Here and Gone

I haven't posted for a while.  

I skipped over Thanksgiving, overwhelmed by all the things I'm thankful for.

I was too busy for Christmas.  Too busy having fun to pick up the camera.

We traveled South for New Years, and found there was more snow and colder temperatures there.  More fun and family too though.

We came back, bringing the cold with us (and the colds that inevitably come when large groups assemble for the holidays).

Then, my grandma died.

I wasn't going to go at first.  I don't care for funerals, and it's a long trip to L.A.. How could I leave my little family for a weekend while the kids are sick?

But that night I sat down at the piano, and I knew I needed to go.  I needed to play at my grandma's funeral.  I could feel that she wanted me to.

We used to play duets.  She would send me music. I made copies of my music for her.  It was a special bond we shared. To my knowledge, I was the only grandchild who stuck with the piano. It pleased me to see how happy it made her.  Often, she would cry.

What should have only taken 6 hours to drive, took me eleven.  It was a bad storm.  Roads closed, and I had to take an alternate route, often going half the speed limit.  For most of the trip, no lines on the roads were visible, just white and grey.

I think my mother-in-law felt I was throwing my life away. "If you stop now, I will pay for a hotel... You've got people who count on you... those sweet babies need their momma!"

Despite the fear, I felt peace that I would make it ...eventually.

And I did.  First to my parent's home, then another 11 hours to CA in a van with a few of my siblings.

We stayed at her place, sleeping on couches and uncomfortable hide-a-beds.

Except for a little cleaning my aunt did, it was just as she left it.
I wandered around my grandmother's house, noticing things I had never noticed before, remembering things long forgotten.

I think she planned to live to 100 considering all her plans and projects.  Her body betrayed her in the end.

The funeral was well attended, mostly by her numerous posterity.  Not all were there, but she had 6 children, 34 grandchildren, and 85 great grandchildren!  What a legacy. 

My mom and others spoke.  We all cried, but laughed a little too.  I played, although the music notes got a bit bleary at times.

They laid her body to rest on a hill under a majestic oak.

I am so glad we visited my grandparents earlier this Spring so that my kids could meet her.

It was no coincidence that we went this year.  I didn't think the sense of urgency was for her though.  I kind of thought it would be our last chance to see my grandpa.  He's still kickin' -although in an assisted living center.
Now I wish I had spent more time talking to her.

But life's too short for regrets.

The morning before we left, I went out back and looked at her forlorn patio flowers. From the outside I took in the view of her glass bottle-lined windowsills and lacy curtains for the last time. I hadn't realized I was humming but suddenly the words to match the melody came into my head and I choked.  "Wishing you were somehow here again..."

She wouldn't want me to be sad.

I doubt she is. She is free from physical pain and suffering.
Not to mention that with previously departed family members and all the genealogy she did, I bet she had quite the welcome on the other side.

I took home a bucket containing a several bulbs of beautiful Amaryllis plants.  A silly thing to do, but I couldn't see why it had to die, just because she did.

Things like that, should be enjoyed and appreciated while you have it.

Like life.

Or a delicate frost that's here and gone.

Soup's On!

It's been getting colder, and we all know what that means... Soup Season is here!

Actually, I have to admit this is warmed up V8.  My kids call it "Soup Juice" and prefer it warm. Go figure.
I'm not going to argue since it has a third of the sodium and way more vegetables, and now I've found that I like it better than regular tomato soup as well.

I haven't always loved soup.  When I go to a restaurant, the last thing I would consider ordering is soup.  Of course, we didn't have a lot of soup growing up.  Chicken noodle soup was about the only thing I knew,  perhaps a few creamy soups like cream of broccoli and clam chowder (what's the difference between a chowder and a soup?) and I suppose you could call New England Boiled Dinner "soup." Other than that it was just a can of Campbell's here and there, but soup in general was one of those things my dad didn't care for so we didn't have it very often --like Mexican food.  Random fact about me... I had never eaten at a Mexican restaurant until I was on my mission in Poland. Polish Mexican food is very different from American Mexican food (as in, I don't think Americans put curry on their taco salad), which I'm sure is very different from real Mexican food (pretty sure they don't use curry there either) but I wouldn't know. As a side note, Polish Chinese food is way different from American Chinese food, which I'm sure is nothing like actual Chinese food, but what puzzles me is that they all employ Chinese chefs, so.... yeah.

Anyway back to soup.

On my mission I learned to love soup. I love Polish soups, (most of them) Cucumber soup being one of my favorites, and there were many more that I didn't even know what was in them but they sure hit the spot in the winter after walking around all day in the freezing cold.  I even had tomato soup made from, like, real fresh tomatoes!!  (I know, blows your mind.) It was fabulous! However, when I got back to the states, I forgot about my love of soup, and went back to eating like I always had (with the exception of eating at more Mexican restaurants --the very Americanized kind like Bajios and Costa Vida and Cafe Rio).  However, last Spring I was in charge of a Relief Society dinner, and what did we serve?  Soups! Several Ladies brought crockpots full of their favorite soups and we got to taste them all.  It revived my love for soups. Not only that, but it even snowed for the occasion and we all know there isn't anything better than hot soup on a cold day!

So where was I going with this.... Oh yeah.  So it's been getting cold here, and the other day I felt like eating soup.  I had also read this book to the kids recently (which is an awesome book, and seriously could solve a lot of the world's problems if we could all live by it --think Zion here) and it sparked a memory in me.

When I was in joy school, (a fancy name for a neighborhood preschool co-op), we read this story and then the lady who was in charge that day actually made Stone Soup right in front of our eyes.  I was flabbergasted that she would actually put a rock in her pot!  I remember eating the soup and (besides worrying about the dirt that most likely came off the rock) thinking it was the best tasting thing in the world (perhaps it was the novelty of it, or perhaps the fact that it wasn't Campbell's had something to do with it as well).  Anyway, the memory has stuck with me ever since, along with the principle the book was teaching, and so I decided to make Stone Soup with my children.
When I first suggested the idea to my kids they were excited, but then my very pragmatic 5 year old informed me, "but rocks are not good for us to eat. It would be bad for our bodies."
True. Very true. So I explained and we scrubbed a nice sized stone that he found outside very well before putting it in a pot (one that doesn't have teflon).

That's no potato.

I roughly went by the ingredients mentioned in the book which included water, salt and pepper, carrots potatoes, cabbage, beef, barley, and milk. I say "roughly" as in I used carrots and potatoes, however I also used vegetable broth with just a little bit of water, celery instead of  cabbage, Polish sausage instead of beef, evaporated milk instead of fresh milk, (I was basically cleaning out the leftovers in my fridge) and no barley (ew), but I added some chopped up spinach. It turned out to be delicious!  I was quite pleased with myself. Who knew soup could be so easy?  It was somewhat reminiscent of Zuppa Toscana (which is something I've heard is served Olive Garden, but like I said, I don't order soups at restaurants I was introduced to it at the R.S. dinner).

The kids said it was yummy (although they had to be coerced to finish their bowls), and my 5 yr old said, "I must have picked a good rock!"

So much for them getting the point of the book.

I tried to explain that it was the townspeople working together and sharing the little they had that created something wonderful that none of them could have created by themselves and that applies to more than just feeding the hungry, of course... but I could see I was going over his head again and finally told him that yes, he picked a very tasty rock.

Perhaps someday he'll understand the concept.

If you want an even greater understanding of the subject (not soup but cooperation and pitching in for the greater good) here's a great talk that I would suggest reading.

Mottled Chameleon

So, I'm having a bit of a blog-identity crisis.

I don't feel that I've kept with the original purpose of this blog, and so when I sit down to write I start feeling all sorts of anxieties and things that try influencing what I post or how it will come out.  Some of it has to do with other blogs I read and how they rub off on me, some of it has to do with what I think other people expect of me, some of it has to do what I expect of myself, and some of it has to do with how I'm feeling in general.

Maybe it's my own identity crisis.

I remember a saying on the wall of a high school English class, right next to the plaque that read "Eschew Obfuscation," but that's beside the point. This other wall hanging read:

I AM

WHAT I THINK

OTHERS THINK

I AM

I don't know who first said this, but it has plagued me for years because I often feel that I fit this description perfectly.  I say plagued, because whenever I fall victim to other people's opinions of me (good or bad), whenever I feel like I am just playing a part to fit in or to keep up appearances, or whenever I listen to the voices inside my head that tell me I have no personality of my own, no original ideas, and that I am just a sad imitation of those whom I admire... this saying comes to mind.

I mean, have you ever had someone ask you if you're feeling sick, or if you've been crying, and suddenly you really do feel sick, or your eyes start welling up even though you're not sad in the least?  It's like being a victim of the force. Please tell me I'm not the only one this happens to.   

To explain this phenomena, aside from the inference that I'm a mindless twit that can be easily swayed by the merest suggestion, when someone asks me if I've been crying --which I rarely do, (okay, rarely did before I had three pregnancies) I suddenly start wracking my brain to think of reasons they would think this and feel sorry for myself, or else I start think of reasons I might have to cry (whether real or imagined) and that inevitably makes get teary-eyed, or sometimes I'm simply touched that someone would go out of their way to ask me something personal, so I start crying. Makes sense right?  

Don't answer that.

So on my mission, soon after arriving in the country and meeting my Mission
President for the first time, he interviewed me to get to know me a bit and assigned me a companion (probably not on the spot, I'm sure he had decided previously and was just seeking confirmation). I don't know what my MTC teachers had told him about me, and I do believe he was working on inspiration for the most part, but in the course of our conversation he labeled me as "bold" and told me that he was putting me with a sister who was meek and timid and could use someone to help her be more bold.

Me?  Bold?!

Now, I may have been outspoken and tactless at times, and perhaps even a little stubborn, but that does not equal bold.  I was anything but bold, especially when it came to sharing the Gospel --which honestly terrified me --especially in a foreign language!
But, bold he thought I was, and so bold I became.  Not always in the best ways mind you --I think I bowled her over and nearly drove her insane.  Poor sweet sister.  She didn't know what to do with me.  I told the elders off, I repeated offensive phrases I had learned to old men who hit on me, and I flatly refused to make phone calls until I could understand what the person was saying on the other end.  Yeah, I was that kind of trainee.
On the other hand, when paired with a companion who the President mentioned was "another red-head" (in the stereotypical sense of the word) and that he thought it might prove interesting (although I didn't consider myself a red-head --maybe auburn or chestnut, but not red), I found that my brand of "boldness" to be useful in not letting her push me around, keeping her out of trouble with the elders (yeah, she was that kind of sister), plus it motivated me to learn the language better so she couldn't do all the talking ...er, I mean, so I could explain what she was really trying to say.   I was paired with her three separate times on my mission, and I truly believe that if I hadn't been my "bold" self, she wouldn't have finished out her mission.
Despite my inner conviction that I wasn't bold, just stubborn, I did however come to recognize how the Mission President's view of me hadn't been so far off after all. Less than half way into my mission, a new companion and I met with a girl we had only taught once before (actually another companion taught her while I took care of a drunk guy in the lobby but that's a whole other story). She had come to see a baptism of another investigator, and afterwards we had our second discussion. Things were going so well, and as I bore my testimony I felt inspired to invite her to be baptized.  She said "yes" and we set a date and she was baptized four weeks later. She was what we call "golden." I didn't think much of it, since it happened so naturally, but later after my mission I learned that an elder who was present at that meeting had written to my parents to say how impressed he was with my boldness.  And it hit me.  Either my mission president had been right all along, or I became that way because that's what was expected of me.  Either way, that's who I was.

Sorry, where was I going with this?  Oh yeah.

I remember writing in my mission journal how much I felt I changed with each companion.  Some were meek, so I was loud, some were pushy, so I was stubborn, some were cool, so I was nerdy, others were nerdy, and well, I was still nerdy. Some were shy so I took charge, some were beautiful and I the ugly duckling, some were troubled and I was calm, some were old and well... okay so I couldn't blame being young on my personality fluctuations, but perhaps my own immaturity was more apparent, I don't know.  I wondered to myself if choosing an eternal companion would be essentially choosing my eternal identity.  There was hardly any consistency to the roles I played, although looking at this list, it may seem that mostly I was just contrary, and perhaps I was but not in the negative sense of the word.  Still, I felt a little lost as to who I really was.  I couldn't so easily label myself one particular thing as others could.  Was I being insincere or dishonest?  Was I not being real or authentic?  I don't believe so.
Then I realized, that that is who I am.  I am the person people need me to be!  I am the friendly one when someone needs a friend, I am the creative one when others are out of ideas, I am the calm one when others are worried, I am the bold one when others are timid.
It's true that I wasn't always my best self, and my fluctuations included times of low self-esteem, but doesn't that happen to everyone?
I'm not always just the opposite of others either (--although I try to avoid the awkwardness or competition associated with being too similar or taking on the same roles).  In high school I fit in with many different people.  I was on the soccer team, and hung out with the sporty types, I was in band and choir and drama, I was a photographer on the yearbook staff, participated in the Russian club and loved AP Chemistry. My best friends were sterling scholars, art royalty, and and student body officers. Overall, my friends were intelligent, kind, hard working and fun.  I hung out with them because I admired them, I appreciated them, I hoped I was like them.  And to some extent I was.  However, at graduation the truth came out.  So many of my friends were surprised to discover that I didn't graduate with honors or high honors.  I even had one well meaning friend comment, "you forgot your cords," and although I was flattered, it kinda stung as I had to explain.  I believe that I was just as intelligent as them, but intelligence doesn't matter much if you're secretly lazy.  It made me resent my diploma in the end. Still, I was grateful for my ability to connect with many different kinds of people, and although I never stood out in any way, no one ever felt threatened by me and I was never the target of any unkindness. It suited me well.

When I got to college, I did well, but I was indecisive about majors.  The voices in my head said it was because I didn't know who I was, or because I wasn't good enough at any one thing to succeed.  It made me feel inferior to people who seemed to have direction and purpose and knew exactly what they wanted to do.  It made me feel like I had no "personality" when I had to explain that I was just a General Education major (...and we all know that girls majoring in General Ed at any Church school are just planning on getting their MRS degree right?).  I felt like if I could at least say I majored in Liberal Arts, it would sound better, but they didn't technically have that major at BYU-I by name.  The real problem was that I had too many interests, and I felt if I chose one, that meant leaving all the others behind.  I went from major to major; Music, English, Psychology, Biology, Education, with minors in P.E., Art, Photography, Child Development, etc.  I even considered transferring to BYU-Provo and majoring in Geneology... but then I met my husband, got married, and soon my credit limit was up (for those of you who don't know, Church schools are too in demand to let you stay around very long, so once you reach a certain number of credits you have to petition to stay, graduate, or move on), so I graduated in "University Studies."  Could that be any more ambiguous?

Over the years though, I've come to realize that however directionless my academic record may seem, however little qualified it makes me for any specific career, I feel that nothing could have prepared me better for my present occupation as a mother and homemaker.

So I guess my point is this.  That who you are is who you are. Whether outside influences affect how you act, and regardless of what people think of you or expect from you, you're still you.  Is a chameleon not a chameleon just because it changes its color?  No.  And it doesn't mean that a mottled one is confused or being dishonest or unauthentic either.  It's just doing it's thing.

Okay so that was a long tangent to get to where I was going.  Hope I didn't obfuscate too much :).

I was talking about the identity of my blog.

So what if my blog is sometimes a travelogue? So what if it sometimes resembles a craft or cooking blog but isn't really?  Who cares if sometimes I am poignant, and other times sarcastic? What does it matter if sometimes I have beautiful pictures I took myself and sometimes pirated images from google?  Will people be bored if I write about myself, my life, my kids?  Will they stop reading if I quote scripture or share my opinions about controversial topics? Do I care if I am shunned from blogging groups because my blog can't fit neatly into any specific category? Is it a problem that I love comments but write it more for myself than anyone else?  Does it mean my blog is lame if I never have any more than 4 followers?

I think not.

It may not be what anyone expects, but this blog is mine, and it is what it is.

I guess I've overcome my blog identity-crisis.

I really should start blogging more, and think less about what others think.

California or Bust part 3

(click here for part 1, part 2)

Finally, the reason we came.

Nine decades separate this little guy and his great grandparents.  I'm glad they got to meet. 

It's been 15 years since I was last here. 

My grandparent's house hasn't changed that much since I was little.  These bottles bring back memories from the few times we visited when I was young.

I remember the orange carpet too.

It's like stepping back in time.

Even though I've never met them, their features are familiar to me.

I remember the backyard being like the Garden of Eden.  My absolute favorite memories are the fruit trees. Tangerines, Lemons, Oranges... picked ripe from the tree --there's nothing like it.  Store-bought will never be good enough. And now there's some newer additions --Cumquats, and Loquats.  I don't think I'd ever had them before. Yum!

I can't help but feel that he is completely missing the point here.

And what memories will my boys take with them?  Probably the fun they had with my grandma's doll collection.

...or perhaps the smell of orange blossoms. Mmmm.

So many cool things to look at. 

Afterwards we went to lunch at a local fish and chips place.  It was really tasty.
My mom had fun with the boys,

...while my dad regaled us with fish stories.

My beautiful Aunt, whom I hadn't seen in ages (like since I was 9), met us there, and was so kind to hold the baby while we ate. I think he spent the whole time trying to grab her earrings.

We went back, picked fruit, took a few more pictures...

You'd think we could get a better picture than this.

Nope. They were all varying degrees of this...

...or this.

And that was that.  We said our goodbyes and we were on our way home.

It was such a short visit. My one regret is that I didn't get enough time to visit with them.

I'm glad we came.


(Click here for Part 4)