do not know.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">By then I pledge I'll be ready to go.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Stanley J. Thayne<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s been 40 years since my dad passed away. I don’t remember how many years before he died that he wrote this poem. But I do remember that he shared, if not the poem, the negotiation he’d had with God. At the time he wrote it, none of his children were married, at least one was on a mission—probably my third oldest brother with one brother left to go. There were many things I know my dad was most concerned about and they all revolved around the welfare of my mom and his kids. He'd wanted to make sure mom was taken care of financially. They’d even picked out a car together that was for her to use after he passed. It was the car she drove to California on her mission. Dad didn’t buy new cars often, but with her input, he did buy one last car. It was one of the final things he did to be “ready to go.” I can imagine that his list for being ready included spiritual things as well as relationships, but was most likely practical and responsible.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">House paid for—check</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Solid investment plan—check</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Properties in wife’s name—check</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">See all sons go and return honorably from LDS missions—check</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">(And this was the biggest concern and at the time of writing the poem, he hadn’t seen any of his children married in the temple)</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">See all five children married in the temple—check<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Last buy not least, have a reliable car for Jeanne—check</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The relationship with my dad was not an easy one. We argued about a lot of little things and some big things. He believed he was always right, and being young, I knew I was. I believed intellectually he was proud of me, but he was a tough sell. He wanted his ducks in a row and wanted the ducks to look and act the way he believed they should: responsible, faithfully adhering to “gospel principles,” political (as in voting and studying issues and politicians when we turned 18), getting good grades in school, and especially in being good citizens. He was harder on my brothers than he was on me, partly because they got into trouble more than I did, but also because he had a soft heart when it came to his youngest and only daughter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A product of his time, he believed men should be strong caretakers—and he was. He had a tough exterior, but when he cracked we saw that soft side, he was a marshmallow. He loved easily and completely.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">His emotions were often near the surface. He was quick to anger, quick to laugh and especially to joke, quick to compliment, and quick to correct, but he was also easily drawn to show his tender side. His voice cracked easily and though he didn’t cry often, it wasn’t completely uncommon to see his tears. He cried when he talked about the people he loved. He was fiercely protective of Mom. We were not allowed to disrespect her and we were required to “help out” with things around the home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom on the other hand wasn’t hard on us at all, though her strong Scandinavian heritage meant she was introverted, and never publicly cried even in the home at least where we’d see her. In fact, her nickname in Glendive, Montana was Toughie. I remember well the fringed leather jacket she had that had Toughie engraved on the large wooden buttons.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As kids though we didn’t have to work hard to win her approval. It was just always there, even for brothers who threw snowballs at passing cars, shot illegal fireworks, threw rocks at and broke the Scera Theatre sign and well ok, I could go on, but you get the picture. But even with me, the only daughter, who started my bedroom carpet on fire, hid puppies and kittens in her room and often climbed into bed with them without warning when I was scared. Even with all that, Mom was and still is all mercy. I don’t need to imagine the negotiating that went on behind closed doors because my bedroom was right next to theirs and I remember hearing Mom calm Dad down. Once Dad had found cigarettes in a car after one of my brothers had been out with friends. Somehow she was able to convince Dad that he was just a kid and just fine. Everything would be all right. Or course Mom was right. We all turned out to be fine in all the ways Dad had wanted.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">With Dad’s health he had a lot of ups and downs. Mostly downs. It wasn’t just the cancer that after 9 years of battling took his life, it was other things too. I remember Dad crawling on his hands and knees into the house from the car after Mom had, had to go and get him from work. He wasn’t crawling because he was drunk, though that’s what it looked like, he was crawling because of Meniere’s disease, an inner ear disorder. And again since my room was next to theirs, I'd heard his throwing up with the dizzy spells that completely incapacitated him. I remember barely bumping his bed when talking to him and he’d had to hold onto it because the whole room started spinning. Later after a chemo treatment, the routine would be similar but for different reasons. I was in Junior High when Dad was diagnosed with cancer and 22 when he died.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I had a dream once. I was around 18 when I’d had the dream. Dad and I were reaching out for each other, but there was a huge gulf between us. I couldn’t reach him and he couldn’t reach me. He was trying to save me from something that was pulling me into the abyss but he couldn’t. And I couldn’t get to his side of the gulf. I woke up in a panic and knew that it was up to me to breech the divide. Even though my heart broke for him with his health, his stubbornness and my stubbornness was an obstacle, the great divide between us. If we didn’t agree on something, neither of us would give in. I don’t remember what we’d argue about, we just did. Stubborn pride. Silly, but it was true.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">In the few couple of years after that dream, I would leave Orem, Utah to live in Logan and attend school at USU. Dad approved of USU since that’s where he’d gotten his education and after WW2 was where he’d met his bride. Although, he’d never pushed me to go there, he was supportive and helped with tuition and books. I knew he was proud that I too had chosen to be an Aggie.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When I took my fiancé home in late February of 1979, Dad had been able to see most of his desires come true. He’d seen each son serve an honorable mission. He’d seen each son marry. There was only one child left. When I introduced Mick to him, Dad was sick in bed. Still, he thought Mick was pretty wonderful and he apologized to me for not being the best Dad. I knew what he meant, but I also knew it wasn’t true. He had been the best kind of Dad that he could have been and he was there for me in all the ways that mattered. From him I’d inherited my work ethic, my desire to improve the world, my love of nature and animals, my sense of humor, my passion for education, determination and most importantly the ability to think critically. But he’d also passed on his stubborn pride, his quick temper, and his opinionated personality and the inability to accept being wrong. After that visit Dad rallied again. He was present and acted as a witness at our marriage in the Logan Temple. That was the last check off. He was ready to go. Though, he’d been the picture of health, at least by all appearances the day we married, he deteriorated pretty rapidly afterward and passed away just over six months later on Nov 2nd of 1979.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">So 40 years later, I realize I’ve continued to mend the gulf that was part of my growing up years. When I hear how some parents are, rulers in their homes, I’m glad that my Dad argued with me. It meant he didn’t tiptoe around me and I didn’t tiptoe around him. We said what we thought. He also never laid a hand on me. And never used any harsh punishments with me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Now I feel my Dad in nearly everything I do. I’ve thought about him when I’m working in my pottery studio and remember his pride in the first pots I’d brought home in high school. I’ve thought about him through all the years sitting in church meetings and remembering his church leadership, and then in deciding not to believe in the same way Dad did even though his faith is still ever-present and a guide in my life. I have felt him especially around our family cabin near Yellowstone, on the rivers, and on the trails where so much of the good parts of our relationship was formed. I’ve felt his presence at the birth of my children and grandchildren and all the milestones in their lives. And I’ve felt him as I sat by our mother while she recovered from an extra bad bout with pneumonia. Dad was only around physically for the first 22 years of my life and now I just have memories. But I have an inkling of his pride in the marvelous progeny and in the continued heritage we share. Thanks Dad. I’m pretty sure I never actually said I love you, but I do. Now you know. Thanks for your guiding, strong and loving hands in my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<br />C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-31752045657539342212017-12-23T16:28:00.001-08:002017-12-24T07:35:09.001-08:00Casting Bread at Christmas Time<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I've always wanted to be one of those people who stepped up to pay for someone’s groceries or bill at a restaurant. Especially after over ten years ago, someone was that person for us. We’d had a nice meal in a restaurant—four of us. Dinner was on us because we were paying the other couple back for something they’d done for us. As always then there was more month at the end of the money, so when we went up to pay the bill and the cashier told us it was already paid, it really made our day. And gave me something extra to be grateful for. Since then I’ve wanted to do that, but never have, at least in quite that way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Sure I’ve paid a quarter here and there for someone who was short a bit at the store. I give to some charities. I believe in being as generous as you can, whenever you can and wherever you can. I believe it may have been C.S. Lewis who said that if what you give isn’t hard for you, then you aren’t giving enough. Something about if it doesn’t crimp your lifestyle, then give more. I can’t say I do that. I think most of us, me included, try to not let our giving get in the way of our living.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">That said, I had the opportunity to be one of those people that I’ve always wanted to be. I was standing in a shopping line at our local ShopKo. I had some gifts for the Angel Tree that I was buying. It’s something we’ve always tried to do, or if the year was tight, we’d at least buy a toy for Toys or Tots. The woman in front of me, had only one item, a Moana DVD. It seemed to be a gift that she was buying for someone else. The price was more than she’d expected and she opened her purse and realized that she didn’t have enough. She told the clerk to hold it for her and that she would come back later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I had only a second to decide before she would have been on her way. “Put it on mine.”I'd said. She looked at me and said, “No, you can’t do that.” We argued a bit, but I convinced her that it was my day to do something nice for other people. After she agreed, she gave me a big hug. It was a little thing. But It meant a lot to her, but probably even more to me. I got to have that Christmasy feeling and it cost me all of $20.00.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">So here’s the most interesting part of the story. You know that scripture in Ecclesiastes that says, “Cast your bread upon the waters. For thou shalt find it after many days.” So usually we take that idea in general, kind of like Karma. But in this case it wasn’t in generalities, it was quite literal that my 20.00 would come back to me. So a very long time ago, like over 20 years ago, I was selling some of my pottery. Most, if not all, of anyone who would possibly have read this far, knows that I make and sell pottery. Anyway all those years ago, a shopper wanted something she couldn’t afford at the time because they hadn’t been paid yet or whatever. I told her she could pay me later, and quipped that I believe in the 90 days same as cash theory. This was in another town and even in another state, so I left her a card with my address. And she knew how to get in touch with me if she lost it. Well, needless to say, she never paid me. I sent a reminder after a few months and then just let it drop. For years after I wondered why she never paid me. It usually takes me a long time to forget that someone owes me money, even if it’s 5.00. But eventually I had pretty much forgotten about it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So imagine, my surprise, actually shock, when a few days after the ShopKo incident, the shopper sent me a letter with a $20.00 bill and an apology for not paying me. Of course, it made me grin from ear to ear. Never have I so quickly had Karma so quickly pay me back in the exact amount I had given.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span><br />
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-28232565070663903412017-11-09T10:33:00.000-08:002017-11-09T10:45:11.796-08:00Hooked on Hiking<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandchild in the gray hoodie was carried in a back pack by my son or his wife 10 years ago. This year, the little guy on his mom's knee hiked part way and was carried in the back pack. 4 grandkids and they all made it to the top!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Many of my friends and family know the story behind my annual birthday hike, but for me the reason goes to something so deep inside of me, that even as a writer it's hard for me to put it into words. Ever since the very first major hike as a five-year-old I've been hooked on hiking. That year, I joined the family (and thousands of others) for what was once an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Timpanogos">Annual Timp Hike</a> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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that happened every July beginning in 1911 until 1970. The annual one-day event had thousands of people hiking the same day. Eventually it was discontinued because of environmental damage, but of course it remains one of the most popular trails. My mother said she and I didn't go all the way when I was 5. It's about 14 miles round-trip, but I know we went high enough to see so much. People called me a mountain goat. I don't remember a lot of compliments from that age, but that one took and I beamed with pride. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> As a 5 year old, I remember crossing a snowfield that I felt like if I slipped it would be the end of me. Still, I loved it. Never forgot it and longed to hike from then on. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panoramic view of the summit of Mt. Timpanogas. Me, along with two friends slept in the little hut at the top on the night of July 4th--around 1975 </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's no wonder that the year I was turning 38 and felt sad and depressed, the thing I wanted to do the most on my birthday was hike. That year it was just me and one other friend and we did the Jardine Juniper trail in Logan Canyon. The annual birthday hike was born. I couldn't think of a better way to lift my spirits, than to spend time in the mountains, with people I love, and getting high on all of it, the goodness, the beauty, the fresh air, the friendships, and the awe. Rather than the hopelessness that yet another year had passed and I was closer to the finish line--death--if you haven't figured that out. I really do love my life, but sometimes a reminder now and again of how much I have to be grateful for is needed. If I'm not careful, it's not hard for me to be engulfed by all of the horrible stuff in the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The year I turned 50, we hiked Jardine Juniper again. This time, I had my husband, two children, my son's wife and their first born, and a good number of friends. The first grandchild was only one and he was carried in a backpack by his parents. This time--ten years later--I chose to do <a href="https://www.hikingproject.com/trail/7012425/mount-naomi">Mount Naomi </a>in Cache Valley. To me, if I can still hike to the highest peak in Cache Valley look out over the vast valleys below, that gives me a lot of hope for the future. And the truth is, I'm healthier than I was the last time I did the hike. I've had a lot of health issues in my life (still do) but I feel better at 60 than I did at 50. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of my very favorite things about this hike was that my daughter came from NYC to do it. My son and his wife arranged to take off from their busy life. My four adorable grandkids came, and all made it to the top in very frigid weather. I hope hiking does for them what it did for me when I was their age. I doubt the six-year-old will ever forget how even though he was miserable and cold, he still made it to the top. He may even remember how a French Canadian couple (total strangers) took off hats and gloves to lend him for the trip down. I had friends come, some who have been my friends for close to twenty-five years and some whom I'd only met within the last few years. The oldest person who hiked to the top was my husband at 64. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once in a while on hikes, I come across people who are in their 80's and still doing some pretty arduous hikes. I hope to be one of those people. I have a feeling that they are healthier and happier than their peers who are home in their rocking chairs. Here's to life!</span></div>
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<br />C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-42259209927149331772017-09-24T12:39:00.002-07:002017-09-24T12:39:48.368-07:00Thoughts on Facing Fears<span style="font-size: large;">Within four months this summer, I traveled twice to Italy with my husband. The first time was with a tour group. And the second time was for my nephew's wedding and celebration. Traveling this much is very unusual for us and probably won't happen again in quite the same way in our lifetime. The best thing about it was that it helped me to overcome some fears that I have and don't confront on a regular basis. Here are some of those in no particular order: 1. Fear of being lost or left behind alone 2. Fear of asking for directions, especially in another language. 3. Fear of dying in a plane crash or other means of travel (well ok, aren't we all?) 4. Fear of social interaction. 5. Fear of being trapped. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">1. I still remember what it was like when I was lost. I was four years old and our family was in California. We were at Marine Land, which is like SeaWorld. I was peering into an aquarium watching fish swim. When I turned around I realized that my entire family had left me. I panicked. My family was no where to be seen and I had no idea where they had gone or how to find them. I don't know if I cried. I can't remember. What I do remember is that a man asked me if I was lost. I said I was and he took to someone behind closed glass (much like the aquarium) with someone who had a microphone. An announcement was made. My mother came and got me and led me to where the rest of the family sat in bleachers watching a sea life show. The disconcerting thing to me, even to this day, is no one had noticed that I was missing. I was the youngest with four older brothers and my absence wasn't noted until it was announced over the intercom. And when I returned, no one acknowledged that I had even been gone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Many years later, I would attend USU for months at a time before returning home to Orem for a visit. I would enter the house and sit down in the family room. An older sibling might enter the room and say something like, "oh how long have you been here?" Again, it seemed to me that my place in the family was just like when I was four--kind of unnoticed. I'm sure it wasn't quite the way it seemed. I came from a good family, but the truth is that I felt lost. I felt unneeded and even though good sense told me, I was wanted (after all I was the only girl and my mother had told me she rejoiced along with the whole neighborhood when I was born), it didn't really seem that way with four older brothers who overshadowed me. What I did learn though was how to stick up for myself, have strong opinions, take care of myself in all situations, and don't rely on anyone to rescue me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't have a good sense of direction in spite of the fact that my dad's sense of direction was so keen that he could tell when my mom made a wrong turn in the car even while he was lying on the back seat with his eyes closed, sick from an illness that made him very dizzy and nauseated. Once as a young adult I drove completely the wrong direction in Denver and instead of ending up in Golden where my aunt lived, ended up at Lowry Army base. I've gotten lost so many time coming out of the bathroom in a building and turning the wrong way, I've lost count. Sometimes I wonder if my fear of getting lost, makes it worse. Google helps a lot. Except when it doesn't. You know what I mean. I could and have keep my fear of doing things, but then I would miss out on seeing so much of the world. And my track rate of eventually finding my way is 100%. Pretty good odds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2. Fear of asking directions. I know this is usually attributed to men. And my husband must have this same problem too, because we will often go the wrong way or get on the wrong bus etc. rather than ask someone for directions. I have no traumatic childhood memory to attribute this to. I think it comes from my general introverted personality. Asking anything is difficult for me--which most people who know me will have a hard time believing, because I can SEEM bold, sometimes brash, and as a former bishop said, "brutally honest." It's all a front for my fear of speaking up and out. So in Italy when it was either stay where we were, which is no where that we were supposed to be, I finally went up to a bus driver and asked him in English how to get somewhere. He didn't understand English, but understood that we needed help. This was in Rome, where I hear this is unusual, but he got out of his bus and walked us to where we needed to go to catch the right bus. If it hadn't been for my going against my fear, we might never have found the Airbnb we were staying at before we met up with the tour group. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3. Fear of dying in a crash of some kind. The truth is that I have less fear of flying than I do of car travel, which makes sense because it is safer, but the odds of surviving a plane crash verses a car crash are much less. So going up, up, up, only means you would go down, down, down into either land or ocean--either not so good. And the little life vest to blow into in case of a water crash is not in the least comforting. Once when we were on a plane, the plane hit a flock of birds and an engine went out. When it happened, I swore out loud, so I actually know what my last words would have been or would be if such a thing were to happen and they wouldn't make my mother proud. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">4. Fear of social interaction: For all the teachers who got after me, which were many, for talking too much--I know you won't believe this, but I'm fearful of talking, but it's talking to strangers and not friends. IN fifth grade my teacher promised me a soda pop in the teacher's lounge if I could go the rest of the day without talking. The idea was so exciting to me that I put a piece of masking tape over my mouth, so I would feel it if I started to talk. Guess what, after school I was sharing bottled orange soda with this teacher. One of my best school memories. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When you are traveling and interacting on a tour, or at wedding celebrations, talking and socializing with strangers is a big part of things. I would much rather disappear and watch people rather than talk to them. Sometimes that's ok, but often interacting is required of social beings. Sometimes, I just pretend that I'm not afraid and start talking and listening. It really is a great way to find that people are people and friends can be found all over the world. I admire my daughter and daughter-in-law because they can strike up a conversation with anyone, even my friends, and find out more in minutes than I know with people I have know for many years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">5. Fear of being trapped or claustrophobia and fear of the dark: This sometimes is a big deal and sometimes not such a big deal, but over the years it has caused me some distress. See, when I was a really little girl, sorry brothers, I'm going to throw you under the bus once again, my brothers (but mostly one brother) would put me in a dark hallway shut all the doors and pinch me and tell me rats were getting me. I think I was three years old. My fear was not so much rats, but not being able to get away, or out, when bad things are happening. So later in the Art Barn at USU (pottery department) a guy closed the door and held it when I went into a very tiny room with no windows to get some glaze materials. I'm sure he had no idea why I started screaming when I couldn't get out. All those rats or other bad things that happen in the dark came back to me and I didn't cope too well. While in Italy, in Vols em Schlern, Mick and I hiked up at night, with only the flashlight of our iphones to the top of a hill that overlooked a charming town. I wasn't trapped, but it was dark and there were unknowns, like goats, fences, and enormous milk cows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Recently, I just turned 60. And now I've added a few fears and managed to overcome a few more. I'm hoping that fear will never keep me from stepping forward into the unknown. You never know when you may make a friend, discover a new place, maybe even the best place in your life, or find a serendipitous adventure. Or find strengths you didn't know you had. </span>C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-26434975242038267122017-07-16T21:25:00.001-07:002017-07-16T21:26:59.950-07:00The Power of Art <span style="font-size: large;">My mother is in her late 80's. She has always enjoyed the art pieces that she that used to decorate her home and now adorn the walls at her small assisted living apartment. The white walls are covered with art collected from her early days of marriage to more recent pieces, but mostly it's art my brother, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Brian-Thayne-Studio-197736450343271/">Brian Thayne</a> has painted as he is a professional artist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just like many in their declining years, she is very forgetful. As she often says from the forehead down she is doing very well. She can seldom tell you what she did the day before and often the hour before. She remains though the lovely person she has always been, content, cheerful, intelligent, and grateful. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A few months ago, my brother was a part of a large art show at Zion's Bank in Provo. This is a huge affair with 4 floors of art and lots of amazing food that servers offer to you every few minutes. I Well at the art show, she fell in love with a painting that was next to my brother's work. This is it. It's by <a href="http://jeremywinborg.com/">Jeremy Winborg</a> from Cache Valley. </span><br />
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My mother honestly couldn't stop staring at the painting. We walked slowly from floor to floor. Mom talked to many of the artists and told them what she liked about their work. She has a great eye for composition and knows what she likes. But when she made it back to where this painting was hanging she told me she wanted to talk to the artist. He was usually talking to someone, but when he was free, I told him how much my mother loved his work and especially this painting and that she wanted to talk to him. He said she'd already told him. See she'd forgotten that she'd already talked to him, but he was gracious and told her he'd love to sell it to her, but that it was already sold. Besides it was large, an original and very expensive. So I talked to Jeremy and he gave me his card and said that he can do a print of any of his work. These days artists don't have to do a huge run of say 500 prints like they used to have to do. They can do one at a time. I contacted Jeremy and had him do a small print for Mom. When I went to pick it up from Jeremy's studio, he said, "I hope your mother enjoys it." I told him, that I was sure my mother would not remember the painting, but that she would fall in love with it all over again. I knew that if she loved it once, she'd love it the second time she saw it. </div>
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But boy was I wrong. The print of the painting was given to my mom at our family reunion as a gift from me and my brothers. When she opened it, she immediately got tears in her eyes. She could hardly talk at first until she recovered, but then she said something like, "I saw this at the Zion's Art Show, but didn't know that I could have a print of it. The reason I love this so much is her eyes. She's looking forward at the future. It doesn't matter what your background is," at this she pointed at the background. "It doesn't matter what your past is, but it's where you're looking. It's about the future. I don't know what the name of the painting is, but I'll call it ''future." </div>
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Somehow this beautiful painting reached through the cloudiness of mom's mind and embedded itself there. And a month later, she remembered every bit of the painting. She remembered the "native flower girl's" eyes. She remembered how the painting made her feel. She remembered where she'd seen it and hadn't forgotten it. Not a bit. That is the power of art. </div>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-208734859282824182017-07-09T11:02:00.000-07:002017-07-09T21:47:54.542-07:00It's Been One Year Since You Left Us<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Judi, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It's been one year since you left us. I'm sad today. It was a hot day like this one that I got word of your passing. I was in Brooklyn, NY as you slipped away, back in Cache Valley, Utah. Nearly everyone who was most important to you had been to the hospital to bid you farewell, except for me. I'm hoping as you were in and out of consciousness, you heard my farewell as told to your son on the phone, of my love and all my best as you passed on. But I wasn't there with you and that still breaks my heart. So today, I once again reflect on you and the friendship you so generously shared with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In my lifetime, I've lost some really important people to me: my dad, both sets of grandparents, my husband's parents, uncles, aunts, neighbors, and some friends. But I've never lost a friend like you. I've never mourned a loss quite like this one. You knew my heart. That we shared our discouragements and joys with each other is something I will always treasure. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I imagine if you had been here this last year, here are some of the things we would have discussed. We would have been shocked and dismayed at the president who was elected for the US. We could have spent hours wondering what would become of our country. We would have talked about our health issues. I loved how you understood that being well and feeling good is all relative when you have chronic pain. Though my suffering was and is a drop in the bucket in comparison to yours, you still got me. We would have talked about our grandchildren and children and swapped stories. We would have discussed how the LDS church still has a long way to go when it comes to treating our LGBTQ friends, sisters, and brothers the way we believed they deserve and should be treated. This Spring we would have watched the new colts out your window. We would have discussed the box elder bugs and how they aren't quite as bad this year as they were last--at least not yet. You would have loved to hear about our trip to Italy, as I would have condensed it down to the highlights. I'm sure you would have thought of some new quilt designs and made a few more. And I would have loved seeing them. I would have continued to water your plants each Sunday. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Judi's plants I watered each week. I put it on my table today in her honor </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the best part, the thing that you would have loved the very most. The thing that would have brought you so much joy was to see your son get married to the love of his life. You so worried about leaving your oldest, your single son. You so wanted for him all the joys that come from finding that person to share life's journey. Your youngest son had that. You would have loved seeing how he and his family supported in every way possible, as your oldest started his new life. I hope you were there. I don't know what is beyond this life, not for sure. But now you do. And this is something I know about you. You would have been there if there is any way. And knowing you, you'd find a way. So you could see your granddaughters and grandsons dressed in their best, matching attire.To see friends and family come together to support your son and marriage in true equality. To meet your son-in-law and welcome him to the family. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with Judi's son on his wedding day</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You would do anything to listen to vows exchanged with the sound of the Logan River and birdsong in the background, to see the Swallowtail butterfly dance in the sun highlighting the love in the faces of your son and his partner as the Buddhist Bhikkhu joined them in marriage. You'd love the beautiful cake with a silhouette scene of Rio and Salt Lack City in honor of each and seeing them cut the cake, sharing in the happiness. For your son it was a dream come true, but it also was for you. It was just what you wanted for your family--united in ways that wouldn't have been possible not too long ago. This is a year that some wonderful things happened for your family. Maybe you had something to do with that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So today, I remember you Judi. I miss you. I will always miss you. You made a safe place for me to talk and share and no one listened quite the way you did. God speed dear friend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Love, Carole</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-30779088230879877152017-06-16T22:32:00.003-07:002017-06-16T22:32:57.383-07:00Some Summerfest StoriesEvery summer for the past 25 years or so, I've participated in Summerfest Art Festival which is held in Logan, most of those years on the beautiful grounds of the LDS Tabernacle in the center of town. I suspect that I have hundred of my creations in kitchen cupboards, on tables, and displayed in homes all over town, and beyond. I hear stories about my pottery every year from returning customers, but tonight I heard one that really broke my heart.<br />
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My husband was watching my booth for me while I took a break. When I got back, a woman was buying a platter that had only been on display for an hour or two. As I wrapped up the sale, I learned that the younger woman was buying the platter for her friend, who was of my generation. That woman said she and her husband visited my booth every year and that my pottery is all over their house. She said her husband bought her a new piece every year. I nodded thinking that was very sweet and flattering. Then she said, this is our first year without him. It took me a few seconds to figure out what was happening. I looked at her again and saw that she had tears in her eyes. I said, did your husband pass away. She said he had. Now her friend bought her a piece of pottery because her husband wasn't there to do it.<br />
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This was quite a contrast from a story another woman told me years ago. She came by my booth and wanted me to know that when she and her husband had divorced that year, they had fought over two things, the dog, and a vase that I had made. The vase had a lizard on it and I remember it well.<br />
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One of my favorite things about making pottery is meeting the people who love my work. I've had people tell me that at the time of their mother's passing, they each got to choose my pottery. Whether it's to celebrate love or to end love, or at the end of life, it's gratifying to find that my pottery is a part of the story.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is very similar to the platter </td></tr>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-86442020454169666992017-05-14T12:59:00.000-07:002017-05-15T10:47:36.972-07:00Happy Mother's Day to my MOM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother never yelled at me. Seriously—never. She didn’t spank me either. It just wasn’t in her nature to yell or spank. Dad, well he shouted once in a while. Where Mom was the calm, Dad was the storm. It was the way they balanced each other. Our house was the place that we could throw all the cushions on the floor and play the ground is poison. It’s the house, where we could climb trees, paint murals on the utility room walls, make popsicles, and play basketball in the driveway. We made hideouts in the garage attic, the doghouse, and in the storage room. We slid down the stairs on pieces of cardboard and climbed through the laundry shoot. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The greatest gift my mother gave me was the freedom to be myself. After four boys, I was her long awaited daughter. I’m sure she had hoped for a frilly bundle of feminine joy, but instead she got a creative, fun-loving tomboy. I wore jeans to school before they were allowed. I resisted rules and pushed the limits. In a time period and place when girls were expected to follow I pushed ahead. When girls were expected to be quiet, I talked. When girls were expected to agree, I argued. I saw the world as inherently unjust and asked a lot of questions. I was never discouraged from doing something because it wasn’t ladylike. At least not by my mom. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The world teaches girls early on what is and isn’t acceptable. I don’t think I knew there was a difference between me and my brothers until I was about four. I wanted to play outside without my shirt on, like my brothers did, or at least have it unbuttoned and my mom said I couldn’t because I was a girl. That didn’t make sense to me. From then on, more and more wouldn’t make sense to me. Others let me know that I should be quiet, that I should be feminine, that I shouldn’t be “bossy,” that I should let the boys lead or win at sports (seriously that was taught) but it wasn’t my mom. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Today I’m feeling grateful that in a time where it could have been very different, I was encouraged to just be me. Because being me is all I ever wanted to be.</span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Addendum: So after I wrote this post I went to a Mother's Day dinner at my brother's house. My mom is in her late 80's and is getting quite forgetful, but she told this simple story about her own mother. My mother grew up in a small town in Eastern Montana. She said that her mother was different than all the other mothers in the neighborhood. Her mother never said "shoo!" Whenever the kids went into a house to play, they were shooed outdoors. The moms in the neighborhood didn't want to be bothered with noisy children. She said her mother welcomed the kids and even fed them. I said, I grew up with a mother just like that. And she said, you grew up with a mother who loved being a mother. I did. It made all the difference. Thanks MOM! </span></span></div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-9506911434398332932017-02-15T11:37:00.001-08:002017-02-15T20:46:54.464-08:00From an Non-professional on Self-Care <div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I posed a question on Facebook and asked a serious question about how to cope during this politically charged time in our nation. I got a lot of good answers and more people responded than usual, which means I’m far from the only one feeling stress. In fact, I talked to a close friend the other day and she said, she and her husband were so confident about the outcome of the election that they’d gone out to the movie only to come home and find that their teenaged daughter had, had a full-on panic attack. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Not matter where you fall on the political spectrum, there is no denying that these are polarizing times. I feel a personal responsibility to be politically active. My parents were both very engaged in the political process. I remember voting booths being set up in our living room. Dad was often a speaker at 4th of July breakfasts and after Dad's death my mother sometimes spoke. It was considered a patriotic duty to be informed. Dad watched the News, both nationally and locally like most men watch sports. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I would not be able to sleep at night—still have a hard time—if I was silent about the direction our country has turned, but what has given me hope is seeing millions of people (#resist) assemble, meet, march, speak out, attend town halls, write letters, make phone calls, and engage in the political process. To see the sleeping giant awakened can be both frightening and heartening at the same time. To see the media stand up and call the administration out on the misinformation “lies” that are being peddled by #45 and his minions is what makes this country great. No apologies to DT, this country already is great and will continue to be great as long as defenders of democracy refuse to be silent. I’m feeling more at peace when I see the national security advisor resign and NO the problem was not just the leak that Flynn had been communicating regularly with Russia, the problem is what he did and then lied about it. To hear Stephen Miller defend the president and say that he should not be questioned makes me shudder and if it doesn’t make you shudder than I would dare say that freedom of speech is not a priority. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Now back to the SELF-CARE which is what this post was supposed to be about. I’m both luck and unlucky in that my time is my own. I am self-employed and have no children at home. I love this chapter of my life, but it also allows for a lot of ruminating, worrying, brooding, and so on. I know many friends who are really too busy to worry. For me keeping to a schedule is helpful. I like to start my mornings with a long hot bath infused with epsom salts and essential oils. I know that’s relaxing and many would argue with that, but I have fibromyalgia and wake up with considerable pain and stiffness. In the tub, I read from a daily meditation guide called “The Book of Awakening” by Mark Nepo. I love this book and have gone through it several times. Then most days, I spend 15-20 minutes doing Yoga, thanks to a daughter who has kept encouraging me to do so. This also helps with the Fibromyalgia pain. On a good day, on a scheduled day I might spend a few hours making pottery, then sometimes meet friends for lunch or book club or whatever else I have going on. Often my husband and I will go for a hike or at the least a daily walk. I try to keep all this up even though now I’m also consumed by news 24-7. Spend time daily posting political articles, and writing emails to government leaders. And because I have a phone phobia and my husband would rather call than write, I sometimes dial the phone and hand it to my him. We make a good team that way. I’ve teased my husband that he is a closet liberal, but this season that closet door has swung open and he has stepped up and out. It would be extra challenging to our marriage if we were not on the same page politically. Our love for each other would be strained if he and I didn’t share many common values and beliefs. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From one of our recent hikes in Logan Canyon</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I made a list of some of the great ideas that came from my Facebook friends on Self-preservation. 1. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">Scheduling lunches with like-minded friends so we don’t feel alone. 2. Setting priorities (family first.) 3. Joining secret or closed groups where you can safely vent (and plot) strategies. 4. Some people expressed the need to move from the US, hmm not sure if that’s a valid option. :) 5. Holding dear to values and truths and being mindful and balanced. 6. Reminding oneself of the good in the world, limiting news to stay informed but not immersed. (Harder for some of us who feel the need to be keeper of the flames) 7. “Let the beauty of nature soothe your fears. I believe our foundations from the constitution will save us.” Sue Cannon Spencer 8. Balance. Engagement yes, but balance with escapism. 9. Laurel said “I’ve found my tribe, changed my diet, use essential oils. I stay informed, but refuse to stay scared.” 10. Jennifer who is very politically engaged and speaks out whenever possible has changed her alarm to the Philharmonic orchestra. 11. Joy believes we are stronger together. It helps her to sleep knowing she has groups of friends who share her concerns. 12. Watch movies such as “Loving” about a mixed race couple who eventually helped change the laws of the land through the supreme court. It’s not unlike the civil rights movements of our lgbtq friends. 13. Looking forward to 2 years from now when things should change. 14. Playing tennis (or other workouts), working overtime, and unfollowing some people on Facebook. 15. Going to Baskin Robbins (or fill in the blank)</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">and getting that banana split (or whatever) you’ve been craving. 16. Sarah suggested reading the book “The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided on Politics and Religion" by Jonathan Haidt. Similar to people having different taste buds. 17. Gayle learns to forgive others their political leanings by remembering that not everyone shares her same education and experiences that helped shape hers. (This is something I try to remember also). She also engages in activism. 18.Maria</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">enjoys the humor that comedians offer while shining a bright light on important issues. Problems such as racism that have always been there are being exposed. We can do better and I think we will… 19. Recognizing our circle of influence and change. Ann thinks of one thing she can do each day as she has her morning coffee. She’s also ordered mini-constitutions and bill of rights from the ACLU to hand out to her students. 20. Some are increasing their faith and reliance in a higher power.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d like to add that I’ve been ordering my old favorites from Disney on Netflix. This might be weird, but we’ve re-watched, The Parent Trap, Pete’s Dragon, That Darn Cat, and Freaky Friday. Tonight I’m watching Pollyanna. This is such fun nostalgic escapism. So ta ta for now. I’m off to go on a walk with my favorite man, catch some Vitamin D, and listen to the black birds sing—yes they have arrived! </span></span></div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-5071953835259245132017-01-01T18:46:00.001-08:002017-01-01T18:46:56.164-08:00My Bests and Worsts of 2016The most disappointing thing about growing older is that years fly by. Remember how long the months seemed when we were growing up, waiting for Christmas, waiting until birthdays, waiting until the last day of school, waiting, waiting and waiting? Now it's a blur. Cliche, I know. I used to hear my parents say such things, but life is flying by. The same with this last year. I know there have been some overwhelming tragedies and some good things nationally and internationally. You can get those on the news stations. For me, these are my own bests and worsts of each month. I know a lot of people struggled with 2016 and some are saying that for the most part those who think it was a bad year do so because of their privilege. I acknowledge that I am privileged with a life of blessings and wonderful things that I often didn't have a lot to do with. Looking back over the year, I see an abundant life. Still, with that said. I experienced a lot of sadness too. Sometimes we are just sad, in spite of the good.<br />
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January<br />
Best: A Thayne reunion of cousins, aunts and uncles to celebrate the foresight of our parents and the many blessings we have because of them. Already there weren't many of the generation that we honored and before the year was out two more of my uncles were laid to rest. It was great to see some who I hadn't seen for many years and this time for a party instead of a funeral.<br />
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Bests: Disneyland with all of the grandkids, our son and his wife, and our daughter flew in from NYC. We could have been anywhere and it would have been fabulous, but since we hadn't been there as a family since our children were the age of the grandkids, it couldn't have gone better.<br />
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Worst: When we landed in LAX, we waited for a long time at the wrong place to be picked up by a shuttle. It was dark and coldish. The kids were running around, impatient and hungry. We all were. Then we finally figured that out, got picked up and taken to the rental place. They had no place to stand and wait, except outside--in the dark! Finally after another hour or more, we got in the rental van and made it to the hotel. What an ordeal.<br />
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March: Worst! On March 7th, I saw my friend Mary for the last time. For some years, she has been in a book club that I started in 2000. She hosted many times. She offered such grace and intelligence and in later years, her tender heart and fragility emerged. Although she had failing health, she was a bright and sensitive soul. The night after book club, we were shocked to find out she had been the victim of a murder/suicide. Her husband had been suffering from a mental illness.<br />
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Best: Mick and I took a little trip down to Capitol Reef, Goblin Valley and Little Wild Horse Canyon<br />
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April<br />
Best: Mick and I celebrated our wedding anniversary of 37 years by traveling down to Arches, Mesa Verde, and Hovenweep. I credit my dear friend Judi Berry for instilling in me the desire to see the Native American artifacts and ruins. Another best was celebrating Mick's and our son's birthdays by seeing the Tulip Gardens at Thanksgiving Point. I'm very lucky to have these two great guys in my life.<br />
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Worst: My Uncle Lew passed away. He hadn't been well for a long time so in that way it was a blessing to have him go. I loved seeing cousins and my family at the funeral. His wife, (my dad's sister) had been gone for several years.<br />
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Best: Visit from this family. Approximately 25 years ago the beautiful woman in the middle came to live with our family for her senior year and quickly became part of the family. Here she is with her lovely family. She has been through major trials and is a great example of resilience. Her daughter was killed in an accident leaving behind the littlest guy who was just a toddler at the time.<br />
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June Bests: I really love June. The art festival sand Cache Valley Gardener's Market is in full swing. The snow is melted at the cabin in Montana. We hike and hike. We have a lot of fun. Our first trip of the summer was partly with friends and party with family.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> As a person who has struggled with anxiety and depression the last few years, I like to surround myself with happy people. These are some neighbors who spent time with us. See how fun!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I love to start traditions with my grandkids. This little waterfall is just a short hike from the cabin. I've been going there since I was the age of my granddaughter.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">June Worsts: I missed walking in Salt Lake Pride. The first time in three years. It's a highlight of the summer. There were a rash of suicides in Utah. Many involving LGBT youth. His mother was a Mama Dragon (fierce protector of her LGBT son). I sat amongst my Mama Dragon friends at the funeral. Sad times. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">July Bests: Trip to New York with Daughter and DIL. We had such a great time going to shows and exploring the city. Another good thing was taking darling granddaughter to the old family cabin my grandpa built in 1960. Just the three of us. Also Mick and I had the great time at a James Taylor concert. And I got to attend a day of Sunstone conference with dear friends. So fun. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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July <b>WORST </b>This is actually the most heartbreaking of the year. One of my dearest friends passed away unexpectedly on the last day of my trip to NYC. We got the news on the 8th that she had taken a turn for the worst. She passed away the next morning. I tried to make it home in time, but missed saying good bye. This still hurts. Friends told me that she had asked for me. That I missed being there will forever bring me heartache. I miss her so much. Judi was my confidant. And I hers.<div>
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August</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-39osgragXWo/WGmGBI0EGMI/AAAAAAAAEDg/y7vquse2Ab0HVzcX4rKCJqlWFpzdn_usACEw/s1600/DSC_1133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-39osgragXWo/WGmGBI0EGMI/AAAAAAAAEDg/y7vquse2Ab0HVzcX4rKCJqlWFpzdn_usACEw/s320/DSC_1133.jpg" width="213" /></a>Bests: Another trip to the cabin. The first part we hosted two couples who all like to hike. The best kind of friends, right? We did a fabulous hike viewing about14 lakes all in all, played games, and ate like royalty. Lee, our friend for the last decade or so, is like a stand-up comedian keeping us in non-stop laughs. The last half of the trip, we picked up our daughter in Bozeman who flew in from NYC. We've raised our kids right and she loves to hike even more than we do and is in a lot better shape than we are. Then my nephew and his fiance (now wife) came and we had a lot of fun with them also. </div>
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Another fun thing about August is Paradise Trout and Berry Days. I love selling my pottery there, talking to old friends, and eating the best trout dinner of the year. It's also a highlight of the summer. </div>
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Worst: On our trip to the cabin, we got separated from our daughter on a hike (a big no-no) And it took us hours to find each other. By that time, we had called Search and Rescue. Whether your child is 3 or 30 something, there's nothing quite like the sinking feeling when you don't know where they are, especially in very rugged grizzly bear country. </div>
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September</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My Mom with Uncle Mel (my dad's brother)<br />Worsts: My dad's only remaining sibling passed away. The end of an era. He was the glue of the entire family. I don't know how he kept track of everyone. For decades he made sure we got together for Christmas gatherings and summer parties. He sent letters and cards. He met anyone for lunch, made phone calls, and always remembered to ask about the kids. He wrote histories and made sure we knew all the good things about our father who has been gone for 37 years. Up until two weeks before Uncle Mel died, he was still swimming laps daily. He was 92. <br /><br />Another worst is Paradise lost an adorable little girl in an accident. I know her parents, grandparents, and have been good friends with her aunt for 20 years or so. It's so hard to see people you care about suffer so much with such great loss. </span></td></tr>
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Here's a group of fabulous women that I'm lucky enough to call cousins. Somehow we all ended up as like-minded good friends. Since I wasn't blessed with sisters, I'm so glad to have cousins on both sides who I would claim in a heartbeat. </div>
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The year I turned 38 (over 20 years ago) I was in my 1st mid-life crisis. I took a friend and we went for a birthday hike. I've been doing it ever since. Here's a group of friends with my on the trail to White Pine lake. Lucky me. Consider yourself invited next year. </div>
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This last picture was taken in Colorado. We had a great trip with a couple of the friends in the above photo. We hiked a lot, sat in a hot tub and played a lot of pool. It was a great trip. </div>
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October: </div>
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Bests: Logan Utah had it's first Pride Festival. I've met so many fabulous people from the LGBT community and allies. Some people don't really get why I'm involved since I don't have a gay child, but it's for selfish reasons. I enjoy being associated with fabulous people who come together to support one another.<br />
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My friend Peter invited me to Equality Utah dinner where I got to hear Gloria Steinem speak among many others. It was a fabulous night. </div>
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Worsts: My husband's Uncle Jim, the man with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a skip in his step finally slowed down at age 98 and passed away. This is my husband, brother, and cousin at his burial. Uncle Jim made friends whether he was on top of the mountain at his fire look-out post (well into his 80's) or at the ranch, or passing out his homemade cookies. </div>
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He was such a delightful man. </div>
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Another best and worst was the end of the summer Cache Valley Gardener's Market. Here I am with a couple of my favorite people on the planet, Natalie Bodrero (Wander Often) and Amy Dunn (Amaloop) if you want to follow their art. I love doing the market. It really feels me with joy. </div>
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November Worst: Donald Trump was elected president. If you don't understand why some of us are grieving because of this, then please just with hold judgment. It feels like the beginning of the end. Don't tell me it's ridiculous. Don't try to tell me that Hillary would have been just as bad. Just let my heart ache and let me feel sad. </div>
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Bests: The day after the election we drove up to the cabin in Montana and had three days of glorious sunshine and shirtsleeve hiking weather. We didn't have any news to remind us of our sorrow. </div>
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Mick and I were able to have a fabulous fun night at Mama Mia at the Eccles (though his truck broke down before he got there and he missed the first 40 minutes. </div>
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Thanksgiving: We had all of our son's family, our daughter and her bf, My niece and nephew, whom I adore--great food, great conversation, and fun games. What a beautiful day. On the down side most everyone got sick within the next few days. I'm still counting on that it had nothing to do with the food we served, since our youngest grandson was sick when he got here, but who knows for sure?</div>
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Another best and worst was our fun and short trip</div>
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December: </div>
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Bests: The Winter Gift Market at the Bullen Arts Center. It's not the best for sales, but it is so much fun hanging out with these fun folks. Life is always better when you get to sell your art and encourage other artisans to sell theirs. I also got to do another sale at Suzi Bates house the next week. She's the one in the gray who is making us laugh. </div>
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We had a dinner party pre-New Years. Lots of fun playing games, talking, eating and staying cozy and warm in the house. Our grandkids spent a few days with us and we even sledded in the yard. All in all the year ended on a great note. As I look at all the positives of this year and of course there were many that I didn't list, I have to say--it all ain't so bad thanks to my wonderful friends and family. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-30644951201102837772016-11-14T18:39:00.000-08:002016-11-14T19:41:17.677-08:00Falling Far from the Tree<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I <i>do </i>fall far from the tree. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My dad was just about as conservative as they come. His work for the state government made him subject to the Hatch Act, ineligible to display political signs on our property. He wasn't allowed to write letters to the editor, but that didn’t stop him from speaking his mind to anyone who would listen. Dad was a staunch, dyed in the wool, true to the core conservative. The Hatch Act didn’t stop him from pounding signs for his favorite candidates into other willing voters’ yards. He also wrote letters to senators and congressmen. We used to tease him that he was Orrin Hatch’s pen pal. He would proudly show us Orrin Hatch’s personal replies. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Dad was horrified when he found out my maternal grandmother was going to vote for George McGovern. I heard him try to respectfully “teach” her why she was so, so wrong. I could tell he was just about to blow, but shut his mouth and stopped so he wouldn't offend Grandma. (In this way, I am just like my father.) I too, have to shut up or stop posting or speaking before I go too far. I heard him say to my mother, “What is she possibly thinking? She said McGovern is handsome. How is that a good reason to vote for someone?” I’m pretty sure my Grandma just told my dad that to mess with him, she was after all, an intelligent woman. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I grew up hearing the term <i>liberal pinko</i> thrown around in everyday conversations. I knew Dad abhorred “kooky environmentalists," and as far as he was concerned, Robert Redford was the worst of the bunch, along with Jane Fonda. But he was offended when a neighbor brought John Birch Society material for him to read. For those who don’t know John Birch Society is an extreme right-wing organization. I remember him wondering how the guy could think he was “one of those extremists.” He didn’t like extremism in any shape or form. Dad pined for a day when Ronald Reagan would be elected president. That would have been a momentous day for him and I wish he'd seen it happen. He died two years before, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my dad influenced the outcome from the other side. At the time, I voted for Reagan, even though in retrospect that wasn’t a good idea. Under Reagan's presidency, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">because of retroactive government cutbacks, </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">my husband lost a good job that was in his field. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I really had no intention of becoming the person I am today. I was a slow convert to liberal ideas. I had once believed that being Republican was akin to being a good Mormon, practically a requirement for entrance into the Celestial Kingdom. I knew that admitting to a family member that I had started leaning Democrat would cause as much concern as if I had told them I was forming an alliance with Satan. I have to admit that the first time I checked a box for a Democrat, I felt my heart race a bit—pondering what my dad would think—and if I was indeed committing a sin. At first it was only in local elections that I dared vote for Democrats. Even though by then, my core beliefs put me solidly on the blue team. Even still, Al Gore was the first Democrat I voted for in a presidential election. When I admitted to voting for Al Gore at what had been a peaceful Thanksgiving dinner, the stuffing hit the fan so to speak. A close family member said some pretty unkind things, including that my deceased father would be livid. I had to admit, Dad would not have been happy. Though I hope that after he passed he wouldn’t have cared one wit about something as inconsequential as a person’s political leanings. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Through some tears and bites of turkey, I pointed out to the argumentative family member, that my dad had voted for Democratic candidate Yukus Inouye. I knew it for a fact because I was with Dad when he pounded wooden stakes of political signs into lawns in Utah county. When I had asked Dad why he was voting for a Democrat, he’d said, because he’s a really great guy, my friend, and the better candidate. To write this I looked up Yukus and found out that he had won in 1972 as Utah County Commissioner in a heavily Republican county. Yukus Inouye lived to be 91 and died in 2007. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, at the dinner I sobbed uncontrollably, even though several of the younger generation tried to comfort me. Eventually that family member and I could speak to each other again. We both had to learn to bridge our differences with a little civility. We also learned never to ask who the other was voting for. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">I’m almost certain that my dad would not have voted for Donald Trump, because my dad could spot a fraud. Once in high school, I came home so excited about the stories an LDS general authority Paul H. Dunn told in a huge seminary morning devotional. My dad was sitting in his home office, leaning back slightly in his solid wood swivel chair. When I got done telling Dad the fantastic war stories, he got a smirk on his face and said that they weren’t true. I couldn’t believe my dad, a bishop at the time, would call a GA of our church a liar. I’d said, how can you say that? He'd said, I’m just saying I was in the war and those things couldn’t have happened, and Paul H. Dunn is a great storyteller who stretches the truth for effect. Well, I was hurt and thought my dad was wrong to say what he did. My dad had been gone for a few years when the truth that many of Paul Dunn’s famous faith-promoting stories were nothing more than good fiction. Too bad he’d felt the need to claim they were true.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">There was another popular WW2 Veteran on a speaking circuit, telling </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">amazing tales of his POW experiences and heroism. My dad only had to hear him once to declare that the man was</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> a </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;">fraud. Years later he also was discredited. In this case, the man may have actually believed his own stories.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">My dad would have been appalled at the choices in this election. I have no illusion that he would have voted for Hillary. She is far too liberal for my dad. But he also would not have voted for Donald Trump. I’m quite certain he would have seen him as the con artist he is. Dad had strong opinions. He thought everyone should think like him, and he argued with those who didn't. But he also taught us to be politically active and to stick up for our principles. Though he might be turning in his grave to see me as the “liberal pinko” he would disapprove of, I hope he’d respect that I will speak out for beliefs, even when I’m in the minority, even when it’s hard, and even when it hurts so badly you feel like you can’t breathe. Because after all, he taught me to do that. Maybe I don’t fall as far from the tree after all. </span></span></div>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-59574241227908618872016-07-11T13:41:00.002-07:002016-07-11T13:52:10.753-07:00Tender Mercies: Sundays with Judi<div class="_1dwg _1w_m" style="padding: 12px 12px 0px;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Judi, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I got word that you had “graduated” from this life, I was walking in Brooklyn to brunch with my daughter Ginger, daughter-in-law Joanna, and our new friend Lauren. We knew that I could receive the dreaded message at anytime, since I’d heard the evening before that your time was near. So when I felt the buzz in my pocket, I immediately glanced at my phone. When I saw that the inevitable had happened, my loved ones hugged me as I let the tears flow. I agonized that I hadn’t made it home in time. We had rescheduled our flight in hopes that it would make a difference. I had so wanted to sit with you one last time, even if you wouldn’t have been aware. I needed my Judi Berry time.<br />As we began down the street again, Joanna nudged me and pointed to the name of the street sign a block away, “Berry.” Was that you? Did you let me know that you knew I needed you? Did you prompt Becky to send the text at that moment? Since the beginning of our friendship, the tender mercies have so often been there. Your character and how you’ve handled your often very difficult challenges has taught me so much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So often during my NYC week, I thought about seeing you on Sunday as had become my habit over the last couple of years. I had hoped to tell you all about the trip because I knew you would genuinely be interested in what I experienced. In April, we had taken a trip to Mesa Verde just because you had told me so much about it. When I said, I was going you brought out all your pamphlets and said that we could take them as long as we took good care of them. The stop at Hovenweep was my favorite and I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it. You’d said, on your trips you couldn’t sleep the night before you’d be so excited. Every step through Long House, even when we were crawling through a tunnel from one part of the house to the other, I thought about you doing the same thing at a healthier time. Your enthusiasm and your passions were contagious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Those rock trips, and Native American ruins trips happened before I really knew you. Before we became friends. Now instead of excitement, what kept you awake at night was pain and burning acid that didn’t even allow you to lie down. Remember that one Sunday? I looked through the window and saw you asleep at the kitchen table sitting upright in the chair. I hesitated to wake you, but gently knocked. You told me you had been awake all night except when you had fallen asleep standing at the kitchen counter. You cried when I came and said that you had been praying for someone to come to help. I told you that I would have come anyway, even without the prayer. You reminded me that I don’t come every single Sunday, that I miss a few. And then I told you that perhaps the answer to your prayer was that I’d brought my husband with me, which hardly ever happened. He shoveled all the walks while I helped with some things inside. I was glad that he got to experience what I had so often, to see you reflect on tiny miracles and tender mercies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Another tender mercy was that the day you were diagnosed with Scleroderma, I happened to be walking through the Budge Clinic picking up my contacts. I heard my name and turned to see you alone in a waiting room. You’d said, “How many auto-immune disorders does one person have to have?” You were holding the pamphlet the doctor had given you, so that you could learn about what awful stuff was in store for you. We hugged. We cried. You courageously went on, handling the best you could what was a very rotten deal. You lost your husband when you were still young. Your body took a beating as one bad thing after another knocked you down, and yet, in spite of that you always found something, a reason to keep getting up. Something to look forward to: a phone call from a son, a new colt frolicking in the field out your window, a visit from a friend, a new book to read ahead of everyone else since your friends at North Logan Library put you at the top of the waiting list, or Shawn, the Bookmobile librarian would bring your books out to your car when you honked, or especially for a day when you felt “good.” Which we both knew meant you didn’t feel quite as rotten as usual. One of the best things to happen in this last part of your life is seeing you come alive again with all the quilting you’ve done. I knew you had made quilts before, mostly humanitarian but you’d had to put that away for a while. So when things got just a little better for you and you got out your sewing machine, you sparkled with renewed passion. I loved seeing the quilts, first in colorful shapes and pieces on your kitchen table, then as patterned squares, then as a top, and finally finished. Your biggest concern had become living long enough to finish the quilts for your grandchildren, your son and his wife, and especially for your last big masterpiece for Justin. But you did it! And you still managed to make a whole bunch of quilts for people who were terminally ill. You had laughed when I told you that I never wanted one of those quilts—not if I had to die to get one. Your sense of humor was so cute. I noticed how you could laugh and tell jokes about yourself, especially to caregivers, doctors and nurses. You always said thank you when people did even the smallest thing for you. You finally learned that you had to give up a little of your independence so you could stay in your house in your beloved town of Paradise. You never took that help for granted, not one little bit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some of your friends and your family have thanked me for “being so good to you.” I said, I did things for you because I loved you, but it was so much more for me than it was for you. The truth is that it was me that needed you. Someone else could easily have done the few things I did. But the sanctuary, the refuge, that you provided for me was so much more for my benefit than it ever was for you. Remember how many times, I knocked on the door, waited for the, “come in” and then slumped into your recliner, the chair that had become “Carole’s chair.” Even your sister Linda would vacate the chair for me unless I insisted otherwise. I spent many a tearful Sunday talking about my doubts, my challenges, and my angst, mixed with my joys and triumphs. Even though we both knew that your challenges were so much greater than mine, you still empathized in ways few others could, And I knew without having to say anything that my concerns would be kept between us. You respected privacy better than most of us. I felt such safety, such acceptance and no judgement toward me—just empathy, understanding and genuine love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sundays will be hard for me. My church often was sitting with you and sharing stories, concerns and insights—sacred time. I got to witness a remarkable friendship between you and your son Justin as he would inevitably call while I was there. Your banter and discussion with him was so ordinary yet endearing. One of the last conversations I remember was when you were telling him how excited you were to find potato chips without corn oil. You had told me that Justin had found you ice cream without corn syrup. Corn and many other items did terrible things to you, so instead of dwelling on that, you became enthused when you found things you could eat. Dwelling on the positives in life was something you were so good at. I used to tease you that you would get yourself admitted to Logan Regional Hospital just because they fixed the best Salmon in town. I should know since I ate more than half of yours that one time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thank you Judi. Thanks for your courage, your heart, your gracious and generous life. Everyone needs someone like you, a Judi Berry in their life. I’m so blessed I had you in mine. You were my tender mercy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">your friend,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Carole</span></div>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-73287202028958936272016-01-11T15:22:00.000-08:002016-01-11T15:22:32.636-08:00Whiling the while with Words! <div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember when I was four or five and I discovered the magic of copying letters onto a paper to form what appeared to be words. I still didn’t understand the sounds, but understood the symbols. I was at the family cabin in Silver Gate, Montana in the upstairs loft. I carefully scrawled letters in varying word lengths and would run down the stairs to show them to my mother. She would try to read the nonsensical words and sometimes they actually were close to something. But not understanding the power of vowels, she’d inform me that some of them were nothing. Still, it was the beginnings of writing and reading. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">In 1st grade with book mark in hand, small groups of students and the teacher in a circle in the back of the room, I could read Dick and Jane books like nobody’s business. I longed to be in those books, to play with Spot, Dick, Jane and Tim. Their lives were so simple. They jumped, played ball, ran, skipped, looked—oh how they looked. Look Dick look. See Jane run. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">When I was about 6 or 7 years old, my neighbor Sharon, with her naturally blond hair the color of Marilyn Monroe’s, stood on the other side of the hedge that was between our yards. Sharon was about three years older than me, so was sophisticated in the ways of the world. When I told her I was going to the library, she said, “Be sure to get some Dr. Suess books.” When I found the Dr. Suess books on the bottom shelf of the fabulous basement Orem library—then in an old house across from the Scera theater, I was hooked by the magic of nonsensical words, some very much like the words I had first strung together years earlier, the beauty of alliteration, rhymes, and drawings that covered every inch of the page. I still believe Theordor Suess Geisel to be nothing short of genius. His capturing of deep philosophies and allegories in exquisite drawings and words has not been equaled. His powerful messages could indeed, not just captivate us, they transformed us. The world Suess created was infinitely more interesting that Dick and Jane’s world. Horton hearing who’s. And cats in hats, sneetches and green eggs! What words could be more wonderful? </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Words: We used to shout at each other on the playground: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me!” But that was a lie. I had a teacher tell us it was a lie. I remember being confused and then relieved. Confused because it had always been taught. Confused because physical hurt was definable. But emotional pain was something we buried and denied. I was relieved because I felt bad whenever someone called me a name, and now I knew that was ok.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Words: I used to hate some of the words I heard at home hurled at me by my siblings: Stupid, retarded, baby, faker, or more like faker, faker, faker—a sing-song taunt. School was a safe haven because at school, teachers made me feel smart. I loved school, but I loved staying home on sick days too—without my brothers. Home alone with only my mother who never hurled insults. Home to I Love Lucy, Gilligan’s Island and Romper Room all day sipping hot jello drinks. Home to a stack of picture books—a good Suess book and a cuddly cat curled next to me. Even though as soon as the brothers came home I would be the faker, faker, faker—the hours of peace were worth it. I remember being home sick when I was in kindergarten or 1st grade and Miss Julie on Romper Room held up her magic mirror and declared, “And I see Carole who is home sick today.” My mom didn’t believe she was really talking to me, but I knew she was. She saw me. If she saw me, I wasn’t faking. I couldn’t be faking. Did that mean I also wasn’t stupid? Sticks and Stones. I used to shout it out to deflect the power of words. Words, they can inspire, affirm, debase, or hurt. I wish my armor could be made of all the beautiful words in the world, so the negative stuff couldn’t penetrate. </span></span></div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-65307810538468424782015-12-01T18:29:00.002-08:002015-12-01T19:02:11.256-08:00Permission to Bully in 1961 and Beyond<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The school year was 1961-62. A five-old-girl sat on a classroom chair with the rest of the kindergarten class surrounding her. The teacher wore a dark skirt and a plain white blouse. She had medium-length brown hair and a pleasant face. The teacher told the class that because Marva* had been naughty again, the she must be punished. The kindergarten students were told to each take a strand of the Marva’s hair and on the count of three—PULL. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">This scene played out numerous times throughout my first year at Sharon Elementary School. I don’t remember anyone else ever receiving the punishment except for Marva. I’m sure there were others, but it’s her face I remember. Boys were usually the first to surround her—smiling, a bit excited. I always held back, as did others, too far away to grasp a lock of hair. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t remember what Marva did that was so naughty. And while I’m glad I never participated in the punishment handed down by the teacher, I never reached out to be kind to Marva either. Why would I? She was a naughty girl. Did I somehow suspect that if I played with her, that I would be tainted by her? I don’t blame myself—after all I was only five. I also don’t blame the boys who gleefully surrounded Marva and pulled as hard as they could—after all, they were only five. But I do blame the teacher. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Over the years, my memory of the events have faded, so much that I almost wondered if they had happened at all, but recently I was talking with another friend who had, had the same teacher in the alternate hours kindergarten the same year and she said, “Mrs. Wendell—the teacher that made us pull hair. My children don’t believe me when I tell them.” Then the memory flooded back. So it was true. It was true that my kindergarten teacher commanded five-year-olds to bully and to physically and emotionally harm another child. It was true that the teacher had set up a <i>policy</i> to create a class system based on fear, to set up children who would automatically become the OTHER, the ones we had permission to abuse and belittle and to cast aside from our friendship. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know what happened to Marva. I can pick her face out in the class picture. I hope that somehow, she escaped the stigma stamped upon her by a teacher who must have thought she was doing the right thing to control her class. How often do we do harm to others when we believe that we are doing the right thing because like those five-year-olds someone in authority told them it was the right thing? Sometimes doing the right thing takes a tremendous amount of courage. Sometimes doing the right thing </span><span style="font-size: large;">is the exact opposite of what we are told. Sometimes doing the right thing is listening to the little voice in our head, and that instinct that socks us in the gut. *not real name.</span></span></div>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-52293896735329314522015-11-29T16:54:00.001-08:002015-11-29T16:54:45.248-08:00GratefulIt's Thanksgiving time. Like many of my Facebook friends, I've been posting stuff each day that I'm thankful for. But I find there isn't room to write everything. So I'm dedicating this post to my gratitude. Over 36 years ago, I was in a truck riding south of Logan with my then fiance, Mick. He had a green Chevrolet pickup truck. We made our way down the highway through Nibley, past Hyrum and on into Paradise. We rounded the bend toward Avon. On the road to Porcupine Dam, I was overcome with beauty that was all around us, and the wonder of being with someone I loved, someone I would soon marry. Our future was before us. I was finishing school and Mick had just graduated. We had nothing, but we had everything. I remember saying, "I want to live here someday."<br />
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When we first got married we lived in Amalga in Cache Valley, but for only a few months before moving to Garland for Mick's first teaching job. Then on to Tremonton, Springville, Highland, and then Grouse Creek. Finally when we moved from Grouse Creek I wanted to live in Cache Valley again, come hail or high water. (Or is that hell or high water?) So we looked for houses and found one in the quaint and lovely town of Paradise. Our kids were nearly 8 and 12 when we moved. It wasn't Avon, but it was close. Then nine years ago, my friend Sherry told me about some land for sale. It was only about a mile from the place where I was overcome with the desire to live <br />
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someday. So that someday came. I have studio to do my pottery in and Mick has some land for his horses and a barn for his hay. It just doesn't get much better than that. And I still am over come with love for this place, and this man, and this family, and this life.C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-54656606735742534922015-10-02T13:22:00.000-07:002015-10-02T13:22:05.121-07:00I Love Small Town Charm<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The main event that I look forward to all year is the trout dinner in our small town. It’s actually the only event, but not only is it the best trout I’ve ever had, it’s the whole idea that I love. The trout is raised by the White family—that’s their name. They’ve lived in this town since the very beginning back when Barnard White and one of his buddies, Joe Crapo thought the lush valley was worth checking out—that was back in 1860 when the valley was also loved and lived in by a peace loving band of Shoshone. The white guys, including Barnard White thought the Shoshone wouldn’t mind sharing their lush valley, but they were wrong about that. There were skirmishes here and there, a few horses stolen and one white settler was shot with an arrow, but just like everywhere else in the US, the natives were eventually pushed out and so that’s why I get to live in the lovely little town and stand once a year in a line that runs the length of a football field, chatting with total strangers who come from all over the state to stand in line too. Sure they could go out to a restaurant and for the close to the same price, get pretty much the same thing, but that’s nothing like paying twelve bucks and sitting on a metal picnic table next to people you’ll never see again. </span></span><br />
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">The local DUP women (that’s daughters of the Utah Pioneers) are at the beginning of the line with a beautiful pieced and handmade quilt. I confidently crumple my tickets I’ve bought—convinced that this trick will aid me—clearly it’s my year to win. I’ve entered for the last eight years and it’s only been the last two years that I’ve even wanted the quilt, and this one is perfect for me. I’m sure that the Universe will recognize my worthiness and reward me. Years ago raffles came under fire as a form of gambling, and hence illegal in the state of Utah, so most places still hold raffles, but sell a piece of taffy for the price of a ticket to get around the law. That’s another thing I like about this whole day—there’s no pretense. Even though these women, look like very respectable law-abiding women—church goers even, they don’t look for any loopholes, they just sell the tickets illegally. I admire that. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WHyFt6Fwuuo/Vg7jrkXKQMI/AAAAAAAADUQ/fUfViqyRoyM/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WHyFt6Fwuuo/Vg7jrkXKQMI/AAAAAAAADUQ/fUfViqyRoyM/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DUP museum in Paradise</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I hand my money to a few other women—old friends for the most part. Now there’s hope when I’m handed a sturdy paper plate with my plastic utensils. Then, a string of about eight men manning the massive grills lined with butterfly trout fillets frying in pools of butter. The first man at the grill is Jon White himself, son Barney White, the man who began the trout farm, and grandson of Barnard White, or is there one more Barnard White in that line? Not sure. Next to him, is his brother. In rural Mormon Utah, it’s nearly always women who cook, plan, organize and then clean up nearly all major church and community events so, it’s especially nice that for this event—it’s all men cooking. Here there’s only one woman serving food and all she’s doing is handing out pats of butter.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SSwYT0689Js/Vg7kqhf9uAI/AAAAAAAADUc/T3J2b1ZxM4o/s1600/IMG_1176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SSwYT0689Js/Vg7kqhf9uAI/AAAAAAAADUc/T3J2b1ZxM4o/s320/IMG_1176.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know any of these people</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Jon (he's at the opposite end)</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Back to Jon White. I’ve known Jon a long time. We used to be on the Paradise Planning and Zoning together. Jon is a big guy, a very big guy and his voice and personality are commanding. When he walks into a room, he pretty much stops whatever else is going on. He’s a walking encyclopedia for the town of Paradise. He knows the history, the layout, where all the seams of clay and gravel are. He knows who owns chickens, and whose dog is keeping folks awake at night. He has strong opinions, but loves the town possibly more than anyone else. In the meetings, he could do it all, as smart as he is, but he liked us all to contribute what we thought about septic tanks, lot sizes, commercial zoning, fence lines, and dog kennels. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I was the only woman on the board and though I have strong opinions too, I was no match for Jon. But he always asked what I thought. Once in a very serious meeting, he said, “What do you think Carole, Gene? Amazing, this man really does know everything even my middle name. “How in the world did you know my name is Carole Jeanne (Jean)?” I asked. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t,” he said grinning. But I do know your name is Carole and his name,” nodding to the man on my right, “is Gene.”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Since then every single time he sees me, which isn’t often, he shouts. “Jeanne, how are you doing?”</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">So as I hold my plate in front of him waiting for the trout that bears his name, he says, “Jeanne, it’s been a long time. How are you?” And I just nod. “Great, I’ve been great.” </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">And even though I wait well into the night for the phone call congratulating me on winning the quilt raffle to no avail, I still love this town.</span></span></div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-60426387414083955862015-08-28T17:26:00.000-07:002015-08-28T17:26:48.740-07:00Trout and Berry Days in Paradise<span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow, I'll be hauling my pottery down to the center of Paradise for a bit of old fashioned fun. Oh, there will be the usual stuff, pony rides for the kids, trains, rides, cotton candy--all that stuff. But unlike other town celebrations, our's features the famous trout scramble. If you don't know what this is, think of a pool of water, a slew of fish, and humans trying to catch the fish with their hands. They do it in age groups ending with adult women. Why adult women and no adult men, you might ask? Uh, I wouldn't even dare to suggest that this is really a wet t-shirt contest--no of course not--not in Paradise in the 21st century, so I guess you'll have to ask those in charge. </span><span style="font-size: large;">You'll have to come judge for yourself. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But it's for fun and prizes and plus you keep the fish. They kill it and clean it for you--so don't think you have to build a pond at your house. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I also enjoy the small town parade with horses, bicycles, and maybe a float or two. Usually the hand-outs are a bit better than most. It seems like for the last few years FAT BOYS were handed out--the ice-cream bars--not you know actual fat boys. Anyway that's worth coming out for right??? Then there's also an auction--proceeds benefitting our local emergency response team and or fire station. I've always donated a nice piece of pottery to this. The culmination of the evening is our very famous and also excellent trout dinner featuring White's trout and Weeks's berry desserts. I've heard that even people who don't like trout, like the trout, but I can't judge that because I LOVE trout. Besides, I look forward to this meal all year. Really, I do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Besides the dinner, my other favorite part of the day is just visiting with friends all day. I hope everyone I know and love comes. I know that isn't possible, but if it is come to Paradise. It's worth the drive. </span>C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-83479363405798644322015-08-07T23:41:00.002-07:002015-08-07T23:41:51.048-07:00Keith N FisherPeople say that when you start to feel too gosh-darned important that you should stick your finger in a bucket of water and then pull it out to see that no one leaves a hole. The water just fills up--so they say. I don't believe that's true--not for a minute. Each of us leaves a void in the world when we go. Today a good man died. He was my friend although I didn't know him really well. He was my friend, even though we'd only had a few face to face conversations. We should have met a long time ago, but we didn't. He was only a year younger than me and attended the same high school. I knew who he was--sort of. I'd seen his face at writing conferences, but we didn't become friends until a conference at UVU some years back. That was the year I had really struggled with depression and social anxiety and writer's block, and low self-esteem and fear and ... on and on. I wasn't sure I'd ever get another book published. It scared me to death to go to conferences and I avoided talking to authors, but in a small surge of confidence, I registered for a conference when I found out that I could attend with my good friend Josi Kilpack. It was there Keith introduced himself and told me how much he loved my writing, especially False Pretenses--my second book. This was before the following three books came out. We talked in the hall about writing, and if I recall it was then I found out that he was a good cook and participated in Dutch Oven cook-offs. From that day forward, I counted Keith as a friend. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He was my friend because he showed me over and over that he cared--about me, what I said, what I wrote, and what I thought. Through Facebook, we found out we had a lot of similar beliefs. He was my friend because he made me smile, nearly every week if not every day over the last few years. He was the kind of man, I wish I had known better, and met earlier, and spent more time with, and learned more from. He seemed to know how to say just the right thing when I'd post something that was controversial in our conservative circles, or when I needed to be encouraged or cheered. Sometimes, I wrote something that was a really hard truth for me, and then I'd want to delete it--but then I'd wait and often within the hour Keith would comment positively. <div>
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The last time I saw Keith was at the Storymakers Conference in Provo the middle of May--just a couple of months ago. When I saw him and called his name, he immediately got up from his chair to greet me and give me a great big Keith hug. I said, something like thanks for reading my Facebook posts and liking them. It means a lot to me. And he said something like, no, thanks to you for writing and saying what you do. You are doing good. He encouraged me to keep at it. We talked about how hard it is to think differently than so many whom we associate with. We talked for a few more minutes. Then throughout the day, we'd pass in the hall or in a class and I'd give him a nod or a wave. And that was the last time I saw him in person. </div>
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At the end of June, I had a meeting at my house on loving and supporting our LGBT friends and family. And Keith told me he was going to try to come. I knew he wanted to, though it was a two hour drive. I wish he had been able to because I would have loved spending that time with him, but I suspect he wasn't feeling well even then. His heart attack happened a couple of weeks later, and then there was so much more wrong. I was shocked today when he died. I wasn't ready for it. I went to his blog to r<a href="http://ldswritersblogck.blogspot.com/2015/07/perhaps-there-are-times-to-leave-brakes.html">ead his last post</a>. It was written on July 25th. Like much of his posts, it's poignant and touched my heart. It's fitting to end this tribute with his own words. I hope you will take the time to read it. </div>
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Bye my friend. You were a big man, with a big heart, and a magnificent soul. You leave a big void. I hope Heaven is ready for you. Until we meet again. </div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-83714354001903768172015-06-25T13:26:00.001-07:002015-06-25T13:27:44.100-07:00Oops, Your Relationshiop is Showing<span style="font-size: large;">So recently I read that a sure sign of a good relationship or a bad relationship is how you respond to your partner when they make a comment or show you something that interests them. For instance if your significant other, says "Look, the moon is just coming up," and you either say nothing or shrug and say something like "Don't bug me, I'm watching America's Got Talent," then you might be heading to either a life-long disengagement or a permanent split. Instead, if you got up from your Lazy Boy to look out the window and watch the moon rise together, then chances are you are in a healthy place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We all mess up sometimes, but after witnessing something this last weekend at my booth at Summerfest in Logan, I'm committed to being a more present, a more interested spouse, and a more interested and invested friend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My booth was in a great location under a beautiful oak tree, providing shade on a hot summer day and adding to the ambience of my handmade pottery. Two couples were strolling boy. They were probably in their 60's. One of the men turned to enter my booth and his eyes brightened. His wife and the other couple kept on walking past. He paused at one of my pie plates. It had a lovely mountain scene on it with wax-resist design. His hand lingered on it and he turned to see where his wife was and she was already past by now. He turned to get her and bring her back. She took a few steps back and stepped momentarily into my booth without letting her eyes rest anywhere except on her husband. She loudly said, "no, no, no." as if she was scolding a child who was about to touch a hot burner. Then she walked on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In that moment, with his hand still on the pie plate, the husband's eyes met mine. We shared a knowing sadness. He knew that I knew he had been scolded. He was embarrassed both for the rudeness of his wife to me, but the lack of respect she showed him. I too, was embarrassed for him. How could someone treat someone else like that? How hard would it have been for her to at least look at the pie plate. I admit I don't know the backstory, if there is one. Maybe the man has a fetish for pie plates. Maybe he bakes up a storm, pie and pie and expects her to eat them. Maybe he spends too much money, but I doubt any of this is true. Instead, I see a man who is sadly married to someone who doesn't get him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I said, "Thanks for appreciating my work."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He said, "I really do." And I knew it was one of the highest compliments I'd been paid. Now, I only wish that I could take that moment back. I wish, oh how I wish, that I would have handed him the pie plate and said, "Enjoy!" </span>C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-63429329355215868952015-03-17T16:21:00.001-07:002015-03-17T16:21:41.168-07:00Celebrating some of the Females in My Life on the Relief Society's Birthday To celebrate the birthday of Relief Society this year, I decided to blog about some of the women who are or who have been closest to me in terms of family relations. This means that I will be leaving out some my closest women friends of which there are amazing, beautiful souls. So in no particular order.<br />
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<b>Grandma Anderson:</b> (My mom's mom) <b>Generosity</b>. If there isn't a good reason to say no, <b>say yes.</b> When I was about 12 or so, I wanted to go ice skating. In Provo there was an amazing ice skating rink called the Winter Gardens. The building was shaped like a turtle shell. It was huge, too. When we got tired of skating, we could warm up by the fire, or have a snack. Many will remember that it was later turned into a Macey's grocery store before being torn down completely. </div>
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Well, I asked if I could go with some friends and my parents immediate response was not today. They didn't really have a great reason, from my point of view. And I admit, I would be upset as a parent, if the grandparent stepped in and undermined me, but that's what she did. I remember that she intervened and asked my parents why I couldn't go. She'd said, if I was ever going to be a good skater, I needed to go as often as possible and that it was good for me no matter what. I'm pretty sure she offered to pay. She very often handed out money when she visited. Needless to say, I got to go skating.<br />
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Plus she'd ask me what I wanted as far as her crocheting went. She made me slippers and several ponchos. They were actually popular in those days. Grandma was generous and kind. Generous with time, praise, gifts, money, and her exceptional even tempered personality. </div>
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<b>Nana Thayne: </b>(Dad's Mom)<b> Faith.</b> When I was about 17, I stayed a couple of nights with my Grandma. This was unusual for me. Most of the other grandkids stayed with her often, but our family lived a ways away, and didn't hang out there much. So it was the first chance I had at really getting to know her. I knew she had asthma because she always carried around an atomizer in her big purse. One of the nights that I was there she went to bed in a room next to the guest room (the study with the pullout bed) and I could hear her wheezing in the next room. I finally got up to check on her and she was lying sideways with her feet sticking off the edge of her high bed. I asked what I could do and she said to call the elders. She told me to call her neighbor and ask her to get hold of someone from the ward. It must have been around midnight when they came, but they seemed more than happy to be there. Ready to serve. Happy to help. After they left, her labored breathing calmed and she slept through the night. Another thing I remember about her is that she believed that her dreams held answers for life. A visionary woman.<br />
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<b>Mom: Grace. </b>Not in the religious sense, though she is very faithful in her religion, but in the sense that she offers grace to everyone she knows, meaning she believes in the inherent goodness of people. She assumes the best. I can safely say, I never heard my mother gossip about anyone in my growing up years. And if I tried to tell her a scandalous story, she seemed completely uninterested or offered an explanation of some kind, or that I shouldn't believe what I hear, or that there might be a reason for it. And most importantly, not to hold a grudge. She treats everyone with respect and kindness and nearly everyone treats her that way too.<br />
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<b>Mother-in-law Ruth</b>: I miss her. <b>Read! </b>Not only did she have a great education in a day when not many women from rural Utah did, but she continued learning and reading to the day she died. Whenever we would visit, there would be a book or two or three opened face down on the table next to her recliner. It doesn't seem like she used book marks though I could be wrong. The fact that she read and enjoyed, and bought and passed around copies of my novels was a great compliment to me. Her knowledge of the world was vast and there wasn't any subject that she couldn't talk about with at least some degree of knowledge. A truly brilliant woman.<br />
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<b>Daughter Ginger</b>: <b>Adventure and courage</b>. I once asked Ginger if she was ever scared, and she said "sometimes I am scared to death, but I just do it anyway." <i>It </i>over the year<i>s </i>includes, to name only a few: rock climbing, bungee jumping, scuba diving, traveling nearly all over the world, living most often by herself in Central and South America, Denmark, San Francisco, and New York where she opened and ran her own restaurant, and now is learning Yoga in India. Take life and go. Anything is possible with enough desire and hard work. Make your own luck. Dreams can come true. A little courage goes a long way. Be confident and smile, you've got this. And she does. She has life by the tail.<br />
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<b>Daughter-in-law Joanna: </b>We won the lottery when it comes to our daughter-in-law, and there's a lot I could say about her as a wonderful mother and wife, but the trait that I'm trying to learn from her is <b>diplomacy</b>. As someone who sometimes speaks too quickly out of impatience, anger, frustration, hurt, or defense, I'd rather learn to hold my tongue, or when needed engage in a thoughtful meaningful way. Case in point. A couple of years ago, we attended an LDS branch near our cabin in Montana. There was a Relief Society lesson that was given that was not only racist, but railed on these "terrible feminist women who want the priesthood." At the time, I was in a place of deep hurt in regards to my faith. This lesson was not what I needed. Joanna raised her hand, and gently offered an alternative perspective about where a woman who wants the priesthood might be coming from and that always we should not judge the motivations of others, and to remember the Savior's example of love. Well, it calmed my heart. I whispered to her that she was my hero. Whenever, I'm able to calmly offer a loving response even when someone is triggering me, I call it being able to <i>do a Joanna.</i><br />
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<b>Granddaughter:</b> <b>Be authentic</b>. She's only six, but she knows herself quite well. When she was five, she asked me if she could be something besides a mother. I told her she could and she said that her brother told her she if she was a mother she could be nothing else. I said, "well your dad is a teacher and father. Your mom teaches exercise classes besides being a mother." She said, well I want to be and listed five or six things that she wanted to be. I told her that was really great and that I was sure she could be those things. When we were back in the car, I said, I think it's great that granddaughter wants to be everything. She piped up, "I didn't say I want to be everything, I said that I want to be everything that I want to be." I loved that distinction. How silly to think or even want to be everything--there are far too many options. But to be what you really want to be--well that's pretty doable. What a great start she has. </div>
C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-41082541636774858102015-03-13T19:48:00.000-07:002015-03-15T07:23:31.284-07:00"Gabriel's Daughters" by Janet Kay Jensen<span style="font-size: large;">I really love this book! Zina Martin, is an artistic, but naive young woman from the polygamist community called Gabriel's Landing. At sixteen, she's already past the expected age to marry. Terrified to marry the much older man who is chosen for her, her heart is easily turned by a handsome "gentile" school teacher. When the forbidden relationship has unwanted consequences, she can't bear to bring shame to her family. There's only one thing to do and that's run away, but she's never been away from the tightly controlled community. How will she survive?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Janet Kay Jensen has an unusual talent in being able to weave a captivating suspenseful tale in a literary style--a writer's writer. We are drawn in by the fully-fleshed characters, especially Zina Martin, but also the new people she meets along the way, and those she left behind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had a chance to interview my long time friend Janet Kay Jensen. I'm lucky enough to belong to a writers' group with Janet, and know what an excellent writer she is. I've loved being a part of this wonderful book form the beginning. You can read more about Janet Kay Jensen on her blog.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Book is available at Barnes and Noble, The Book Table in Logan, Amazon and more.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">What inspired <i>Gabriel’s Daughters</i>?</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Zina’s story was originally included in early drafts of my first novel, <i>Don’t You Marry the Mormon Boys</i>. I began to write the stories of both Louisa and Zina in alternating chapters. That led to logistical problems as the events occur in different time periods. Zina’s story also began to take on greater significance and in fact threatened to take over the whole book. To do it justice, I had to pull it out and promise Zina her own book. She was very patient. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Does Gabriel’s Landing have a “prophet?”</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">No. I chose to create a governing body, the Council of Brothers. They are a committee of very like-minded men who govern all matters secular and religious in the community. I deliberately avoided writing a character who was the prophet or all-powerful leader, to avoid comparisons to current events. Gabriel’s Landing is a quiet community. Though life is tightly controlled by the Council of Brothers, the extreme abuses and violence uncovered in other groups, which often make headlines, do not occur in Gabriel’s Landing. It’s a town that strives to keep the traditions of their fathers. As we know, however, not everyone in Gabriel’s Landing has a happy or satisfying life. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Given all the recent public scrutiny, do you think polygamy will survive?</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Polygamy has always been with us throughout history, and is common in many cultures. In America, some feel that prosecuting it will simply drive its followers underground. Others, citing the significant cost to taxpayers in terms of financial assistance given to women who declare themselves to be single mothers, feel the welfare system is being abused. There are certainly no clear answers. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">How do you feel about polygamy?</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll let the readers form their own opinions about that. I was very surprised, however, when doing some research on the Internet—when my own photo popped up as I searched for “pictures of polygamous women.” Yep, there I was, with my three dogs, in my own backyard. That photo had appeared on my blog and as I had written a book about polygamy, it somehow became associated with the topic, or at least the search engines thought so. There’s a lesson in this: you never know where you’re going to show up on the Internet. It’s a bit disconcerting. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Why do quilts appear prominently in the book?</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Quilts convey our heritage and culture from one generation to another. They speak of economy and necessity as well as artistry. I think every quilt has its own story, and I love the intricate varieties of patchwork quilts, both old and new. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Why did you choose to have Zina hitchhike to Chicago?</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Because that’s where Mo and Callie were going! I really had three reasons. First, I wanted to put some some significant geographical distance between Zina and the place where she was raised. It’s the only way she can begin to learn who she is. Second, I have always loved Chicago; my husband and I honeymooned there for three years when we attended graduate school. Third, I wanted to give a little shout-out to a city that is full of diversity and vitality and class. Chicago is a good fit for Zina, and she learns to love the city, too. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Andy and Louisa could have higher-paying jobs in larger cities. Why did you choose to have them stay in Hawthorn Valley?</b> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Andy fell in love with Hawthorn Valley when he first arrived there, just out of residency, and Hawthorn Valley fell in love with him. When Louisa married him, it was with the understanding that they would share a joint medical practice in Hawthorn Valley. It’s a place where they feel needed and appreciated. They want to give their children a healthy upbringing, and neither is too concerned about material wealth. That is consistent with their upbringing, I think. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Why did you choose to write Simon as a gay character?</b> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Because he is. Seriously, I asked myself what kind of man Zina would trust, given her devastating experience with her high school teacher, and almost marrying a man twice her age. It’s not a surprise that she doesn’t doesn’t trust easily, and Simon presents no sexual issues to negotiate. He simply offers friendship and companionship to his roommate. It’s something he wants, too. And he sees Zina’s potential. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, there is a bit of the Pygmalion myth in their relationship. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Right. I loved having Zina “bloom and grow,” to borrow from another musical. She gains some survival skills in Chicago, though Mo and Callie provide her with the tender care of parents while she acquires the ability to support herself. Her native talents and intelligence are appreciated wherever she goes. Starting with Chef Damian’s tutelage at Harry’s in Chicago, Zina continues to grow intellectually. Simon can, in some ways, give her the world. He’s educated, well-traveled, and well-read. And, most important, he is trustworthy. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-size: large;">You seem to like strong female protagonists. </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I do. Girls and young women need to know they have unlimited potential, even if it means they may have to fight for it. I didn’t want a high-cheekboned, square-jawed, broad shouldered romantic knight with long, flowing golden locks to gallop into town on a white horse and rescue Zina. She doesn’t need rescuing. She’s become her own person. Readers deserve more, and so does Zina. And she may find it in James. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>What elements in Gabriel’s Daughters are based on real-life people or events?</i> Quilts, hope chests, bread-baking, book-burning, a visit to Russia, the nesting dolls, and friendships between women and gay men. Oh, and a smart border collie. </span></span></div>
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-66463197830580964092015-02-12T14:44:00.001-08:002015-02-12T14:44:31.028-08:00Thoughts on Valentines' Day<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Thoughts on Valentines’ Day</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">It used to be about stalking around the neighborhood, knocking on doors and leaving store bought Valentines, then running and hiding in the bushes to watch the recipient come out and pick it up. It provided more fun than it should have. For my good friends, candy would be stuffed in the envelope. And for my best friends, a big chocolate kiss. It meant covering a shoebox with pink paper and cutting a slot into the top. It meant coming home from school with so many Valentines that the lid wouldn’t stay on. It meant laying out all the cards in the living room, taking out the candy, seeing if anyone wrote an extra sweet message along with their name. It meant sorting out the favorites either by the person who gave it or the cutest cards. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve really only had two actual boyfriends in my life, and I married the second one. The first one broke up with me on Valentines. I did not see it coming. I was expecting an extra nice Valentine date. Maybe even dinner, so when he said he wanted to see me, instead of saying let’s go out, I should have figured it out. But I didn’t have much experience. I was the wallflower that stood alone at the dances, both dreading and hoping that someone would ask. Dreading because I was awkward, shy, and didn’t know how to dance. And yet hoping, because there had to be a reason everyone seemed to think boys were the greatest. The lack of positive experiences with the opposite gender, left me wondering. Having only brothers who ignored me at best and picked on me at worst had taught me to wither rather than shine. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: large;">Then the very next year, I was in a quick, but serious romance. And on Valentine’s Day Mick asked me to marry him. I saw it coming. We both knew we were in love and knew we wanted to be together 24/7. It didn’t matter what we did, as long as we were together. He was doing his student teaching at the time, and it was fine with me if we sat on the floor of his apartment and graded papers together, or reserved a room at the USU library and watched a film—pre video days. So when he got down on his knee in my apartment, I was giddy with excitement. No more agonizing goodbyes at night. Because after we married we could be together—forever. I wouldn’t recommend to others to marry your second boyfriend. I would always tell them that they need to get as much experience as possible. I would always tell them to make sure they’ve dated at least a year, instead of a few months. I would tell them to learn as much as you can about the person, see them in every situation. I would tell them to be cautious. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But sometimes you just know. </span><br />
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-73218906882091745842015-01-03T19:18:00.000-08:002015-01-05T16:23:06.232-08:00"Success Is Having The Courage To Try" <span style="font-size: large;">Recently I caught a few minutes of an interview with Janie Pauley. I remember her from the Today show and that she is married to the Far Side guy. After her success with the Today show, she was given the opportunity to do a daytime talk show, similar to Oprah. It was cancelled after a year. How did she look at that? She said, “Success Is having the courage to try.” Isn’t that the truth? How will we ever know the answer to what could have been? if we don’t try something. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you are like me, you’ve only done a fraction of the things you’ve really wanted to do. Often what holds us back is fear of failure or fear of the unknown. But the only failure is in not trying, not doing, or not going. I admire the go-getters, and the doers in the world. Some of the people I admire most are my own children. They both are doing incredibly difficult things, but right now I’m focusing this on my daughter for reasons that will be clear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We knew early on that she was no ordinary child. She walked at 8 1/2 months and ever since then you couldn’t stop her even if you wanted to. But why would you? She always has been a force of nature, full of creativity and ideas, always thinking about some new dream. If she wanted to do something she usually found a way. Once she started earning her own money and once she was 18, she was off to see the world. Scuba diving, rock climbing, canoeing, and kayaking and what ever adventure she could find. She’s either worked, studied, traveled, and lived in Guatemala, Denmark, Alaska, Argentina, Thailand, Cambodia, Spain, France, Germany, and on and on—something like 19 countries. I remember when she decided she wanted to live in Argentina. Basically it went like this. “I really want to learn Spanish better. I’ve never been to Argentina and ticket prices are cheaper there than other places in South America.” She lived and worked there for a year. When she ended up in San Francisco, I breathed a sigh of relief. I could drive there and did. Then off to NYC where she lives now. Which is still ok, because I can fly there and not go completely broke. But the thing is, I regret that I let fear and money stop me from seeing her when she was in some of those other places. Remember the saying, “You can’t take it with you.” Now I'm still just as broke as I ever was and have never been to South America, Central America, or Denmark. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m super proud of Ginger’s latest endeavor. She had a goal to have a restaurant by the time she was 30. And when her 30th came around last March, she was fully engaged in making that happen. She and her business partner renovated a space in Brooklyn. Learning as she has always done, by doing, they conquered numerous setbacks and finally opened a very charming place called Brooklyn Proper. I love eating in NYC, but admitting bias just a little, had my very best meal at her restaurant. Everything was going great. She was working 24-7, but had made the dream, the goal of a restaurant by 30, a reality. They were on their feet, getting great publicity, reviews, and business. Then more financial setbacks and rent increases, and she and her partner made the difficult decision to close. I’m so glad that I got to see this wonderful little space with my daughter at the helm. Food and wine expert, designer, creator, business manager, accountant. She crammed a 4-year business degree in one and did it all. She succeeded. I look forward to seeing what she’ll do next. But no hurry! Life is always an adventure but sometimes a slower pace is just fine. I once asked my daughter is she was ever scared. She never seemed to be to me. She said, “I’m often scared to death, but I just go ahead anyway.” Just think what we could do if we stepped into the unknown and just tried.</span><br />
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C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4198949160795239403.post-10251435787379944122014-11-30T16:48:00.001-08:002014-11-30T16:48:29.241-08:00So Here's the ThingI'm a little late writing a gratitude post for Thanksgiving. It's been on my mind a lot lately. I hesitate to write about my blessings because I have and have had so many. There are so many people who have not had the advantages in life that I've had. It's with that painful awareness of the vast human suffering and the unequal chances we have in life, that I write about my blessings. None of us choose our beginnings. We don't choose our parents, our families, our neighbors, our homes, our towns, our ethnicity, our religion, our gender and so on. And yet all of these circumstances play a large part in our ultimate choices and who we eventually become. Some experience truly horrifying things even though they grew up with advantages. Some experience a joyful life in spite of multiple disadvantages. Most have a mixture of both. The truth is that I have no idea who I would be if I had grown up in a different part of the world or country, or with a different family, or ethnicity, or religion.<br />
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I grew up in a Mormon middle class family. My parents treated each other with love and respect. I never saw a day of true hunger or cold. I could walk in any house in my neighborhood and not expect anything but a warm greeting, often followed by an embrace and some home cooking. My dad worked hard. My mother often had a part-time job, but her primary job was taking care of the home and the family. To this day, my mother is the least judgmental person I've ever known. We grew up with plenty of freedom that few people even in rural America are afforded anymore. During summers, I most often played unsupervised in open fields, and orchards, and parks and only checked in at home at the appointed lunch and dinner times. Every need was supplied. Every want was discussed and sometimes given. Besides public school, I was offered piano lessons, swimming lessons, and often saw a movie every saturday afternoon. I could go to recreation camps and girls camps. We had family vacations to the extended family cabin. We were one of the first in the neighborhood to own a color television. I remember the day Dad carried it into the house. I couldn't wait to watch The Wizard of Oz to see the scene change from the black and white in Kansas to the colorful land of Oz. We were one of the first to own a dishwasher and a microwave oven.<br />
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Higher education was expected and my parents helped me pay for it. In spite of myself, I fell in love with the most decent man on campus. We've raised a couple of great kids and now have four great-grandkids. We live in one of the most beautiful places on this earth surrounded by open fields and mountains. I've been able to do pretty much whatever I've wanted to do much of my adult life. I'm grateful for the love so many have offered me; my family, my friends, my kids, and my grandkids. I'm lucky enough to live within a mile of the spot where even before my husband and I were married, I'd said I wanted to live someday. There's a hymn familiar to all Mormons Because I Have Been Given Much, I too must give. It pretty much sums up my life so far.C.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00727052976972722483noreply@blogger.com2