“The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get to the office.”   --Robert Frost

Sometimes, at work, the day will be cold, and the space heater under my desk will be warm, and my mind starts to get a misty gauze covering up my thoughts.

When this happens, sometimes I take a little walk up to the university bookstore. I always find something there to get my thought juices flowing.

I will slowly waltz my way

down one aisle

and up the next.

Fascinating titles call out to me from the shelves. I reach out my hand and let my fingers hover over them as I walk.

Usually,

almost always,

one particular book seems to pull me in.

I remove it from the shelves and make my purchase. I have never been disappointed. I have just discovered my newest favorite book.

How To Get Ideas by Jack Foster is now occupying that place of honor. It not only teaches you how to be better in business, art, or writing,

but it also teaches you how to live a more enriched, exciting, and energized life.

“Man can live without air for a few minutes, without water for about two weeks, without food for about two months—and without a new thought for years on end.”  --Kent Ruth

Every chapter is filled with practical concrete things you can do to “train your brain” to be more creative.

*Have fun.

“Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.”  --Oscar Wilde

*Be more like a child.

“A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic.”  --Ralph Waldo Emerson

*Get more inputs.

“Knowledge is power, if you know it about the right person.”              --Ethel Watts Mumford

*Learn how to combine.

“To Be is to Do.” --Rousseau

“To Do is to Be.” --Sartre

“Do Be Do Be Do” --Sinatra

*Search for the idea.

“Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”  --Gene Fowler

*Forget about it.

“There are three things I always forget. Names, faces—the third I can’t remember. --Italo Svevo

*Screw up your courage.

“Honest criticism is hard to take, particularly from a relative, a friend, an acquaintance, or a stranger.  --Franklin P. Jones

The chapter that I am currently experiencing is “Get More Inputs”

1. Get Out Of Your Rut!

How can you have fresh ideas if you always do the same things in the same ways. If you never walk down a new sidewalk or smell a new perfume, or eat a new food. Do something you’ve never done before. André Gide tried to read at least one book every month about a subject in which he had not interest. You should try it. I should try it - at least once. Louis L’Amour said, “If you want to be creative, go where your questions lead you. Do things. Have a wide variety of experiences.”

2. Learn How To See

Really look at things. Notice things. Be observant of the way grass waves when the wind is blowing and the texture of the tree trunk outside your office. Get a notebook and, once a day, write down in detail a description of something you really saw.

So, today

I’m turning east instead of west on my way home from work. I’ll sit on the floor while I eat something my mouth has never before tasted.

And I ‘ll write a paragraph or two about a new image, or taste, or texture that I put into my creativity bag today.

    Idaho Women
Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.
     The first man had married a woman from Colorado and had told her that she was going to do dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple days, but on the third day he came home to a clean house and dishes washed and put away.
     The second man had married a woman from Nebraska He had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, and the cooking. The first day he didn't see any results, but the next day he saw it was better. By the third day, he saw his house was clean, the dishes were done, and there was a huge dinner on the table.
     The third man had married a girl from Idaho. He told her that her duties were to keep the house cleaned, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, the second day he didn't see anything, but by the third day some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye, enough to fix himself a bite to eat and load the dishwasher.

So true, so true.....   but I digress.

Today, I want to share with you one of my favorite images - SUNFLOWERS!

I did this piece as a final project for a beginning watercolor class at the university where I work. It is quite large, I think about 30x40 inches. It was a lot of fun to do because I love the subject matter.  It took a long time, though.  I had to misket the edges of the whole image so that I could do the background fast and furious.  It took forever to put the misket on and just as long to take it off.  Does anyone know an easier way to do this besides rubbing it off with your finger?  I tried to use an eraser, but that took even longer.  I ended up with a blistered finger, but it was worth it. 

I hope you all have a great Wednesday.  I am.  Cheers!

I’m feeling a little down today. Do you believe in omens? I don’t know if I do or not, but some days that start badly seem to stay that way. Was the first wrong turn indicative of the day? In retrospect, yes. Looking forward, though, I would have to be the ultimate optimist or Pollyanna (as one of my close blogging buddies teasingly calls me) and say that one bad happening does not a bad day make.

A couple of questions answered first;

#1. Why does Dad need chemo if his cancer is in remission?

His bone marrow has a disorder called myelodysplasia. It does not make new blood cells. His doctor told him there was a certain regimen of chemo that can, in 20% of cases, jump-start the bone marrow back into working normally. That’s what Dad is trying to do.

#2. What’s with the cemetery?

It seems like I am always mentioning the cemetery in my blogs. One of the main reasons is that my 16 year old son works there. He mainly does grounds-keeping but has also done a few burials. He was working yesterday when our neighbor drove up, all by herself. She is the one whose husband was given a short time to live just a few days ago. Andy told me she just drove around slowly past the “new” section as if to pick out a spot. How sad!

I have been thinking about her and the trials she is facing. She and her husband have lived a clean life. They are very giving people always cheerful and helpful. Her husband taught a group of 9 rowdy 13 year old boys in Sunday School. This group has a reputation, no teacher wanted to take them, but this dear man did and they loved him. Boys who were some-timers suddenly came every week. He truly made a difference in their lives.

I contrast their lives with some of the kids my husband works with in juvenile probation. Every one of them have people trying to help them make good choices, get on the right path (one that will bring them happiness and fulfillment instead of jail time and an “everybody’s picking on me” attitude). Most are very good kids, who just made some poor decisions. They will be okay. But, some of these kids are SO resistant. They are sullen, sneaky, and do everything they can to make everyone around them distrust them. One kid in particular has been on my mind. He is one-step away from being committed by the state for probation violations among other things. If that happens he will lose all of his freedom! He will be a ward of the state and have to do whatever they tell him. He is living with a very strong loving family who anguish over him. I know because I work closely with his dad. I see him every day and I know how much it’s hurting him to see his son make these horrible choices.

These are hard things to think about. Life is sometimes so unfair. 

My Dad had another appointment with the doc today.  His port is infected and his blood counts are down.  It hasn't been a very good day. I should have known when my day started out with no parking spot, dead car battery, ran out of gas, and the weather turned COLD! Tomorrow we are looking at around 5 inches of snow. (Yesterday people were getting sunburned.)

I think I'm going to go home and make a fire and eat something yummy and watch a movie. 

Down

Friday, March 16 - Last weekend my Dad woke up to a nose bleed that just would not stop. My Mom ended up taking him to the hospital where they ended up packing his nasal cavity with a device that they pump up like a balloon. The pressure stops the bleeding, but it’s pretty uncomfortable. They did a complete blood chemistry on him and were alarmed at how low the platelets and red blood cells were. He had 2 units of blood given to him as soon as he was stabilized. He had to go back the next morning for a platelet transfusion. They told him he had to leave the packing in his nose until Monday.

Up

Sunday, March 18 - Dad celebrated his 79^th birthday on Sunday one week ago. He still had tubes coming out of his nose, but had a very good day. He got what he wanted. Family and friends all came or called to visit and wish him a very happy birthday. It was a very upbeat happy day for him.

Down

Monday, March 19 - Dad was sitting in a chair with the phone in his hand at 6:00 Monday morning. He was waiting for the doctor’s office to open so that he could go have the packing removed from his nose. Mom made herself some breakfast and sat down to eat it at 7:45. That’s when Dad suddenly decided that it was time to go wait outside the office for them to open. Mom dumped her breakfast down the sink and went with him. At 1:30 Dad went back to his oncologist where they gave him his first chemo injection for the week. They tested his blood and decided he needed another transfusion, so after the chemo he went back up to the hospital to be typed and cross-matched. The transfusion will happen on Tuesday.

Up

Tuesday, March 20 - Dad went into the hospital and had surgery. After giving him another platelet transfusion they placed a port in his chest so that he could get his chemo and blood transfusions easier. After that he had to have his blood transfusion. They were just finishing up the last of that at around 3:30 in the afternoon. He had to get to the oncologist by 4:00 so that he could receive his next chemo shot. I drove him down and went in with both him and Mom to have the chemo. The nurse was asking Dad about his port. Dad was trying to explain the sequence of events for the surgery and made a little mistake. He said, “…and then Dr. Christensen tried to seduce me…” That’s all it took for us to all get the giggles. Dad immediately realized his mistake and was very embarrassed. Mom said, “Do you mean ‘sedate?’” The nurse promised not to try to seduce Dad and got the shots ready. They needed to give him 3 shots that day and so 3 nurses lined up in front of him all rhythmically rocking their syringes back and forth to keep the medicine from setting up. I commented that they looked like a chorus line and without missing a beat they began to do the Can-Can. If laughter really is the best medicine then Dad should be just fine.

Up

Wednesday, March 21 – Joni played basketball in a tournament and made 7 3-point shots and a total of 32 points. Their team lost anyway, but at least she felt good about how she did. I missed the game and felt badly about that, but I was with Lisa in Idaho Falls where she was trying on wedding dresses. Hmmm choosing between two very good things. I’m so lucky.

Up

Thursday, March 22 – Lisa found her perfect wedding dress and bought it. It is so beautiful. I could tell that she found the right one because;

#1 – the first time she tried it on she didn’t want to take it off.

#2 – the second time she tried it on she started to cry.

Down

Saturday, March 24 – Dad has now had 6 chemo treatments in 6 days. On Saturday he was very depressed. He kept getting very sharp pains in various parts of his body. He just sat in a dark room. And when my Mom went in and opened up the blinds he would shut them again. Mike came home and told me he just found out our neighbor fainted yesterday and they took him to the doctor. End result – surgery on Saturday when they found incurable malignant tumors entwined throughout his brain. They just closed him up and gave him 4 months to live. He still has 2 small children at home.

Down?

Saturday, March 24 – On the spur of the moment I went over to the cemetery to see my brother’s grave. I was quite shocked to see a large granite headstone for my Mom and Dad. On the back side there is engraved all of their children’s names, mine included. It gives you kind of a weird feeling to see your name engraved on a monument in a cemetery. I wondered whether I should mention anything to Mom and Dad about it. It seemed like bad timing to bring up his headstone when Dad was feeling so down.

Up

Sunday, March 25 – Went to see Mom and Dad at the hospital where Dad was just finishing up his final chemo shot. He now gets 3 weeks of rest before he does another series. He and Mom were both in very good spirits. I took Mom to the side and told her about the headstone. She was very pleased and wanted me to tell Dad. I told her I was worried about telling him because he was so down yesterday I half expected him to say, “oh good, just in time.” Mom laughed at that, so we took Dad out to the cemetery. He was very pleased with it.

So many dips and rises in my week. When you are going through the ride you don’t really have time to stop and say, “Wait a minute! I need a break.” But if I did that I really wouldn’t be living, just existing. I think I need to ride the ride and be grateful for the undulations of the way. I wouldn’t appreciate the highs if I didn’t experience a few lows.

My daughter took my camera to New York last week, and took a bunch of my sunset pictures with her. I missed my daughter, my camera (when there was a couple of great sunsets this week), and I missed sharing the photos I had on my camera with you. So today, since she's back, I'm sharing.

It seems like when the day is a little stormy you can get some great sunsets.

This one has so many elements in it, sun rays, storm cloudes, cumulus clouds, and COLOR (in my opinion, the best part).

I couldn't believe the colors in the sky this time. They almost looked flourescent. I was driving home when I saw this, so I had to stop the car and get some photos.  Moral of the story: Don't go anywhere without your camera! (Unless your daughter needs it for a once in a lifetime trip to New York.)

I really like the subtle colors in this one.  Sunsets don't all have to be wow.  This one was actually the same night as the first one, only taken earlier.  Still beautiful, in my opinion.

Here's another "gentle" sunset.

I like the cloud formation in this one.

Flaming Sky - That's what I'm talking about. 

Idaho has its super cold, windy, dry conditions, but the sunsets are AWESOME!

Wednesday is that time in the middle of the week when the weekend seems so far away, both looking back and looking forward. I’ve been thinking about how I can look forward to Wednesdays. I’ve come up with a plan.

I love art. I love looking at it, planning it, thinking about it, and doing it.

I’m not a purist when it comes to art, either. I love doing watercolor, oils, acrylics, pen and ink, cartooning, pencil, conté, sculpture, and wood carving. I’ve been a little frustrated lately, since my basement flooded. My studio was the hardest hit. It’s in a shambles waiting for the insurance adjuster to say, “go for it”. So, I haven’t been able to get in there and do much heavy duty art. I still do my picture calendar every day, but not much beyond that.

So I’m going to do a little art blog on Wednesday’s. At least that is my plan.

The first one I would like to share is last year's Christmas card.  I love doing Christmas cards.  (I've already got about 10 ideas for next year).  This one is painted with acrylics. The background is heavily textured with texture medium.  I wanted the texture to photocopy well, and I think it did.  This card was pretty fast to create.  I cut the mat board, which I painted on, and laid down the texture paste. That only took about 15 minutes.  The next day I did the painting which only took me about 30 more minutes.  It was a lot of fun.  I can't wait for my next one.

I hope you enjoyed my little trip down memory lane. Maybe now I can make it to Friday.

I'm a big fan of Orson Scott Card.  I love his science fiction stories more than any other sci-fi writer, mostly because of the humanization and character development.  His stories seem so real to me. And the fact that one of his little short stories uses the name of my great grandfather, Christian Haroldsen, as the main character didn't hurt much either. 

Ender's Game and the parallel story, Ender's Shadow have fascinated me.  "Shadow" was written a long time after "Game".  I think it shows real genius that OSC was able to entertwine the latter book into the story of the former while adding insight into both. 

I got thinking about that this week when my son sent me a copy of his assignment for his college nonfiction creative writing class. I had originally blogged about it in The Miracle of Life. I asked him if I could share it. It is pretty interesting when compared with my end of things.  (Although not as interesting as the Ender twin books, but then again, I'm not Orson Scott Card.)

David's side of things:

An Appointment Not to Forget

The alarm goes off at 6:00am and I'm awake almost at once. I don't get up right away, but lay in bed for a moment. Any other day I'd be calculating how much longer I could afford to stay under the covers. Right now my mind is elsewhere. I'm trying to wrap my brain around my schedule for the day and it just doesn't seem real.

My wife Emily is up before me, but not by much. We both shower and dress a little quicker than normal, and there is a feeling in the air difficult to describe. I've never really had an appointment of this kind before. I had never really considered the notion that you could set an exact day and time to something like this. It's sort of like knowing when you’re going to get in a car accident, or when you’re going to get sick.

"Oh no, I won't be able to study with you next Thursday. I won't be feeling well."

Today, I do know what's going to happen. I've known for just under a week. Ok, to say I know exactly how things will be taking place would be lying; but I have a pretty good idea what the end result will be.

After I've showered and dressed, I sit and wait for Emily. This is a common sight. One of the many things that make a marriage great is the difference in upbringing. Although I've gotten somewhat used to "Burt standard time", as I refer to my in-laws constant disregard for being punctual, I don't think I will ever be converted to the practice of taking my time. You would think that on one of the most important days of our lives she would move a bit quicker, but I suppose that that may be all the more reason to make sure the makeup is right.

Luckily, we have already packed for our little trip. I even have my backpack with some study materials for my college classes. Looking back, I don't know why I ever thought I would get any studying done.

We throw our bags in the car and drive away from our apartment, not sure when we'll be back. I suspect I may be home later that night, although I really have not idea. If I do make a trip home, Emily will most certainly not be with me.

We pull up to the hospital and look at each other before we exit the car.

"You’re ready for this?" I ask.

"I guess so."

"So, do I even bring the bag in? I mean, I know once they get things started it takes a while. Will they start things up and send us home, or do we stay here?"

We decide to leave the bag in the car, and if we end up staying then I will come down and get it. There's nothing in the bag we'll need right away.

We've already pre-registered for our little event, so the paperwork it very minimal. Five minutes across from a young woman taking information. We sign a few forms, and get sent up to our room on the second floor.

I remember at least two out of my four siblings being born. I remember my youngest brother because I was a little older, ten or eleven, and because it was two days after Christmas. The thing I remember the most is the hospital room my mother stayed in. The room was not inviting or cozy, but formal and with a sense of important-ness that struck me as a little frightening. Kids were not supposed to be in these rooms. These rooms were for grownups. I remember wondering what was wrong with the person behind the drawn curtain my mom was sharing a room with. I remember wondering if anyone had died in this room.

The room Emily and I are assigned was one of the special birthing suites at Madison Memorial Hospital. I assume it has something to do with the prolific baby output of the newly accredited four-year institution that is BYU-Idaho, but the new maternity wing has about ten rooms devoted solely to new mothers. We had seen the rooms briefly in a tour of the hospital for a class we had taken, but walking into the room where our baby was to be born felt like walking into a hotel room. There was wallpaper, nice curtains, and pictures on the wall. It felt like a room you wanted to be in. The room was also very big; three or four times the size of a normal hospital room. Only, one bed sat in the middle of one wall. It was a special bed that would convert so you would have the baby right there in the room. That was the original plan, anyways.

We quickly found out we would not be leaving. Emily was given an IV that would start the process, and after the nurse left I quickly ran down to the car to retrieve our supplies. While I was gone, the nurse came back in and asked, with a concerned look I am told, where I was. Emily reassured her I would be right back.

As the morning wore on, the normal process of labor started to take its course. I sat by my wife's side as she had contractions of increasing strength. I could see on the computer screen when she was having one, as the numbers would change. Higher numbers meant more pain. I could also see the heart rate of our little boy.

At first, the pain was very minimal. After a few hours it grew more intense. I would occasionally take picture with our digital camera, and a small number of short videos. I remember one in particular. Emily is lying on her side, not looking like her usual perky self.

"How do you feel?"

"This sucks."

It's the way she says it I remember the most. It's like she's trying to be funny, but at the same time I know she is in genuine pain.

The nurses come and go. The doctor comes in once or twice. Everyone is checking the paper out feed from the computer. Emily is checked, and we are told not a lot is happening. We had arrived at the hospital at seven in the morning, and it is after noon now.

Emily finally says she's had enough with the pain, and would like her epidural now. The anesthesiologist is very nice, and very young. He proceeds to insert a small needle in the small of Emily's back, and within minutes the pain is almost disappeared. In fact now I can see when a contraction is happening on the screen, and have to inform Emily she is having one. Things start getting a little more fun, at this point.

Things are fun for another hour or two, until the nurse comes in and starts going through the out feed from the computer for what seems like a very long time. Emily had not been progressing much, and the baby had only been tolerating her lying on her left side. After a few minutes of looking at the paper feed, the nurse tells us the baby may be in some trouble. She brings the doctor in who takes a short look as the paper and informs us the baby needs to come out now. We needed an emergency c-section.

The tone of the room has now changed. The nurses are not smiling now, but very rushed. A bed is brought in to transfer Emily to the operating room, and everyone seems to be very concerned. Emily asks if she could possibly have a blessing before being wheeled of, and I can see a look come over one orderly's face as if he is thinking "Oh, you have got to be kidding." I hurriedly ask if there is someone who could assist me, and the young anesthesiologist says he would. I give Emily a quick blessing, and then follow as she is wheeled off.

We are separated as she is taken to be prepped for surgery. I am told I can be in the room, but must put special paper clothes over my clothes, and must wait until I am told I can come in. I put on the full body suit, and sit in a dark side hall outside the room. I quickly pull out my phone and start a text message. I've been texting my whole family small updates throughout the day as we hit different milestones such as "water broke", or "epidural". I don't know how much time I have to explain what is happening, so I just send the message "Come now!”

A few seconds after I shove the phone back in my pocket and zip up the suit, the door opens and a nurse motion for me to come in. I step into the room and see my wife on the operating table. I am led around to her head, which is behind a curtain. I sit down so I am staring down at her upside down face. She is smiling, and I can tell she is excited. I talk to her and try to keep her calm. She tells me later that she was not worried at all at this point, and was actually having fun. She cannot feel a thing.

Ten or so minutes later the nurse tells me the baby is coming out if I want to watch. What a dumb question. I stand up and see my little boy being born. What a tiny little messy little thing. I watch as he is handed to a nurse, and then through a window into the nursery and the waiting arms of the pediatrician. I sit back down and tell my wife what I see, as she cannot see a thing. I hear crying in the next room and ask if she can hear it.

I am led out of the operating room and am told I can go see my baby in the special care nursery. The door is locked and I have to identify myself using a phone outside just outside.

"Yes?” asks a voice on the line.

"I'm daddy Mitchell to see baby Mitchell." Man does that ever sound strange.

I walk into the nursery and see mine and Emily's parents are already in there. My little boy is also. He is laying in a heated crib with wires hooked up to his chest, arms, belly button, and foot. He is so tiny, with arms that are as thin as my thumb. At this point he has been cleaned up and is nice and pink, with a big bunch of dark brown hair. The nurse comes over to adjust something with his crib and picks him up.

"Would you mind holding him for a minute?"

What a dumb question. I hold him in both my hands as his blanket is changed underneath him. I cannot bring him to my chest, as the wires are connecting him to his bed. I imagine I was smiling ear to ear for the few seconds I am able to hold him.

I talk with my parents while we wait for Emily to come out of recovery. We are told it will be fifteen or twenty minutes before she is wheeled in. I tell them everything that has happened during the day. We are all admiring the little boy who is their first grandchild.

When Emily is wheeled in, I can tell she is annoyed she is one of the last to see her son. She is straining from her bed to see her baby boy, but cannot sit up. Then she does see him, and reaches up to hold his little hand. Everyone is silent as she is crying tears of joy to be with her baby for the first time. This is the first time our little family is all together. I look at her lovingly as I try unsuccessfully to hold back the tears.

Most women love their hair.  I'm not one of them. A good hair day is one where my head doesn't itch, loose strands don't stray to my eyeballs, and  I don't scare myself when I look in the mirror. I recently started thinking about this while I was reading Thotman's essay on the subject of haircuts.

It's not that I have straggly, thin, or otherwise unattractive hair. It's okay, just not one of the things I take a lot of pride in. Actually my hair is pretty thick, grows pretty fast, and, considering the fact that I will turn 50 this year, not very grey. There are a few grey strands in the front temple area, but really not many. 

It's more like I just know I have hair,

     It keeps my head warm.

     It requires a bit of time every morning so that I don't scare people.

     And it needs cutting way too often.

I think my indifference to my locks began at birth. I was the first daughter born to my parents after they had three sons. Just 11 months before my birth one of my older brothers died of pneumonia. And then, I was born with a head of thick, fairly long black hair.

I was also born with a tumor the size of a thumb on the left side of my head.

My parents were understandably upset. Half my head was shaved of the dark, thick hair and the tumor, which was benign, was removed.

Fast forward a few years to when I was about 7 years old. I was helping my Dad process eggs.  We had a big machine that took eggs through candling, washing, weighing, and cartoning ready for the store.  I helped put the eggs in the cartons after they came off the weighing machine.  I think I probably had to go to the bathroom, so I went to ask my Dad if I could leave to do my thing.  My Dad was in the candling booth, a spot that was curtained off so that darkness allowed you to see through the eggs moving over the bright lights. There was a hole in some plywood next to the curtain.  I stuck my head through the hole to talk to my dad and my long hair dangled into the gears.  I suddenly felt my hair being ripped out by the roots, and I SCREAMED!!!  It all happened so fast. The next thing I remember was my Dad carrying me up to the house where he laid me in the couch.  I had a bald spot about an inch and a half in diameter almost in the same spot where my surgical scar was from my tumor.

I guess I learned pretty young not to get too attached to my hair, because it can suddenly be gone. 

One example of my indifference was right before my wedding.  I took my two little sisters with me to get haircuts for the big day.  The guy who did the job only had time to cut hair for two of us. I told him to cut my sisters' hair. I went the next day to a beauty college and had a newbie do mine.  It wasn't a great job, and in retrospect I really think I should have had my hair cut first by the pro and taken one of my sisters to the rookie. But at the time I really didn't mind.

Another example happened one day when I went to get it cut.  I never knew (and still don't) how to tell them to cut it.  So I just said, "surprise me."   And they did.  It was pretty darn short.  They only thing I didn't like about it was that it was out of balance for my body.  I felt like a bowling pin.

Now my relationship with my hair seems to be one of resignation.  I have resigned myself to the fact that the darn stuff keeps growing.  I have to keep going back and having it done over and over. 

And it's starting to hang in my eyeballs again, so the time is at hand. 

I admit it,  I'm a goofy Grandma to Nathan, now  4 months old.  I'm also a goofy "mom" to Oscar now 2 1/2 years old.  They are similar in a couple of ways.  And very different in most others. 

Nathan loves his grandma.  He usually smiles whenever he sees me, even in the middle of a cry.  That makes me feel pretty.  Pretty darn good.  Maybe it's because I'm not above pulling ridiculous faces at him, or talking to him in a squeaky high cartoony voice, or .....  basically losing all my dignity when I'm around him.  It's also a lot of fun to touch his soft skin and hold toys up in front of him so he can reach out and grab them.

Oscar loves his "mama'.  He can't wait to greet me when I come home, whether I've been gone an hour or all day.  He will follow me around from room to room, plopping at my feet wherever I stop.  After he goes out the dog door and comes back in he has to search me out and wag his tail as if to say, "I went outside and did my business. Aren't I a good doggy?"

Only a lot of the time, he isn't.

Oscar is a Lhasa Apso. I heard a news commentator do a human interest story this week about the popularity of cross-bred dogs, such as the cock-a-poo.  He ended his piece saying that if they ever breed a Lhasa Apso with a poodle he's not getting one, no matter how popular they are.  No way is he going to have a "Lhasa Poo" running around on his new living room carpet.

Anyway, this breed is quite independent, not real good at taking commands, and territorial.  It's a great breed to have when you are working.  They don't mind being left to their own devices for a long period of time.  They are also great at warning me when someone is approaching our house, (as long as I lock him up before I answer the door). He's very comical and can mimic the sounds "E.T." made in the movie like a pro.  He has a pet kitty named "Gandalf Salrong Mitchell the Grey" (don't ask) AKA "Spike".  He's known as Spike because Oscar is always chewing on his head making his fur stand up like a punk rockers.  I think Spike likes it, though, because when Oscar finally lets him go and starts to walk away Spike will jump after him and attach himself to Oscar's back leg.

He also has a naughty streak.

I don't trust Oscar around Nathan, not one little bit.  Not because he's ever tried to hurt him, but I've just read too many stories. 

On Thursday morning when I was watching Nathan I was playing with him and his little stuffed dog.  It was about the size of a beanie baby and very soft.  Nathan loves that dog and we were having a good time.  Then Oscar saw the toy.  He kept trying to jump up and grab it out of my hands.  I was holding Nathan and trying to get ready for work.  I knew I couldn't put that toy anywhere near Oscar.  First, I stuffed it in my bag.  Then when I went to sit down for a minute with Nathan I put it behind my back on the chair.  Oscar knew where it was and just sat there watching me.  I was pretty sure I put the toy in the diaper bag when it was time to go.  I strapped Nathan into his seat and took him and the bag out to the car.  I double checked for the toy and it was gone!

I made a real quick trip back through the house looking for it and couldn't find it.  I was so puzzled but I had to get to work.  I felt awful about losing Nathan's favorite toy and thought I would have to go buy him another if I couldn't find it.  That night after work I came home and looked everywhere.  It wasn't there.  Oscar just kept following me from room to room like he always does.  I confronted him a couple of times and demanded to know where the toy was.  He was mute on the subject.

I finally gave up the hunt and started to prepare for bed.  I wanted to shift the laundry before I retired for the night, so I went  in the laundry room.  Oscar followed me in as usual, stared at me for a minute and then went out his dog door.  That was common while I was doing laundry so I didn't think anything about it.  I was still folding clothes when he came back in a minute later and didn't pay any attention to him as he left the laundry room. 

 When I finished my job and left the room to go to bed I happen to glance into the living room. There was Oscar sitting in the middle of the living room floor with the stuffed dog right in front of him. 

He had hidden it outside!

What a dog.

My husband has 25% hearing. If you want to know how large a loss that is you should get some foam ear plugs, the kind I use so I can sleep while significant snoring goes on, and insert them deeply into your ear canals.  Wait until they expand to their fullest and listen to the sounds diminish.

I learned later that my parents were concerned about me marrying someone with such a disability.  It's kind of strange, but I've never really considered him disabled. 

He was born back in the mid-50's in Seattle six weeks early.  His mother had RH negative blood and since Mike was the second child he was the one his mother's immune system tried to "destroy".  He was extremely ill when he was born, and had to have a total blood transfusion.  He was one of the first newborns to undergo this "new" technology.  For years the doctors called him the miracle baby. They don't know really why he had aural nerve damage, only that he had it from birth. Doctors suggested to his parents that they send him to a special deaf school, but they decided not to.  As much as they were able, they mainstreamed him in school and in life. 

Mike was expected to do the same things "normal" kids were doing.  He attended regular school most of the time.  He didn't do too well with his grades, but his elementary teachers loved him.  His mischievious personality showed when he once stuck a pencil, business side up, on the seat of the annoying kid next to him. When that poor unsuspecting boy sat down he managed to impale himself on the pencil point. He rose quicker than he sat, while the pencil dangled beneath his, now smarting, rear.  Mike had to go to the principal's office, and much to his delight, the wounded boy had to have his rear-end checked for "lead poisoning".  Even now, 40 years later the memory of that day brings a smile to Mike's face. 

Mike was a very dedicated athlete.  As a sophmore weighing about 130 he was put on the Varsity football team.  His coach put him on the line even though he was severely out-weighed.  His determination and tenacity helped him bring down many a bigger fellow.  When he wrestled in High School as a sophmore he was once pitted against an undefeated senior.  He refused to give up, eventually winning the match even though it sapped so much of his strength that he was unable to stand on his own for quite a while afterward.  He took third place two years in a row at the state wrestling tournament.  Then he went to college.

He graduated from college in 5 years, not too bad considering he flunked botany....twice.  He just couldn't get all those scientific names straight. And he went to graduate school. While there he had to take a test given by the Vocational Rehabilitation Services.  His hearing aids were breaking and we were poor grad students.  Vocational Rehabilitation would pay for new hearing aids if he took this test.  His competitive nature shined as he made sure he completed the test ahead of everyone else in the room.

And then he became a school teacher. And then added the job of city recreation, and then the job of juvenile probation tracker. When he was managing the city swimming pool he held lifegaurd tryouts.  The applicants were to swim fast, far, and quickly retrieve heavy objects from the bottom of the pool.  He had 20 years on most of those trying out, and took the trials right along with them.  His was the best time in every category.

He talks with an accent.  People are always asking him where he's from.

He doesn't always pronounce all his words correctly.  But they're close enough.  Sometimes we try to correct him and sometimes not. 

And he's never felt sorry for himself.  He just works harder than everyone else.  Once in a while he will have a student who tries for sympathy.  "But it's harder for me than everyone else." and Mike will tell them they just have to work harder than everyone else.

One day I came home from work feeling a little testy.  I walked into the house to find the noise unbelieveably LOUD.  I yelled at my daughter, "who's the deaf person watching TV?"  She looked at me in shock and said softly, "Dad!"  I felt pretty foolish.  I wasn't expecting him to be home at that time, and I don't normally think of him as being a deaf person.

It can be a trial. There aren't any whispered secrets. I sometimes have to toss a shoe his way to get his attention. And he swears he never did hear any of our babies cry in the middle of the night.

But he's a good man, a good role model for our children, and I would marry him again.

I think I may have goofed. It’s an unintentional goof, but I feel badly about it just the same.

As some of you may know I go with my Mom and Dad to his Oncologist so that I can take notes on what was discussed. I then write up my notes into an e-mail and send it out to our family in Idaho, Utah, Alaska, and where-ever Brian may happen to be in his big rig. It is a system that works nicely; keeps the family informed on the facts without Mom and Dad having to explain things 7 times. The doctor’s office also appreciates it. They said there are a lot of families who won’t speak to each other, so they call the doctor one at a time and expect a long explanation. I think our system is much more efficient.

The problem that I’ve discovered (with me doing this) is that I just report the facts as I hear them. I was unaware of how cold and depressing they were coming across. I just sent another report off yesterday afternoon, and today I’ve heard from two different family members how bleak it sounded.

Wait a minute. I was there, and I didn’t feel like things were hopeless. Yes, the doctor said his myelodysplasia had a 50% chance of turning into leukemia within 6 months and that the treatment for that is pretty intensive and rough, but I got the feeling from the doctor that he wasn’t so sure dad would get leukemia. He made it sound like if they did nothing Dad would get it, but if they followed these treatments they could probably avert it.

I got so caught up with reporting the nuts and bolts that I forgot to add the seasoning.

There is a lot of hope. Medicine is SO much farther advanced that it once was. One nurse told us that just a few short years ago chemo drugs made just about everyone very sick. One of her patients would start to throw up if she even saw that nurse in the grocery store, the association was so strong. Now most patients don’t even experience naseau, I know my Dad didn’t. New treatments and miracle drugs are being discovered all the time. Dad’s doctor told us about a new drug that is starting to be used for myelodysplasia. One of its main ingredients is ARSENIC! And it’s having great results.

My dad’s health situation is far from hopeless. I need to be a little better at conveying that to my family, including my Dad who reads this blog. We plan on him being around for quite a while yet. There are still a lot of memories to be made.

Never Say Never or The Blending of Families

One of Life’s Enriching Experiences

….Continued from Previous Blog Entry:

My taste in music while growing up leaned toward the softer side of rock.

I listened to the Bee Gees, The Lettermen, and Simon and Garfunkel. I liked the Beatles, but that was pretty far out for me. I was into the really mellow stuff.

Then I met my future husband. Mike was and still is a real rock and roller. He played a mean air-guitar and had a collection of records a mile high. These were HARD CORE rock musicians. I was exposed to things I had run from in my pre-Mike life. Not only was Mike into the edgier music, but he has a 75% hearing loss since birth, so his music was played LOUD!!! When your spouse is listening to his tunes while wearing headphones and you can still hear every guitar, bass, and vocal note clearly that is what I consider loud. And he rarely used headphones.

Needless to say, I had some adjusting to do.

And I did.

There are some pretty cool songs out there in Mike’s music land.

Being a soft-ballad easy-listening sort of gal I used to endure my dad’s classical music.

He labeled himself a music snob, holding dear to Bach, Beethoven, Handel, and Mozart

while eschewing frivolous old masters like Tchaikovsky, Grieg, and Bizet.

Every Sunday, while the aroma of pot roast wafted through the house, strains of one of the “great masters” would float through the air. The association was so strong that for years whenever I heard The Messiah, or Fifth Nocturne, or any of the pieces from the Anna Magdalena Notebook I would smell roast beef. I took piano lessons for about 10 years. I always groaned when my teacher would assign a Bach two or three-part Invention. Mozart wasn’t any more fun. I kind of liked playing the Sabre Dance just because it was so bangy and loud. I wasn’t what you would call a finesse player.

Then, I grew up. My tastes started to change. While searching on the radio for a good station I would find myself lingering at the classical radio station. Then I used one of my radio preset buttons for it. Then, one day I bought a classical tape (CD’s were still in the distant future), and then later I bought a few more. Easy listening took a back burner. Every once in a while I would fire it up, but less and less so over the years. My taste in music gradually evolved. I loved listening to symphonies play. The rich sound of combined instruments playing harmoniously left me spell bound. While a single violin playing a concerto sounded screechy and grating to me, I was able to enjoy ensemble music a lot. Now I would state emphatically that classical is MY genre. If I turned the radio on at all it was to a classical station. If I wanted to be energized I listen to Rimsky-Korsakov, or Kabalevsky, or Prokofiev. I feel a connection to most of Saint-Saëns and Vivaldi, and I’ve recently discovered Glass. My classical tastes are wide and varied. There’s not much out there I really don’t like.

Except at one time I really didn’t care for opera music. I saw an opera once and thought it was just okay, not great. I was glad I knew the story, though because I could at least follow what was going on even though it was all sung in Italian. Whenever my favorite classical station would play operatic songs I would quickly turn the radio off. I preferred silence to what I perceived as embarrassing over-vocallization. I couldn’t get the picture of the large mezzo with pointed bosoms and large horned head-piece out of my head. And then I discovered Beverly Sills, and then Pavarotti, and my mind-set began to modify.

Good thing, too, because fate once again stepped in and brought opera home to me in a big way. My son, David, married a wonderful girl named Emily. Emily’s mother is an opera singer. She also teaches voice at 2 universities. I will have to admit that the first time I went to one of her concerts the sheer volume and power of her voice was a little disconcerting.

As you may be aware, if you have read any of my recent blogs, my daughter Lisa just became engaged to a country singer. His family performs all over and is in the process of moving their base to Branson, Mo. (Country music capital of the world right behind Nashville.)

If you had told me when I was growing up that I would love classical music, and be related to opera and country singers I would have wondered what you had been smoking. I’m so grateful, though, for these enriching experiences. The tapestry of my world is wide and varied. What is to come? I still have 3 unmarried children. Maybe we’ll have a rapper (yikes), or an Austrian yodeler (cringe), or someone I haven’t even begun to dream of join the family.

I can’t wait.

My mother grew up a big city girl.  Her life was definitely urban with streetcars, ferry commutes, and the hustle and bustle of busy metropolitan living.  She was raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, a beautiful place that we children couldn't wait to visit.  During one of our trips, after crossing the border my father had to endure hearing his children gush over and over, "We're in Caa-naa-da" like we had just seen the holy grail or something.  Finally in disgust he said, "Well it's not heaven!"  But honestly, I think we thought it was. 

Crossing the border was always an adventure.  Years after my American-naturalized mother tried to cross, the border guard discovered she was Canadian born and almost didn't let her back in the country.  She failed to have her proof of citizen-ship with her.  One crossing that I remember was in a station wagon that was filled to the brim with my mother, father, and 6 children.  My mother  was pregnant  with another child and tried to sit hunched forward to mask the condition.  The patrol officer slowly looked over our burgeoning car and drawled, "Are these all yours, or is it a picnic?"  My dad said, "They're all mine and it sure isn't always a picnic." He let us pass.

Update: I just talked to my mother after she read this blog.  She informed me that the guard actually said something a little more embarrassing.  He actually asked her, "so what else do you do for fun." 

But, back to my city-bred mother.  While she was growing up she loved to spend time with her grandmother Burrell.  During some of their discussions the subject of "things you would never do" came up.  I guess the reason this was discussed was because Grandma Burrell's daughter, (my mom's mother) always hated the name "Ernest".  She always stated how much she disliked the name.  As fate would have it she ended marrying an Ernest, had a son which she also named Ernest, and had a grandson named, you guessed it, Ernest. 

Grandma Burrell found out that my mother's idea of the worst thing that could happen is that she would marry a farmer.  Especially a farmer that had chickens, and oh yea, my mother really didn't care for the name "Norman" either.  You probably already guessed that she married a dashing young chicken farmer named Norman, who wisked her away from Beautiful British Columbia to Idaho Falls, Idaho.

After hearing this story many many times while growing up, I would categorically state that I would never, never:

     #1 Marry a guy who had a lot of money.

     #2 Travel all over the world.

     #3 Have only joy in my life and no pain.

My wish came true.  

I thought I was being so clever stating aloud the things I secretly wished for, trying to trick fate into giving me my desires instead of teaching me valuable life lessons by putting on my plate things I really did not care for.

Like olives,

and cottage cheese,

and raisons,

and pineapple.

Life has a way of knowing what you need, and giving it to you.  Some people rail and fight against these changes and refuse the growth that was intended for them.

I was that way.  I grew up extremely sheltered.  I lived in a small town where 98% belonged to the same religion I did, where the only race in town was white (except for one black man who was the minister for the other 2% of the town).  My life was truly orthodox in the way my beliefs were molded. There was no drinking alcohol and no smoking nor any of the other "vices" that some people do. When I married, it was to a man who had converted to my religion the week before I met him.  His family was crusty, swearing, drinking, gambling, hard-working, honest, fun people.  I felt so overwhelmed by them at first.  More than once I wondered how in the world I had ended up in such a family.  While visiting them in Seattle, one Sunday in particular, I remember feeling a little out of sorts because I wasn't able to go to church. Seafair was on and they were taking bets on which boat would win.  I just wanted to escape from the smoke-filled house and the gambling, so I went out and sat in our car.  After a while someone found me and informed me that they had put my name on a boat, named "Miss Budweiser" or something like that, and that my boat won!  They wanted to give me my winnings. I had to laugh at the irony.

I've been a member of that family for about 27 years now and I'm glad of it.  Whereas many of the children in this small town we still live in are sheltered and orthodox and pretty cliqueish and narrow-minded when it comes to people outside of our religion, my children have grown up knowing how good people are across the board and in ever walk of life and circumstance.  I never would have chosen this, but now I'm glad.

There have been other lessons.

Music lessons.

Not the kind you practice for and endure because your mother wants you to learn to play.

But the kind of lessons you can learn from learning to appreciate beauty in a variety of ways.

When I was young there were certain kinds of music I hated.  Yes HATED!!!

I'm embarrassed to admit this because of what's happened, and how I've changed.

     How I've learned to appreciate,

                                   enjoy,

                                   and even LOVE  these genres now!

#1_String Music - especially violin.  What was once screechy grating "music", has transformed into clear beautiful tones that lift my soul.

#2_Operatic singing - What I once found embarrassing to listen to I now find amazing.  The human voice is so expressive.

#3_Country music - When I was in high school it was totally "uncool" to like this music.  I was adamant about not liking "goat-roping" twangy honky tonk tunes.  I'd think "just shoot me now" if you're going to force me to listen to this stuff.

I have changed.  I have sampled and sampled until I've acquired a taste for it. No, a HUNGER for it. 

Just like cottage cheese

and pineapple.

Now I can't get enough.

Tomorrow: Classical, Opera, and Country: The Blending of Families

60 above zero;

Floridians turn on the heat.

People in Idaho plant gardens.

50 above zero;

Californians shiver uncontrollably.

People in Boise sunbathe.

40 above zero;

Italian and English cars won't start.

People in Idaho drive with the windows down.

32 above zero;

Distilled water freezes.

The water in Pocatello gets thicker.

20 above zero;

Floridians get coats, thermal underwear, gloves, and wool hats.

People in Idaho throw on a flannel shirt, flip flops, and shorts.

15 above zero;

New York landlords finally turn up the heat.

People in Idaho have the last cookout before it gets cold.

zero;

People in Miami all die.

Idahoans close the windows.

10 below;

Californians fly away to Mexico.

People in Idaho get out their winter coats.

25 below;

Hollywood disinegrates.

The Girls Scouts in Idaho Falls are selling girl scout cookies door to door.

40 below;

Washington DC runs out of hot air.

People in Idaho let the dogs sleep indoors.

100 below;

Santa Claus abandons the North Pole.

Idahoans get upset because they can't start their minivans.

460 below;

ALL atomic motion stops. (absolute zero)

People in Idaho start saying "Cold 'nuff fer ya?"

500 below;

the bad place freezes over.

Rexburg Madison School District will open 2 hours late.

This is TRUE down 40 below.  (At least the Idaho sentences are true.) 100 and 460 below are patent overstatements.  Those things happen at 40 below.  The 500 below statement, however, is true.

I just spent the weekend with part of my family in Boise, Idaho for the State Boys High School Basketball Tournament.  We like to go every year, even when our home team doesn't make it in.  It's just a fun few days where we can get away from the demands of work, phones, and routines of life.  This year our high school boys happen to be pretty talented and made it to state.  They were seeded 2nd in the 5A rankings.   5A schools are the largest schools in the state.  This is the first year our school has played in the 5A rankings.  (We were just 23 students over the number required for 5A.) Our team did extremely well, even against the much larger schools from the Boise area.  We ended up winning the state title, and the sportsmanship award and the academic award (for the team with the highest GPA).  It was pretty fun to watch them excel, but that's not really what our weekend was about.  If they had lost we still would have had an awesome fun time. 

As I watched game after game after game unfold I was struck with the pattern of losing and winning. 

The game begins with both teams confident and sure.  They will have the victory, the prize.  The tip-off is the first obstacle.  Which man can jump higher and at the exact moment to assure his reaching the ball first?  One team is victorious in this small victory, but if the ball-handler's focus and skill lapse for even a second the other side is ready to snatch away the prize.

Back and forth the battle is fought at a high intensity, obvious when each player in turn takes a small respite on the bench, dripping with sweat.

An interesting thing happens as the minutes of the game tick down steadily to a conclusion.  The losing team acquires an air of desperation. Their chance of victory is slipping out of their sweaty fingers. Their desperate frenzy to win translates into sloppy out-of control playing. And the worse they play the farther behind they get causing an even greater desperation. 

The winning team has a few shots fall their way, and the euphoria of success translates into sharper passes, cleaner shots, and more determined drives.  The ref's calls seem to be more sympathetic to their cause and they are "on a roll" to victory. 

Once in a while a player on the losing team will come alive, and take off like a jet in a last-ditch effort to win. He gives it his all and somehow manages to play brilliantly even though his team is falling apart all around him. Once in a while that singular player will be able to turn around events and effect a win where a lose was once so close. How does he do it?  How can he not get entangled in the hopelessness that has his team-mates, and give his best even when he knows it might not be enough?

There are some fascinating lessons to be learned while watching state basketball.  Some of these may be translated to the life we are all living. 

~ Prepare yourself ahead of the game.

~ Don't lose hope in desperate situations.

~ Make the most of things when you're "in the zone".

and always give it your "all" so you'll have no regrets later.

I'm sure there are many more lessons to be learned. I guess the biggest one I learned this weekend is to never pass up an opportunity to do something fun with your family.  Go make some memories.