Every Life is a Story

I'm a Contributing Writer!

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 21:20:00 +0000

Utah Mama contacted me recently to write an article about the best gift I ever received. Since it was close to Valentine's Day, I wrote about my best Valentine's Day present ever. You can find the story at:

http://www.todaysmama.com/full_article.php?id=471

As far as the best gift I ever received from OTHER holidays, there are so many it's very difficult to narrow it down. I love getting presents, but like most people, the best gifts aren't anything you can ever unwrap.

A Bad Day

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 19:01:00 +0000

Last week I had a bad day. Another one of THOSE.

It started with dog vomit. A wonderful way to wake up in the morning, let me tell you. Then, after driving kids to school, I found the internet was down. BAD. I sicced my husband on fixing the internet, and I cleaned up the dog vomit. I got the good end of the deal, as it turned out.

After hearing my husband talking to a thousand different people in India to see how to fix our internet service, I left to take care of getting the emissions and safety inspection done for my car. I had delayed this to the last week of the month for a lot of reasons none of which were good enough because I had four days left to get my car registered, and both tests failed. NOW I had to get my car fixed, take it BACK to the emissions place, and try again.

Grumbling over the failed tests, I went to Sam's club to pick up contact lenses, and return my tainted peanut butter and cracker snacks. It's a great thing we didn't need our 72 hour kits this year, or we wouldn't have died of earthquake or flood, we'd have died of salmonella poisoning from eating our peanut butter and cracker snacks. On my way home, my cell phone rang. It really never does, so I was surprised, and grabbed my purse to scramble for my phone. I didn't see the red light. I missed it completely. There may as well not have been a red light there. I DID see the police car flashing his lights at me, and pulled over. I was surprised because I couldn't imagine WHY he'd be pulling me over! I received a stern warning, and was feeling pretty low and stupid as I CAREFULLY drove home to meet the piano repair man.

The digital piano getting repaired was the one good part of my day. The piano is old enough now that I can't get parts for it anymore, and the volume control was broken. I was very grateful to get my piano back. While the repair man was working, the phone rang. It was the nurse who gave me my mammogram a couple of weeks ago. She politely informed me that they "found something" and I needed to get more tests and meet with someone right away. She scheduled me for the next day, and wished me a good day.

The floor fell out from under me.

I said goodbye to the repair man, and started to shake. I KNEW in my head that it was probably going to be fine, and that there was no real reason to worry, but the rest of me wasn't buying it. I called to tell my husband, and started to cry, then talked to my best friend, and cried some more. I would have logged online somewhere to forget about things, but the internet was down, and so I puttered around the house doing nothing effective until the kids got home from school.

The dog threw up again around four in the afternoon.

Several days later, I can happily say that everything has been resolved. The dog is better. It took five days, but the internet is working again. After buying parts at Checker only to find out they were the wrong parts, and having to take the car in to the mechanic ANYWAY, then going BACK to the emissions place, I am now legal to drive my car, and have sworn away from ever trying to answer the cell phone while driving. I'm a reformed citizen. I drove all the way out to the big downtown hospital the next day. It took me half an hour to get there. It took them ten minutes to test me. They solemnly informed me that I had "fibrocystic changes", small benign calcified lumps in my breats. I knew I had those ten years ago, it's why I got a baseline mammogram five years ago. I drove all that way, and had all the stress and crying so they could tell me something I already knew. The fallout from the really bad day has left me with a cold, but other than that all is well again.

I noticed that the last time I wrote about a REALLY bad day, it was the same time of year, and it also involved vomit. I find this trend strange and disturbing, but I suppose if it continues, then I have a year before I have to endure another one. I hope.

Dungeons and Dragons

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 05:20:00 +0000

I play Dungeons and Dragons. I know, it’s true, and astonishingly enough, I am not a teenage boy, I do not live in my parent’s basement, I have absolutely no tape anywhere near my glasses, which I only wear when I’m ill, and I have never owned a pocket protector. I’ll admit when I started playing, I didn’t expect it to become a lifelong hobby, but I’m certainly not complaining.

My introduction to the game came in the 7th grade with Ben, a guy in my class who had a crush on me. One day, I noticed that he was gathered around a table in the library with a few other guys. They had books and papers, and dice, and it sounded to me like they were telling some kind of story together. Ben would describe a scene, and the boys would in turn tell him how their characters were reacting. Fascinated, I asked him what they were doing, and he told me they were playing Dungeons and Dragons.

I didn’t start playing right then, because apparently Dungeons and Dragons was something only boys played, but oh, I was intrigued. I had spent the entire previous year pretending to shoot Cylons at recess, and I was ready for something new. No, I started playing when my Home Room teacher, Mr. Byrne taught a class on how to play it. The half hour after lunch was spent in something the school called “Exploratory”. Teachers were allowed to teach something they really enjoyed like crafts or hobbies, and we could sign up for the classes we liked. Mr. Byrne actually offered a class on Dungeons and Dragons, and I HAD to sign up!

Mr. Byrne became my first Dungeon Master, the person who told the story. He taught us how to make characters. Characters had their own jobs and abilities that they brought to the game. There were types of fighters, who could use swords and other weapons to fight enemies. There were thieves who were good at sneaking and disarming traps. Magic users could use magic to cast spells, and Clerics could heal. My first character was a thief. Using a purchased adventure, Mr. Byrne carefully described to us our first dungeon. He’d tell us what the rooms looked like, and using our characters’ abilities, we would tell him what we’d choose to do. As a thief, my character took the lead, sneaking through ancient hallways to uncover traps and search for treasure. We’d run into monsters, and fight them using our character’s skills, and some dice. I was hooked. It was absolutely the best thing I had done since last year's Battlestar Galactica days.

At the end of the class, I had graduated from my first dungeon, and was ready to try something new. Thankfully, because Ben had a crush on me, he graciously allowed me to play in his game with the other guys. I joined them around the library table, and I’m pretty sure I saved their character’s pretend lives more than once.

Unfortunately, the game didn’t last forever. Ben moved to a new school, and the game dissolved. I wandered off to do other things. Occasionally, I’d have a chance to play in high school, but never in a regular steady game. If you asked me then if I’d still be playing when I was a grownup, I would have answered no. It’s funny how life changes things.

Winter activities

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 19:29:00 +0000

I hate winter. I hate snow. I hate being cold. Anybody who knows me, knows this.

Why I ended up living in Utah where there's lots of snow is a mystery. Especially considering that I live in the state where the license plates say "Ski Utah" and I don't ski. I never have. There's a very good reason for this. See the first line of this post. Now add the fact that I'm a complete klutz, and I can't see paying a ton of money for the opportunity to be cold and miserable and falling on my bottom or breaking a leg for fun. These days my favorite winter activity is standing in front of the fire.

I DID participate in one particular winter activity growing up. We went four or five times when I was a teenager, and I really did like it when I went. I went inner tubing. It's basically skiing without any control over where you're going or how fast you can go. The ski lifts at some of the Oregon resorts where I grew up would cater to inner-tubes, and our church youth group would go and have a crazy time. We would hook our innertubes to the part of the ski lift especially designed for tubes, lay down, and get a lazy ride up the hill. Then we'd turn around, and slide down. If you wanted to stop, you simply had to roll off the speeding inner tube at the end, then pay attention to where the inner tube ended up so you could go find it and start all over again.

I should note that inner tubes are infinitely more dangerous than skiing is. We had someone get hurt every single year that we went. It didn't stop us, because I think all of the high speed tumbles from the inner tubes gave us brain damage. Either way, I am now happily a cave troll all winter long, and gleefully watch my children outside in the snow from my perch in front of the fire.

Santa Shops at Shopko

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 19:37:00 +0000

When my youngest was three years old, we went shopping with my mother, my grandmother, and my sister to Shopko to grab up last minute Christmas items. As we were walking through the parking lot, a pickup truck pulled up, and a man got out. He was wearing denim overalls over a flannel shirt. He had long white hair, and a bushy white beard, and a pair of glasses perched upon a cold-reddened nose.

I blurted, before my brain could catch up with my mouth, "Oh, look! There's Santa!"

My little three year old turned and looked and cried out with absolute joy, "SANTA!!!!! Hi!!!! IT'S ME!!!!"

That sweet man turned and said, "Well, so it is! It's so good to see you! You've grown so much!"

My daugther smiled and nodded, and jabbered something about Christmas. He asked her if she'd been good, and told her he was looking forward to coming to her house in just two more nights. Then he wished her a Merry Christmas and went on to do his shopping.

My daughter's holiday had been made. She exclaimed over and over about how she had really seen Santa, and not just at the store all dressed up. She jumped up and down, and made up songs about the event. She brought it up year after year after year.

The North Pole might be hundreds of miles away, but I can say with absolute confidence that I know Santa shops at our Shopko.

Playing Pretend Some More

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 18:56:00 +0000

I've mentioned that my favorite childhood pasttime was playing pretend. It wasn't until I hit middle school, and sixth grade, however that playing pretend got really GOOD.

I had a friend named Chris who was fun and creative. She read all the good fantasy and science fiction books, and we'd have fun making up stories. I would have sleepovers at her house a lot, and we'd act out scenes from books, or stories that we made up together.

The BEST game, though, was just after Galactica '79 came out. We were both big fans of the Battlestar Galactica tv show, so when they remade the series to actually bring the Galactica to earth, we were glued to the television set. The series was awful and didn't last long, but we were in sixth grade, and had no taste. We watched EVERY episode. The basic premise was that the Galactica arrived at present day earth, and the evil Cylons had followed. So instead of just beaming everyone down to the planet, they sent some of their soldiers to work on ways to safely integrate the Galacticans with the earth population. They did this by turning invisible and talking to brilliant scientists. Like I said, we had no taste.

Chris had the brilliant idea of a secret society of scientists who worked with alien technology far more advanced than current civilization. They had already made contact with other alien races, and had a secret government funded lab where they could work on their advanced projects. She called it the EX team. We were agents of the EX team, and our cover was to pose as middle school students in an ordinary American school. When the invisible Galacticans made contact with us, we ended up trying to save the world from Cylon invaders every lunch recess in the sixth grade.

Shooting Cylons at recess ended up not being the popular activity among the other girls at school- they preferred playing jump rope. I really didn't care. I was having a great time, and there was an endless line of boys who were thrilled to play Cylons or other EX team members. Nobody EVER had as much fun at recess than we did.

My daughter came home the other day telling me about a game they were playing at school where they all had secret superpowers and were fighting bad guys at recess. You go, girl.

Playing Pretend

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 18:46:00 +0000

As a child, I had a ton of toys growing up. I had Barbies, and Fisher Price "Peoples", and board games like Battleship and Candyland. I never got an Easy Bake Oven, but when Fondue was really huge, I had Kiddie Fondue pot that melted chocolate chips for dipping. None of them held a candle to my absolute favorite toy of all time. The costume box.

My mother had an old hamper that she filled with anything that could be counted as "Dress Up" this meant that old formals, and nightgowns, and costume pieces found their way there. Really, though, while dressing up was always great, it was only what was necessary to play my favorite game- pretend.

I had an active imagination, and whenever I could get anyone to play along, then it was time to play pretend. Most of the time, we played that we were orphans or runaways, and would have to find ways to deal with the harsh realities of life on our own in my backyard. I remember running a restaurant, and playing house, and once we lived in the "Land of the Lost" populated by dinosaurs and lizardmen.

My FAVORITE pretend game, however, was Logan's Run. There was a brief television series that came out based on the movie. The premise was a futuristic society where everyone was killed once they turned thirty. People trying to escape their fate would become "runners" and be hunted down by the government. I didn't really understand the social message behind the show, I just became fascinated with the idea of ESCAPING the evil society. We had to become runners. We ran up and down my cousin's suburban street, pursued by futuristic police (all the boys). We would sneak through yards, and find hidden paths to elude our pursuers. We always got caught, and we always escaped again. At least until our Moms made us come home for dinner.

I look at toys in catalogues, and think about when my children were little, and what toys they wanted the most. Really, it didn't matter what they ended up with as presents, as long as the costume box was full...

Ultimate Horror!

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 03:24:00 +0000

In honor of Halloween, I have saved my most terrifying story for last. The story is.....

I turned 40 this month! AHHHH!!!!!!!!!

In honor of my October birthday, my dear friends remembered my love of Halloween and made me the ultimate cake. It was a tombstone, and it had dry ice set in cups in the corner so that it SMOKED. I'm pretty sure they did it because of Halloween, not about my advanced age....right guys? Guys????!???

I'll share a picture of the masterpiece, so you can all admire the artistry. Happy Halloween!

A Halloween Party to DIE for.....

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 19:09:00 +0000

One of my sister's best friends invited her to a Halloween party. Her friend, Angel, had recently married Tim, a Mortician. They lived behind a funeral home. It was Tim's job to be on call to pick up bodies. It was the perfect setting for a Halloween party.

When Janel arrived at the party, Tim was late. He'd been on call all day and had not only a pick up, but other work requirements. Everyone had arrived by the time Tim made an appearance. The party went as scheduled with food, and talking, and some games. Before long, someone mentioned that it sure would be nice to tour the funeral home as part of the Halloween party. Tim, however, shook his head, "I had a pick up today, and I can't let you near the body." People tried to convince him that maybe they could see everything BUT the room where the body was kept. At first, Tim would have nothing to do with it, but finally, he agreed.

The funeral home was dark, and everyone insisted that it stay that way. There were small security lights that allowed enough light to see. Everyone inched their way through the funeral home, looking at the coffins, at the nice parlors, and so on. Finally, in one of the back rooms, Tim stopped them, "The body is in there. I can't let you go in." That's when the phone rang. Tim had to go answer the phone, and left the entire group out in front of the "forbidden" door.

It didn't take long before someone said, "Maybe we could just stand here in the hallway and take a peek...." The door had been left partially open, so a small foot nudge gave them a look inside the dark room. It wasn't much longer before someone was daring someone else just to go in a little way. And not much longer after that before everyone was sneaking in to take a look at the body while Tim was gone.

They approached the table where the body of a young man was laid out, covered in a sheet up to his chest. Everyone was whispering, prodding each other on until they were around the table, looking at the body solemnly.

That's when the young man sat up suddenly with a shriek, arms reaching out to grab anyone close by! Everyone screamed, ran from the room, and didn't stop until they were out of the funeral home. Tim met them a short time later, laughing hysterically. He was joined not long after by the "dead" man, who turned out to be his cousin. The whole thing had been a setup from the very beginning.

Once everyone's heart rate returned to normal, they had to agree that it was the perfect Halloween prank. One my sister tells stories about to this day....

Utah Ghost Tours

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 18:46:00 +0000

For the last two years, my husband and I have taken the Salt Lake City Ghost Tour. This is a WONDERFUL experience that I highly recommend to anybody who wants a good SHIVER on Halloween. Beginning at the Denver Rio Grande in downtown Salt Lake, we boarded a tour bus that took us to many haunted locations throughout downtown Salt Lake including the Masonic Lodge, Every Blooming Thing, the Salt Lake Cemetery, and Fort Douglas. The tour guides are storytellers who recount the frightening tales of haunted Salt Lake in perfect chilling fashion. Stops are made at the cemetery and Fort Douglas so that the tourists can wander around the location in the dark.

Our first year, as we came to Fort Douglas, our tour guide told the story of the ghost, Clem, who haunts the location in full civil war uniform. She told us of the tricks he'd play, and of the many times tourist would come into the office to ask if they could get a picture with the "guy in the civil war costume" only to find that he was gone when they went back with their camera. We all got off the bus, hoping for a look at the civil war spook. As we were talking, and waiting to board the bus again, a man approached our group to ask what we were doing. He was wearing a civil war cap, and had a granddaughter in tow. He was interested in civil war history, and was intrigued at the idea of a ghost tour. We pointed out the tour guide, and told him that she could answer any questions he might have. Nodding a farewell, he approached the tour guide, and tapped her on the shoulder.

Our tour guide turned around, saw the civil war cap, and her eyes widened in surprise and fear. Her jaw dropped open, and she took a step backward. It was the ghost of Clem! Her reaction was brief, as she quickly realized her mistake. When we were back on the bus, she sheepishly continued the tour with, "Now that you've all had a good laugh at my expense...."

She had the last laugh in the end. As we finished our tour, she managed to wrap up her stories with a final parting thought that I will not give away here. It was enough to give me a few goosebumps, and my husband and I stayed REALLY close to one another as we made our way through the dark parking lot to our car. I cannot think of the ghost tour experience without experiencing a good shudder.

Next time I go, I want to take the kids.....

If you are interested, you can find more information on the ghost tours at: http://www.storytours.com/

Apples

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 04:27:00 +0000

My grandparents lived on a farm. They had apple trees and cherry trees- big old ones that were great for climbing- if you got a little boost from someone. August and September at Grandma's house meant pitting cherries, and picking apples.

One day while my grandmother was watching my sister and I, she pulled out buckets and ladders and we set out apple picking. It was a lot of fun, climbing up the ladder to try and reach all of the apples. A perfect fall afternoon.

It was especially perfect for my sister who was in preschool at the time. She told everyone that when she grew up, she wanted to be an apple picker.

She didn't become an apple picker. She's not terribly excited to hear that I have apples that need to be picked on my tree. Maybe I can convince my girls that this would be a great future career...

Brushes with Fame

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 19:13:00 +0000

My husband served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints when he was 19. Generally, when you get a mission call, it is an exciting event. A person could literally get called to serve in any part of the world. Jay was attending school here in Utah, but his family lived out in Maryland, so that's where he put in his papers. It meant that his mother got the mission call out there, and had to call him here to tell him where he was going. After that, he called me. The list of exotic locations was long, and I was just as excited as he was to find out where he was going. I was a little surprised when he told me that he was going to....the Salt Lake City Utah North Mission. He was staying right here in Utah. Where I was going to school.

We were very very good, and except for one truly accidental meeting while he was at the Missionary Training Center, we never saw each other beyond that. My packages always got to him, and his letters didn't take very long to receive, and that's as far as it went. We just never expected for him to serve in such an....ordinary place.....

It wasn't ordinary for very long. Soon after Jay left the MTC, and was placed in his first area, I got a letter from him describing missionary life, and his first companion. He wrote in his letter that his first companion, Elder Herrey, was a Swedish rock star. I thought he was kidding. His letter continued to describe Louis Herrey, who was in a band with his brothers called Herrey!. They had won a Eurovision song contest, and were well known throughout Europe. They hadn't made a debut in the United States yet, so when the time came to go on a mission, they were sent here where not many people had heard of him. He wasn't kidding. Jay was really missionary companions with a Swedish Rock Star!

Was he changed by his brush with fame and superstardom? Not really. Elder Herrey was his favorite companion. They had the same taste in music, for the most part, and Jay liked his sense of humor. They both had a strong devotion to the work that they were doing, and worked well together doing it. And that's really the way it should have been, and what serving a mission is all about.

Rock Stars aside, serving a mission in northern Utah turned out to be a wonderful experience for him. While it may have been pretty darn close to his college home, it certainly wasn't just an ordinary experience.

Teacher Moments

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 18:18:00 +0000

I taught second grade for three years before I became a mother and decided to stay home. I loved teaching, with all its ups and downs. Of course, I found that telling stories in the classroom was a powerful way to not only teach, but to get good behavior! The class always settled down for a story, and when I found myself with five minutes to spare, then I started telling a story.

I was stunned when I did the math and realized that all of the children that had been in my classroom had graduated from high school. I did NOT feel that old. How could they have grown so fast?

A few years ago at the Timpanogos Storytelling Festival, I was sitting in the crowded audience at the Scera Shell Theater waiting for Laughin' Night to start. It's a chaotic time, with people showing up hours early to get good seats. I was surprised when a lovely young woman came up to my seat from the crowd.

"Are you Mrs. Barnson?" she asked.

Surprised, I said, "Yes...."

She smiled, "I don't know if you remember me, but you were my second grade teacher. I'm Alicia..."

How could I forget her? She was in my very first class and she was lively and smart, and loved talking and doing things- something that sometimes got her in trouble. But only sometimes. Her home had burned in the middle of the school year and she had lost everything. I made very little as a schoolteacher, and was paying to put my husband through school. Money was VERY tight, but I had wanted to do something to help her situation. I used my scholastic book order points to get her a book. I'd wished I could do more...

"Alicia?! Look at you! You're so beautiful!" I really think that the joy you feel when you are reunited with someone after a time away from them is what it's going to feel like in heaven. It was a joy to see her.

"I just wanted you to know that I remember you telling us stories. It's why I come to the festival every year with my mother. I'm studying to be a teacher, and I want to tell stories to MY students. Oh, and I'm getting married!" she smiled and showed the diamond on her finger.

We talked for a little while, and she went back to her seat. I waved to her mother, a truly wonderful lady. I was stunned. There are teachers who teach for decades and never hear from any former students. I had only taught three. Hardly enough to be considered anything more than a beginning teacher. I had never expected such a gift. My stories really had made a difference.

Bad Omens?

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 17:30:00 +0000

I am not generally a superstitious person. I don't really believe that black cats are bad luck or that breaking a mirror is bad. I will occasionally toss spilled salt over my shoulder, but that's just for something to do more than actual BELIEF.

Sometimes, however, things happen that really make you wonder about bad luck or bad omens.

My husband's stepsister got married a few years ago. They planned a beautiful outdoor wedding in a lush area of Colorado right at the end of the summer. A lot of money had been spent on the wedding. Everything was planned and choreographed, right down to a romantic releasing of butterflies at the end of the ceremony.

The day of the wedding, of course it was raining. But this wasn't just a light summer rain. This was a deluge. The wedding was delayed with the hopes of the rain lightening up so that the bride could make it from the dressing room out to the pavilion without getting soaked. It didn't happen, so the bride arrived in a mad dash with umbrellas held over her head.

The ceremony proceeded as planned, with people crowding under the pavilion while tables and tablecloths were soaked beyond hope of saving. Determined to keep to their plans, they proceeded to release the butterflies, in spite of the rain. All of the children gathered around to watch the butterflies fly out of the box. When the box was opened, however, the butterflies weren't flying anywhere. It was too cold, and they just laid there. So the bride tipped the box upside down to hopefully wake them up. They fell out and flopped on the ground, unmoving.

The children, however, tense with the excitement of seeing the butterflies, all rushed in as the box was tipped up, hoping to perhaps catch a butterfly. Instead, they trampled them.

I would love to say that the wedding flourished in spite of it's disastrous beginnings, but the wedding lasted not much longer than the lifespan of the butterflies.

Maybe they should list butterflies on the list of things that bring bad luck. Like black cats, mirrors, ladders, and spilled salt.

Life on a Farm

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 19:17:00 +0000

My parents grew up on farms. They lived in a small rural town in Oregon, and lived the farm life. When they grew up, they became a banker and a teacher, and settled in the suburbs, but they never forgot their farming backgrounds.

When I was in grade school, the lure of the land was just too much for them. They decided that they wanted to get back to their farming roots, and raise us girls the way they had been raised. They purchased a 37 acre farm, and decided to build a house there.

The housing market was really bad then, and everyone told them that it would take forever for our home to sell, so we put it on the market right away. We were stunned when a week later, we had sold the house. We had a month to move, and we hadn't even dug the foundation on our new farmhouse yet. We purchased a very small trailer home and put it on our farm property, and moved in.

The farm didn't actually have a well for us to have running water when we moved in. So for a week, we went and showered at other people's houses. We had no room in the trailer, so my mother made us pick just one toy and one book each to keep. Everything else went into storage. We had bunk beds, and shared a room for the first and only time in our lives. The bunkbeds could only fit in the tiny alcove that was our bedroom if we put them in front of the closets. We had to climb onto the top bunk to open the closet doors and get to the clothing inside.

We had other farmers use our property to grow alfalfa. They planted and harvested, and we had to help them with water. So every morning and evening, we had to move the pipes to the sprinkler lines so that all of the alfalfa would get water. The pipes were very long and heavy. My mother would take one end of the pipe, and my sister and I would take the other end. My mother tried hard to carry the pipe close to the middle so that she carried most of the weight, but what she didn't realize was that her height made all the water in the pipes run down to OUR end. We got drenched. Every time.

As construction began on our home, we got used to construction vehicles coming up and down the quarter mile dirt road to where the house would be built. It was Oregon, so of course it rained a lot. After awhile, the dirt road turned into a mess of mud, and horrible ruts. It got so bad, we found we couldn't drive on the dirt road at all. We would have to park at the end of the road and walk in to our trailer- usually lugging the laundry we had to do at the laundromat, or the groceries we purchased. It was another expense and long wait while we redid the road to be more solid and driveable.

Part of our plans with the farm was of course to have farm animals. This really was fun. We had chickens, several that laid brown eggs, and one special breed that laid green eggs. It was like Easter every morning. We had rabbits- although we only had them because my mother had purchased them for her kindergarten class, and we had to keep them over the summer. We had cows, which were sometimes fun, except for the one cow that kept getting out of the fence and running around the fields so we would have to chase her down. She was one of the first we ate. We also had beehives at the far end of the field. We didn't go visit them, but we liked the idea of having them.

When Christmas came, we went to my grandmother's house and had an amazing, and huge Christmas with tons of presents. We played with them for the few days that we were at my grandparents' house, but when we returned home there wasn't room for them. They got put into storage. Until we moved into our new house, we didn't see them again.

The house was finally completed. It was beautiful, and big, and amazing. My room had its own built in desk, and was my favorite color of green. We absolutely loved our new house, and were so grateful to leave that tiny trailer behind.

Six months later, my father's position at the bank was eliminated, and he was transferred to another city in another part of the state entirely. We hadn't owned our farm and home for even a year before we had to put it up for sale and move.

After all the work, and trouble, and stress, my parents decided that maybe they were done with farm life. We found a home in town, with farmland close by, so we could drive by and look at the fields whenever we wanted to.

They were really nice to visit. But we didn't want to stay there.

Why I Don't Like to Ride the Bus

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 04:32:00 +0000

I know, it's the middle of July, and a beautiful summer. But here in Utah, we have year round schools, and school starts next week. So I'm thinking back to school already.

When I was in first grade, we moved from Corvallis, Oregon to Klamath Falls, Oregon. I was a brand new student in a brand new school in a brand new town. I attended Peterson Elementary, and I met my new teacher Mrs. Dennis. I was very nervous. Most particularly about riding the school bus. I didn't ride the school bus in kindergarten, and this was going to be my first time. I knew that on the first day of school, everyone took care of the first graders and made sure they got on the right bus, and knew when to get off. But this wasn't the first day of school. This was a few weeks into the school year, and no one was looking out for me.

My mother assured me that I would be just fine. She promised that she and my sister would be standing out where the bus was waiting for me so that I would see her and know when to get off. THAT was my biggest fear. I was afraid of missing my bus stop and not getting off in the right place. Because I had no idea where I actually LIVED, and certainly couldn't recognize it on sight yet.

When my first day ended, I boarded the bus with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I approached the big scary bus driver to explain that I didn't know where my stop was and didn't know where I lived. He said something vague that was meant to make me feel better. But I didn't. The bus left, and headed out on it's route. I watched out the window anxiously, watching for my mother. The bus made it's first stop. Some kids got off. No sign of my family. I stayed on the bus. The bus made it's second stop. No sign of my family.

Technically, I should not have gotten off of the bus. My mother had made a promise that she would be waiting for me. I had no idea where I was or where I lived. Call it intuition, or a higher power, or dumb luck, but I couldn't stay on the bus any longer. I was too upset and scared to stay, and I don't think that I cared if it was really my stop or not. I just couldn't stay. I got up, and got off the bus. I stood by the side of the road and watched the bus leave. I was alone at the bus stop, and I had no idea where to go from there. It occurred to me that I had perhaps made a huge mistake.

I waited around for about a minute, then decided to follow the other children that were walking up the street to their houses. Nothing looked familiar at all. I pretended I knew where I was going. Suddenly, I saw my mother walking down a driveway, my little sister in hand. I had gotten off at the right stop! I was so relieved! And so indignant! She was supposed to be right there! She recognized that I was upset, and apologized for being a little late. She didn't think the bus would come so fast. And then I was home, and all was fine.

But the trauma of that little moment has never left. I was never able to ride the bus comfortably on the way home, for fear I would miss my stop. Even after I knew my neighborhood intimately, and could find my way home from just about anywhere, the bus still made me uncomfortable. It wasn't long before I found a shortcut that would let me walk home in a relatively short time. My relief at not having to get on the bus was enough to keep me walking home the rest of my time at that house.

I wasn't always at a school where I could walk home easily. But I walked whenever I could get the chance. A part of me is grateful now to be close enough to the school to walk my children to school, and walk to meet them when they come home. It would stress me out to see them ride the bus.

Lucky the Bird

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 17:47:00 +0000

My mother got a job when we moved to Junction City, Oregon, and I entered the fifth grade. To help, my grandmother babysat us after school every day. They lived out in the country on what used to be a large farm, but now had a big yard, enough for a fabulous garden, fruit and walnut trees, some swings, and a chicken coup. We had just moved from a farm ourselves, and couldn't keep some of our chickens and rabbits in town. My grandparents happily cleaned out the empty chicken coup for our chickens, and built a hutch for the rabbits. That way we were able to play with the rabbits every day after school, and help feed the chickens.

One day, after my grandmother had picked me up after school, she told me that the strangest thing had happened at her house. She had gone out to the chicken coup to collect the eggs, when she found a parakeet eating the chicken feed! It had apparently been a pet at one time because it had an orange band around its leg. She caught the parakeet, and found a rabbit cage to put it in, and she thought maybe we could keep it as a pet. I was so excited to get to grandma's house and see the bird!

Unfortunately, rabbit cages aren't the best place to keep birds. It had escaped through the wider spaces in the wires. I thought that was it, but we decided to check the chicken coup again just in case- and sure enough, the parakeet had gone back to eating the chicken feed. We caught it again, and put it in a box, then called around to see if anyone we knew had a real bird cage. We found one, and put the bird inside, along with some food, and other necessities. We named him Lucky, because he was so lucky to have been found again.

Lucky was our pet for only a very short time. He had been in the wild too long, and didn't take well to being in a cage again. Not as "lucky" as we had originally thought. The chickens and rabbits didn't last much longer after that either. They were just too hard for my grandparents to take care of.

But for awhile, we were checking that chicken coop every day in case any other escaped pets showed up for a free meal.

Mother's Day Present

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 18:29:00 +0000

I know, we just had Father's Day, but sometimes the reminders of stories come up, and they can't be ignored. Today, we were in the parking lot after buying shoes, and my oldest said the magical words, "Remember that time in the first grade that I got you that coupon book for Mother's Day?" The story went like this:

When my oldest daughter was in the first grade, they made coupon books for Mother's Day. She handed it to me wrapped in a paper sack. I flipped through the book, and it had a coupon for doing the dishes, a coupon for cleaning her room, a coupon for dusting, a coupon for vacuuming and many others.

Usually, I forget to redeem the coupons, but I took her up on the vacuuming. She was very small, and I had a huge vacuum cleaner that had a water filter. You had to fill the bottom drum with water, then had to dump the muck out when you were done. It was a big chore for a small child. So, I helped her out. I got her started, showed her the basics of vacuuming and let her get to work.

She lasted a couple of minutes. She turned the vacuum off, and left it there in the middle of the living room, only a few feet of carpet actually done. I came to her and asked, "Hey, what happened? Why didn't you finish the room?"

She shrugged, "It wasn't as much fun as I thought it was."

"So....you only made coupons for the jobs you thought would be fun?"

She shrugged again, "Yup."

I didn't redeem any more coupons.

Now, today, as she was remembering the story, her version came out totally different. It came out as follows:

"Remember in the first grade when I gave you that coupon book for Mother's Day, and I had hurt my arm really bad and it was in a cast, so you only said I had to vacuum a little bit?"

My daughter has never hurt her arm, or had it in a cast. I told her MY version, and she didn't remember things going that way at all.

I was there. I'm pretty sure my version is the right one.

Boots

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:54:00 +0000

My grandfather's name was Boots. That is what everyone called him, and it wasn't until I was a teenager that I learned Boots was a nickname, and my grandfather's REAL name was Arthur Wilson. Nobody called him by his name, except once when it was mentioned at his fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was always Boots.

He got the nickname just a few days after he was born. His parents brought him home, and his older brother Timmy got a look at him, and said, "Oh, he is such a beauty." Except that my Uncle Timmy was very small, and couldn't say "beauty" properly. It came out "Oh, he is such a BOOTIE." The name stuck.

My grandfather was "Bootie" all through his childhood, but as he grew so did the name, and by the time I came along, he had been Boots for many years.

Even then, I just called him Grandpa.

Yet Another Wacky Ancestor

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 28 May 2008 19:07:00 +0000

I have posted before about the nuts on my family tree. They're my favorite part of the family tree because I can tell stories about them.

My parents have been working at a family history library for a year or so now, and have unearthed lots of interesting genealogical information. A few weeks ago, I had a message from my mother on my answering machine. It said, "Call me. Have I got a story for you!" So of course I had to call her. She really did have a story for me.

We are related to one James Madison Campbell who lived around 1846. He was a U.S. Marshall, and worked to stop cattle rustlers. According to records, he single-handedly rounded up a band of cattle rustlers early one morning. He shot them all, then settled down to eat the breakfast they had so kindly left behind for him.

We don't just have criminals in our background! We have the good guys too!

Sparkles

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 13 May 2008 19:04:00 +0000

I was just trying to be a really cool Mom.

I had seen a couple of craft projects that I thought would be a great addition to my collection of travel/wait time toys. They would be easy to make with my oldest child, and would keep her busy in the car or waiting rooms. The projects were to take small soda bottles, and fill them with various things. In one, you filled it with birdseed and inserted buttons and beeds to create a "seek and find" bottle. In the other, you put in glitter, jewels, and sequins with karo syrup and food coloring. You could then tilt the bottle back and forth and watch the sparkles flow from one end of the bottle to the other.

We had a great time making the bottles. A real bonding moment between mother and toddler. I sealed the lids with hot glue, and gave them to her to play with. They worked like a charm- keeping her busy and interested. She loved them, and kept them in her room, pulling them out to play with frequently.

Shortly after that, I found some sequins on the floor. A search found that the sequins had come from a stocking my mother had made for the baby. I was storing it in the hall closet until Christmastime. It was decorated with sequins, and the sequins had been cut off, along with some fabric. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who had done it. I asked my oldest about it, and she said, "Well, see, I collect sparkles." I had to explain that while it was FINE to collect sparkles, you couldn't just cut them off of someone else's things.

I got suspicious. What ELSE was in this sparkle collection of hers? I found the small metal box on her shelf, dripping with a sticky green liquid that was oozing down the side of her white shelves. Inside the box was the entire poured-out contents of the karo-syrup bottle. She had worked off the lid, and poured all the lovely sparkles into her collection box. She had also cut off shiny pieces off of some beanie babies her grandmother had given her, off of Barbie dresses, and one of her own dresses that had some beads attached. She'd also stolen pieces of jewelry out of the Pretty Pretty Princess game to add to the viscous sparkle soup.

I freaked out. I made her wipe up the shelves, and threw the whole mess into the garbage, giving loud lectures on how to have a collection that didn't involve stealing or cutting up things. Later I felt bad and we started a REAL sparkle collection of gems and beads and sequins that now fill a jar lamp on her nightstand. I did not replace the karo syrup bottle.

So much for just trying to be a cool Mom.

Hellish Honeymoon

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Mon, 05 May 2008 18:24:00 +0000

My parents were married in September. This was right at the beginning of hunting season, and my father was an avid bow hunter. They decided that for part of their honeymoon, they would go on a hunting trip. They were poor young newlyweds, so they borrowed a pickup truck with a canopy over the back. That way they could put blankets and sleeping bags in the pickup bed, and sleep under the canopy.

They got married, then after the reception, left to go to eastern Oregon. They found a small hotel in Oakridge, Oregon to spend their first night together. It was the first hotel they could find on the way. It was also filthy and infested. They were understandably up early to continue on to their hunting trip.

They travelled up to Hart Mountain Reservoir, way up in the mountains of eastern Oregon. They were poor young newlyweds, so they borrowed a pickup truck with a camper shell over the back. They put a plywood board down on the pickup bed, and had a foam mattress on top of that to sleep in. Thus they spent night number two. They woke up early, soaking wet, and shivering, wondering where the water was coming from. It took a few minutes for them to realize that it had gotten so cold, their breath had frozen onto the roof of the camper shell, and had dripped down onto them, getting them wet. Not wanting to stay in the camper shell, they tried to get up and fix breakfast, and found that the eggs they had packed were frozen solid. They spent a few hours hunting, and while my Dad got a couple of shots at some deer, he was unsuccessful. They were so miserable, they decided that they were done with hunting, and packed and left just as it became light.

The third night was much better, because they ended up going to Lakeview, Oregon, where my parents met with a college friend, and had dinner. It was a pleasant evening. They couldn't delay and stay long in Lakeview, because my father had a bowling tournament up in Portland the next day, and they were at the wrong end of the state. It was hard driving to get to the tournament in time.

The bowling tournament was a Pro-Am tournament, and my father got to play with some famous bowlers my parents both admired. They both had a wonderful time, and finally the honeymoon started being fun. If perhaps not terribly romantic.

Ask them about the honeymoon, however, and there is no mention of dinner with friends or bowling tournaments. It's all frozen breath and frozen eggs. Happy happy honeymoon.

May Day

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 17:59:00 +0000

When I was a little girl, May Day was still a holiday. I remember early in my elementary years seeing the Maypole dance at school assemblies as party of the May Day celebrations.

When I was in kindergarten, we lived in a house that was lined with lilac trees. One May Day, my mother got little woven baskets, cut lilacs and arranged them in the baskets, then gave them to us to deliver to the neighbors. We carried the baskets over, put them on the doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran.

I haven't seen a Maypole dance since early elementary. I certainly don't see a tradition of delivering flowers, nor do any advertisers push it. All of the advertisements are about Mother's Day now.

May Day isn't a holiday. It's a cry of distress for pilots.

Blueberries

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 18:33:00 +0000

My father served in Vietnam. He and my mother were married for three years before he was sent overseas, and she was left back in the states. She got together with a friend of hers from college whose husband was also sent to Vietnam. Together they rented a house, and my mother helped take care of her friend's baby.

Together they would look for things to send their husbands to make serving out in Vietnam easier. It was on a trip up the Mckenzie river in Oregon, that Mom found a great deal on some amazing blueberries. They were as big as her thumbnail, and the most beautiful things she had ever seen. She purchased 20 pounds of them, thinking of how wonderful it would be for her husband to come home and have all of these amazing blueberries. She washed them, put them in individual bags, and froze them, imagining blueberry pancakes, blueberry muffins, blueberry cobblers, all of the great things she would serve my Dad when he came home.

That's when she got the call from my Dad. He was in Guam, and on his way to Hawaii on leave, and she needed to meet him there. She had finished the blueberries, but wasn't prepared to leave suddenly on a trip. There was a frantic race to find and pay for the first flight out to Hawaii she could get, then pack everything she needed and get to the airport. She hadn't done her hair, or her makeup or anything. After nearly missing the flight, she managed to get on her way to Hawaii, and the two of them were reunited. After their first kiss in ages, my Mom excitedly told my Dad about the amazing blueberries she had purchased, and how she'd just gotten them frozen, and couldn't wait to give him some.

My Dad looked at her, and said, "Bernie, I hate blueberries."

The Mouse

noreply@blogger.com (Julie) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 19:37:00 +0000

My husband has already posted about our new family member on HIS blog at www.rampantgames.com. With stories, however, telling them from a different point of view sometimes means a different story...

My oldest daughter came home from her Young Women's church group excitedly asking if she could have a mouse. One of the girls there said that her sister was coming home from college with a pet mouse, and her parents said she couldn't keep it in their house. So she was asking if there was anyone who would take it. My daughter clearly wanted to say yes, she'd take it, and wisely consulted us first. My husband and I debated back and forth, and decided that if SHE was willing to assume full responsibility for the creature, then we didn't mind if she got the mouse.

The mouse arrived last Saturday, a cute furry little brown thing that slept the whole day away. It arrived with its own cage, complete with plastic running wheel, a hanging bottle of water, and some food. My daughter was thrilled, and made a place for it in her room in spite of the smell. Some air freshener made that more palatable, and we all happily introduced ourselves to the new pet. The only person who had a problem with the mouse was our dog. She knew there was a living thing in the cage on my daughter's dresser, but couldn't see it from her low to the ground vantage point. She HATED it that we were all standing around looking at the living creature that wasn't HER, and whined and fussed whenever anyone got close to the mouse.

We were out with friends Saturday night, and didn't get home until very very late. We had early morning activities, so we quickly went to bed and fell asleep. I remember having a dream that someone was pouring marbles on the roof of the house. It morphed into a serious hailstorm, and I was wondering in my dream if there was really a storm going on outside. I woke up shortly after that to hear the dog whining, and glanced at the clock- 3:30. I'd had two hours of sleep. I blearly staggered out of bed and let the dog out- that's usually what she wants. I had enough presence of mind to check her water. If she didn't want to go out, that's usually the NEXT thing she wants. I let the dog back in, and went back to bed.

My husband spoke as I crawled back into bed, "The mouse woke you up too, huh?" The mouse? It was my dream and the dog that woke me up, not the mouse....and that was when the mouse hopped on his plastic wheel and began to run. It sounded JUST like marbles being poured out on the roof of the house. The dog went insane. She started to whine and run back and forth between the two bedrooms trying to tell us that there was something GOING ON over in the other bedroom. She hadn't needed to go out at all. It was all the mouse. We had known that mice were nocturnal, but hadn't really thought about what that meant when we signed on for the new pet.

I went back to sleep finally, but ended up waking again and again as the night went on, unused to hearing the loud wheel. The next day was awful because it was a busy day, and I was exhausted. We're a few nights into it now, and I've only been awakened by the mouse a couple more times. The dog has gotten used to it, and I think my oldest is ignoring the sound better now too. Still, we might be visiting the pet store to see if there's such a thing as a QUIET wheel....something I'll probably have to pay for given my daughter's limited income and her need to provide things like, oh, FOOD for the rodent.

So much for her taking sole responsibility.