That’s because her lovey isn’t just a ratty, old, Cheetos-stained rag.  To the child, a blankie is security, comfort and companionship.  It’s a pair of familiar arms wrapped around her or a soft hand on her cheek.  When you take away the blanket, you take away a sanctuary of sorts, a friend.  Who wouldn’t throw a fit when that is snatched away?

I had a security blanket once.  Only I wasn’t 3 years old, I was 34.  And it wasn’t a blanket, it was book.

You see, my dear friend Cindy loaned me The Secret Life of Bees to read while I recovered from knee surgery.  Three pages into the book, I fell in love – with the characters, the storyline, the setting.  I knew it would keep me entertained throughout the entire ordeal.

I was buried in Bees while the nurses started the IV line, marked the correct knee, donned hair nets and generally fussed over me.  I had to lay the book on my stomach so I could put on my own fluffy blue net of hairlessness.  After removing my glasses, one of the nurses reached over to take my book.  I shook my head and muttered “Nuh uh.  We’ll just leave this right here.”  Consulting each other with their eyes, the nurses left me and my Bees to fetch Dr. Nelson (not unlike two kids running off  hollering “We’re gonna go get Dad!”)

Those two turkeys had already taken everything they could from me – my underclothes, my ring, my phone, my glasses, the freedom to wear my hair long and unrestrained.  The only item I had left in that cold and lonely room was the little book Cindy loaned me.  I wasn’t about to give it up to a couple of snitches or their dad.

Dr. Nelson returned with his two flying monkeys in tow and took a stab at grabbing the book.  With an air of confidence he stuck out his hand and said “Ok, let’s get that book put away and we’ll take you down to the O.R.”  That’s when I, a 34 year-old grown woman, threw a tantrum – complete with a knuckle-white death grip, an overly determined head shake and a “Nuh uh!” that really meant “I imagine you, as a practiced surgeon, value your hands.  If that is the case, do not again attempt to remove this book from my possession.”  They begrudgingly allowed me to keep it.

Now without my glasses, the book was no good for reading.  But I held it tight and it was an absolutely perfect something-to-hold.  The team wheeled my bed down a long hall into the operating room.  I held the book to my chest the entire way – partly to curb my mounting anxiety and partly to prevent the cold breeze from blowing my gown up for all the world to see what I wasn’t wearing underneath.

In the O.R., the anesthesiologist noticed Bees and told me to give it up.  Again, I shook my head, “Nuh uh.”  (You know what they say about the terrible mid-thirties – you cannot reason with a 34 year old.)  Momentarily ignoring my irrational attachment to the book, the doctor explained the reasoning behind the leads on my chest and breathing tube placer.  They were there just in case I crashed under the anesthetics.  I gripped that little book even tighter.

Sliding over onto the operating table, the nurses began their latest evil book-snatching scheme. Under the guise of gently strapping me to the table, an arm flew up out of nowhere and attempted to swipe my book!  Surprised, but determined to not be bested, I firmly shook my head, “Nuh uh.  Not.Yet.”

It worked!  I temporarily won another 30 seconds of security with my beloved book.

Collectively, there must have been 100 years of education in that operating room and all of it conspired against me in the final attempt to win the book.  The anesthesiologist and the conniving flying monkeys devised a brilliant plan.  Feigning warm concern, the good doctor said “Ok, you breathe into this mask 3 times while I stand over here doing nothing in particular to your arm….doo dee dum dee dum…I’m not administering unconscious drugs or anything…”

In my heart of hearts I knew what they were doing.  Even I had to admit brilliance when I recognized it.  Since the guy literally held my life in his hands and I technically still had the book in mine, I obeyed.  First  breath.  Second breath…I felt the book slip out of my hands.  I attempted to shake my head “Nuh…”  That was it.  They won.  My lovey was gone.  So was I.

Anyone who knows me well can tell you I’m overly stubborn and highly independent.  I never imagined I would need that kind of comfort, a lovey-like security object.

And I’m sure Cindy had no idea that’s what she was giving me when she loaned me her book.  I imagine her thinking it was no big deal to grab a book for me on her way out the door.  A small kindness.  However, there is no such thing as a small kindness.  In the fable about the Lion and the Mouse, Aesop reminds us “No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”  Loaning me her book may have seemed small at the time, but it meant the world to me.

I wonder if sometimes we think our modest efforts of kindness are meaningless, that they have no serious or lasting implications. I’m sure occasionally we feel discouraged as we give into the idea that we cannot change the world.  That our small contributions are inconsequential or that we don’t have the time or means to be concerned for others.  However, as a recipient of a multitude of  little acts of kindness, I know that our seemingly small endeavors are more valuable than we imagine.

President David O. McKay spoke of the power of small and simple acts:

“There is no one great thing that we can do to obtain eternal life, and it seems to me that the great lesson to be learned in the world today is to apply in the little acts and duties of life the glorious principles of the Gospel.  Let us not think that because some of the things named this afternoon may seem small and trivial, that they are unimportant.  Life, after all, is made up of little things. Our life, our being, physically, is made up here of little heart beats.  Let that little heart stop beating, and life in this world ceases.

The great sun is a mighty force in the universe, but we receive the blessings of his rays because they come to us as little beams, which, taken in the aggregate, fill the whole world with sunlight. The dark night is made pleasant by the glimmer of what seem to be little stars; and so the true Christian life is made up of little Christ-like acts performed this hour, this minute, in the home, in the quorum, in the organization, in the town, wherever our life and acts may be cast” (Conference Report, Oct. 1914).

I wonder if the post op staff knew that little gem because when I came around, they slipped book back under my arm.  They didn’t give me my glasses because I didn’t need them – I wasn’t going to read again for hours.  The worth of the book wasn’t in reading it, but in the book itself and what it represented.  Those 302 pages held an emotional value that is still hard for me to put into words.  Maybe its the idea that security objects are more than just their physical properties.  What I didn’t want them to take away wasn’t the book, but the extension of the loved one who gave me the book.

And also, maybe I should apologize for calling my nurses conniving flying monkeys and thank them for eventually seeing the greater value of the book.  And while I’m at it, I should probably apologize for threatening to bilaterally amputate my surgeon at the wrists.  However, I would’ve allowed him to keep his woobie – that would’ve been the kind thing to do.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

YODA

AN EWOK

AAYLA SECURA (THE BLUE JEDI)

QUEEN AMIDALA

DARTH MAUL

(2010)  This has been an epic summer for us.  We had the opportunity to walk through Nauvoo, Winter Quarters, Sweetwater Camp, Martin’s Cove and Rock Creek Hollow.  We spent much time on hallowed ground.  There is a spirit in each of those sites that settled into my heart and I felt the presence of our gospel forbearers.

 President Hinckley said of Rock Creek Hollow, “A spirit of peace and reverence and sacred remembrance will hover over this whole area as a beneficent cloud on a hot summer day.  The memories of those who here perished are deeply and indelibly etched, and this ground must forever hold for us a feeling of great sanctity.”

 While visiting those sacred places, I read and heard countless stories – tragedy and suffering almost impossible to describe.  The sacrifices of our beloved pioneers were greater than we understand.  Their reward, however, was just as substantial.  They slowly came to know the Savior in a very unique and deeply personal way.

The Willie Handcart Company suffered beyond imagination.  An early storm brought freezing temperatures and severe snow fall.  They were slowly freezing to death in their threadbare clothes and thin-soled shoes.  Exhausted from lack of food, they couldn’t push any further.  They stopped and waited to be rescued.  Thirteen Saints died that day and were buried in a common grave. The next day, two more died and were buried nearby.

Francis Webster was a boy in the Martin Handcart Company.  Looking back on his life, he wrote “We suffered beyond anything you can imagine.  Many died of exposure and starvation.  We became acquainted with God in our extremities.”

Brother Webster told of looking ahead to see a spot on the trail and saying, “I can pull the handcart only that far.”  And when he got to that point, his cart started pushing him.  It was then that he said he knew God and angels were helping him push.  Brother Webster wrote, “Was I sorry that I chose to come by Handcart?  No.  Neither then nor one moment of my life since.  The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay and I am thankful that I was to come to Zion in the Martin Handcart Company.”  Brother Webster considered his suffering a privilege to bear.  Through his suffering he came to know God.

Years before the pioneers pulled their handcarts west, the Saints became well acquainted with grief.  Driven out of their beautiful Nauvoo, the Saints left behind all they had – only to face the bone-chilling cold and the unknown.

Pres Hinkley said, “Leaving Nauvoo was a remarkable act of faith. There was much of hardship ahead for these pioneers, but they had faith in their leaders and faith in the Lord and His goodness, faith that He would once again lead His people to the promised land, faith that they would not fail. So they walked out into a wild place, their journey showed  faith – in every footstep.”

Daniel and I walked a long gray dirt path in Nauvoo traditionally known as “The Trail of Tears”.  My eyes were drawn to a single yellow butterfly landing almost in the middle of the path like a tiny spark of hope.  I wondered if President Hinckley saw something similar when he renamed the path “The Trail of Hope”.

A series of quotes from the journals of these Saints now decorates the trail leading out of Nauvoo. To my amazement, I found in several of the quotes – not desperation and discouragement – but confidence and commitment and even joy!  They were filled with hope!

Sarah DeArmon Rich wrote “To start out on such a journey in the winter would seem like walking into the jaws of death but we had faith … [and] we felt to rejoice that the day of our deliverance had come.”

Zina Young said “There on the bank of the Chariton River, I was delivered of a fine son. Occasionally the wagon had to be stopped that I might take a breath. Thus I journeyed on. But I did not mind the hardship of my situation, for my life had been preserved, and my babe was so beautiful!”

Orson Pratt recorded,  “Our camp resounded with songs of joy and praise to God — all were cheerful and happy in the anticipation of finding a resting place from persecution.”

And Brother B. H. Roberts wrote, “With this advanced camp of the great exodus, there had come a brass band, led by Captain Pitt. After encampment was made and the toils of the day were over, the snow would be scraped away, a huge fire or several of them kindled within the wagoned enclosure, and there to the inspiring music of Pitt’s band, song and dance often beguiled the exiles into forgetfulness of their trials and discomfort.”

Hope is what filled the hearts of the Saints as they undertook their monumental journey.  Hope is what continued to sustain the Saints nearly ten years later when the handcart companies traveled west.

John Latey observed two companies as they arrived in Florence, Nebraska.  He wrote to Elder John Taylor:

“They were in fine health and spirits, singing as they came along Elder McAllister’s handcart song “some must push and some must pull…”  One would not think that they had come from Iowa City, a long and rough journey of 300 miles, except by their dust-stained garments and sunburned faces.  My heart is gladdened as I write this, for methinks I see their merry countenances and buoyant step, and the strains of the handcart song seems ringing in my ears – like sweet music heard at eventide or in a dream…In giving you this description of the feelings of the first companies, I give you, in effect, the feelings of the whole.”

These early Saints were no doubt in destitute and desperate situations, but they were not hopeless. Many of their hearts were broken, but their spirits were strong as they sang with full conviction “But with joy, wend your way” and “Happy day!  All is well!”

They learned a profound lesson. They learned that hope, with its attendant blessings of peace and joy, does not depend upon circumstance. They discovered the true source of happiness — hope in the Lord Jesus Christ and in His atonement.

Elder Ballard said “We all face Rocky Ridges with the wind in our face and winter coming on too soon.  Sometimes it seems as though there is no end to the dust that stings our eyes and clouds our vision.  Occasionally we reach the top of one summit in life, as the pioneers did, only to see more mountain peaks ahead, higher and more challenging than the one we have just traversed.”

 It is at the very moment we think we cannot take another step, that we so desperately need to “Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that [we] must build [our] foundation.  That when the devil shall send forth his mighty wind, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon [you], it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless woe, because of the rock upon which ye are built which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build,  they cannot fall.”  (Helaman 5:12)

The prophet Mormon was no stranger to difficult circumstances.  He understood and clearly taught this doctrine.  “And again, my beloved brethren, I would speak unto you concerning hope.  Behold I say unto you that ye shall have hope through the atonement of Christ, and this because of your faith in Him, according to the promise.” (Moroni 7:41)

Hope comes from faith in Jesus Christ. Your happiness now and forever is conditioned upon the degree to which you believe that.  He has already overcome the world, death, all pain, and all grief.  He promised that He will wipe away our tears if we will turn to Him and believe and follow with faith – in every footstep.

Tapping our reservoirs of hope and endurance that comes from faith in Christ, we can, as did our beloved handcart pioneers, push ever onward toward that day when our voices will join with theirs, singing, “All is well!  All is Well!”

So, for this Mother’s Day, I thought I would recount one of my shining moments as a mother:  The Day I Saved My Kid’s Life. 

Before I do, I should share a few words about some less dramatic but otherwise noteworthy moments in my motherhood career…

…like the time Reece announced loudly (during Sacrament meeting) that I had TWO BOOBS! and proceeded to count and honk each one.  If mortification is a word, I experienced it that day.  If mortification is not a word, it should be, because I experienced it that day.    

…or the time while dining at Juniper’s, Reece watched a Hispanic man with a very large birthmark on his face eating dinner with his family.  Impressed by the colors and unable to contain his excitement Reece exploded, “MOM!!  DO YOU SEE THAT MAN?!”  (I did see that man when we first walked in and thought to myself, “That’s a pretty shade of purple.  But, please, for the love of all that is good in my son, do not let him see that man!”  My silent plea was not granted.)  “HIS FACE IS HALF BROWN AND HALF PURPLE!!  How did Heavenly Father make a guy HALF BROWN AND HALF PURPLE??” 

What could I do?  I slowly, almost imperceivably, lowered my son’s pointed finger and said under my breath, “I don’t know.  You’ll have to ask Him someday.”  The man and I exchanged smiles – mine apologetic, his amused and understanding.     

At dinner one Sunday, Sadie announced she wanted to go on a mission…to teach the aliens about Jesus Christ.  Because she loves them.    

I’ve actually had a few proud, normal moments in my career.

At four years old, EmmaKaite sang “Nearer My God to Thee” for Sacrament meeting.  It was supposed to be a duet with Daniel until he got choked up and landed Emma with a solo.  She easily took over his part and finished the song by herself.  Absolutely beautiful.  

I’ll never forget when Sadie gave her first talk in Primary.  She retold the story of The Good Samaritan.  We recorded her practicing because we were sure she would be the first Sunbeam to speak in General Conference and we wanted to remember her when…

The Transcript

Sadie: ONE TIME THERE WAS A MAN HURT.  Another man found him and he helped him.  He put the hurt man on his own donkey and took him to the inn.  The man felt happy when he helped the hurt man.  I feel happy when I hurt others.

Me:  …when I help others…help!

Sadie:  …when I help! others.  In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

But enough stories about the kids and their awesome accomplishments.  This one is about me and mine:  The Day I Saved My Kids Life.  Or, as I sometimes refer to it:  The Day I Won The Layperson Semi-surgical Procedure of the Year Award.  That single act automatically qualified me to join Daniel in the “I Literally Saved My Kid’s Life” Club. 

Daniel’s account of the event that earned him a spot in the ILSMKL Club:  “She was choking on some chicken.  I did the Heimlich.” 

The event that earned me a spot, of course, was far more dramatic and detailed.  In fact, it was so involved, it began three days prior to the actual life-saving. 

The Sunday previous to the semi-surgical procedure, Reece had a bloody nose.  We didn’t think anything of it because the heater had been on since the beginning of time and it was dry in the house.  His nose ran ickily for the next few days, but what 3-year-old boy’s nose doesn’t?  Then sometime near the end of the week, his face starting stinking so badly I could hardly hold him on my lap.  I bathed him and brushed every spot in his mouth I could reach.  Nothing alleviated the stench.  Just to be sure I wasn’t insane, I asked Daniel to smell the boy’s nostrils.  Even Daniel could smell the stink and that’s saying something. 

The next morning, two feet away from Reece, I smelled something wretched (like spoiled-tuna-fish-with-feta wretched).    

I grabbed him by the ears, peered into his nose and spotted a gooey, stinking blockage deep in his right nostril. THE SMELL WAS HORRIFYING! I’m gagging just thinking about it…

I bribed him with a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup to let me poke around.  He wanted to go to “the kid doctor”.  “I am the kid doctor” was all it took to convince him to grant me nostril access.  (Every good mother moonlights as a kid doctor so it wasn’t total deceit.  Besides, the stink was so bad, I couldn’t take him out in public.)

I laid my kid doctor semi-surgical tools on the bathroom counter: a Q-tip, tweezers, an emergency storage flashlight, Neosporin and some toilet paper. 

Perched on the toilet at a negative 65 degree angle, flashlight between my teeth, I grabbed hold of that gooey mass and gave it a good tug.  I only got a tiny fraction of the Superbooger – one sticky, stinking strand of goo. 

(Mind you, I had no nasal scope.  It was pure layperson mom rescue stuff happening right there in my bathroom). 

On my second attempt, I slipped those tweezers so far up his nostril, I thought I touched the olfactory lobe of his brain.  I pulled out a piece of slimy, bodily-fluid-covered Scotch tape scrunched up and folded over at the very top.  How could the kid breathe?  His nose had been cut by the corner of the tape and was totally infected.  I’m surprised he didn’t have a raging fever!

The smell engulfed the room.  Nay, the smell engulfed the bathroom, the hall and two adjacent bedrooms.  I swear it grew arms and attempted to choke the life out of me.  I gagged and swooned and gagged and swooned and almost-threw-up for a good 60 seconds.      

Disgusting as it was, the foul antagonist had to be preserved until I could show Daniel.  But how?  I decided the best option was to contain the tape and it’s odor in a triple extra heavy duty Ziploc baggie with an armed guard. 

I swabbed Reece’s nostril with some very medically-advanced tap water and a pea-sized amount of Neosporin.  By bedtime that night…no feta, no tuna, no odorous trace of the plastic offender!   

What a tough kid my little man was!  He didn’t squawk once thanks to his high pain tolerance and unwavering faith in my kid doctoring abilities.

And that’s how I earned The Layperson Semi-surgical Procedure of the Year Award.  Here’s the thing:  I gave myself the award.  Who else was going to do it?  No one gives us medals, our names never appear in the Grand Journal of Professional Mothers, but we are doers and achievers just the same. 

I would love to hear the awards you’ve earned.  What needs to be printed and stuck on your fridge?   

Here’s a list of ideas to get you started.  Feel free to claim one as your own:

◊ The “I Saved My Kid’s Social Life by Not Allowing Her to Pick Her Nose and Eat It” Award

◊ The “I Survived a Two-Hour Grocery Store Tantrum Without Throwing One Myself” Award

◊ The “I Could Bake an Entire Casserole Using Only the Crumbs from the Floor of My Tahoe” Award

◊ The “At Least I Waited Until After the Kids Left for School to Eat Apple Pie for Breakfast” Award.  (Actually, that one’s taken.  I earned it a few weeks ago.)

So let’s hear it, Ladies.  What should be displayed on your fridge?

“One, two! One, two! and through and through
the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!”

Blood pounded in Tjaden’s ears as he breathed
the acrid odor, and his sword didn’t falter.
There was too much at risk, including the life
of the girl he loved. But the secrets he
learned about the Jabberwocky’s sorrowful
past made it a sour victory.

Jabberwocky is the untold story inspired by
Lewis Carroll’s beloved poem. Meet the characters
and creatures that inhabit the world long before
Alice ever fell down the rabbit hole.

While staying true to every detail of Lewis Carroll’s
masterpiece, Jabberwocky provides twists that will
keep you turning pages.

You might know how it ends, but you won’t believe
how it happens.

The eBook is only $0.99!

Amazon (Kindle)
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004UB7SR8

Smashwords (iPad, Nook, Kobo, etc.)
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/50204
 
Daniel’s site is www.Jabberwockybook.com
 
Paper copies available at the end of April.

If you know any book bloggers or readers who love Young Adult Fantasy, please pass this along. 

P.S.  I did the cover art!

“Wanted”

They say he’s Wanted, that cowboy on wheels

Fer sleepin’ on the job, doin’ whatever he feels

Wanted fer pullin’ our hair and stealin’ our hearts

And spreadin’ that grin all ‘round these parts

But some Buckaroos are too good for this earth

They belong somewhere else, fer as much as they’re worth

So on March second, Two Thousand ‘Eleven

God called that Cowboy back home to heaven

“Wanted” He said. “But no wheels for my boy!

Just legs for the runnin’ and a life of perfect joy.”

With love,

Jodie and Daniel

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is on fire!.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 1,900 times in 2010. That’s about 5 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 10 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 20 posts. There were 67 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 296mb. That’s about a picture per week.

The busiest day of the year was May 17th with 90 views. The most popular post that day was Real.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, mail.live.com, chriswilkesfamily.blogspot.com, mail.yahoo.com, and malloryhigginson.blogspot.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for frost, birthday pancakes, birthday pancake, “coleman”, and redneck water slide wellsville.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Real May 2010
7 comments

The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon September 2010
13 comments

Reflections of Wellsville September 2009
8 comments

Halloween 2010 – The Addams Family October 2010
15 comments

My Sisters’ Hands March 2010
4 comments

http://www.facebook.com/jodiecoleman

They’re creepy and they’re kooky,
Mysterious and spooky,
They’re altogether ooky,
The Addams Family.

Their house is a museum.
When people come to see ‘em
They really are a screa-um.
The Addams Family.

Neat…

Sweet…

Petite…

Morticia, Wednesday, Pugsley, Gomez Addams and Cousin It

Morticia and Gomez

Wednesday and Pugsley

Cousin It

Here is my Plodders’ tale…

After Mile 1, the group of 400 half marathon participants divided into three distinct packs:  The Masochists (or Real Runners), The Plodders, and Those Who Paid $50 for a Mammoth Marathon Runner’s Shirt and a Navajo taco. 

Included in our Plodders Pack was a Clydesdale.  In the Runners’ world (and apparently in the Plodders’ world as well) a Clydesdale is a male runner weighing over 200 lbs.  I noticed somewhere around Mile 2 that he was using me as a wind break.  Given a few natural laws of physics and the ratio of  his body width to mine, I was not his best wind-break option.  Nevertheless, the Clydesdale kept a steady pace behind me for several miles.  (By the way, you’re welcome Clyde.)

At Mile 3 I fell to the middle of the Plodders Pack and was passed by two grandmas, a mom with twins in a Plodding stroller, an Oriental guy taking pictures and a three-legged coyote.

Somewhere between Mile 4 and Mile 5, number three on Jodie Coleman’s List of Worst Running Nightmares struck!  My iPod died.  Right there in the middle of “Bad Romance”, Lady Gaga quit my team!  (Thanks, little Reece, for the perfectly apt expression.)

With my hand cocked back, ready to throw the iPod across San Rafael county, I made the conscious decision to be rational and wait until the end of the race when I could properly back over the iPod repeatedly with the truck.  Cursing silently as I inhaled and audibly as I exhaled, I strapped Lady Gaga’s lifeless body to the back of my pants and shoved the ear buds deep into my pocket…and continued to plod.    

I needed a distraction – any kind of music to keep my mind off the repetitive “clomp clomp exhale…clomp clomp exhale”.  I didn’t even have to turn around to ask the Clydesdale if he would sing for me as he was still in earshot futilely attempting to draft.  I called out, “A little help here?  Could you sing the second half of “Bad Romance”?  The Clydesdale politely declined (claiming it was physically impossible for him to sing like a radioactive Barbie) and proceeded to breathe down my neck. 

Just when I started to lose hope of finishing the race, I remembered I had an entire pack of gum jammed in my left pocket!  I quickly made a plan.  At the next mile marker, I took one piece of gum from my left pocket, carefully unwrapped it, then tore it in half.  I stuck half into my mouth and rewrapped the remaining half.  I then placed the rewrapped half back into my left pocket.  (You’re thinking, “Man, this painstakingly detailed…”  I did it on purpose.  With my legs and breathing on auto pilot, I engaged my mind completely in the minutia of my newly concocted gum ritual.)  One half mile later, I chucked the chewed wad as far as I could and fished around for the second half.  I unwrapped that one, shoved the paper into the right pocket (next to my useless iPod buds) and waited for next mile marker to start the ceremony all over again.  I chewed the entire pack within 2 hours – which may explain why my temporomandibular joints are just as sore as my hips.

By Mile 7 the Clydesdale had enough of my gum unwrapping and wrapping compulsion and he dropped back leaving me to listen to my own breathing and to the runners’ echoes from the walls of the canyons “Whoohoo…hoo…hoo…” and “Yo Adriaaan…aaan…aan…”  Once I swear I heard a vulture screeching, waiting for someone to pass out.  But that could’ve been delirium setting in. 

Besides the gum ritual keeping me occupied, I started to note interesting sights.  The Swell is surrounded by sheer cliffs, red-layered rock, gigantic orange boulders and gorgeous trees.  I saw authentic hieroglyphics as well as an ancient grandpa in red and pink checkered socks.  The only thing distracting from the beauty of the canyons was an occasional insulting road sign reading “DIP” or “SLOW”. 

One of my biggest fears was that I would throw up during the race.  After the first three miles, it was a surprisingly smooth run.  But near Mile 11, I felt a burble.  Something was going the wrong way up my esophagus.  I couldn’t force it back down afraid that if I fought it, I’d cramp up.  I remember thinking “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be…” (by this time, the Clydesdale was a safe enough distance behind to easily maneuver around “whatever will be”) and I let it go. *HIGH FIVE*  It was just a Gatorade burp!

Mile 12 and 13 passed uneventfully.  My husband and kiddos were there to meet me at the finish line.  I got a medal – and some watermelon.    

So there it is.  I ran two and a half hours without stopping, without my iPod, and sadly, without my best friend.  But I finished!  128^th place overall.  That puts me smack in the middle of the Plodders – right next to Checkered Socks Grandpa and thirteen clomps in front of Clyde. 

The Coleman Trek Family

Our carts

"But with joy, wend your way..."

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Sweetwater River Crossing

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Rock Creek Hollow

Unmarked Gravesite at Rock Creek

Rock Creek Hollow

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Near Martin's Cove

Sweetwater River Rescue Monument

Coleman Trek Family Ladies

Coleman Trek Family Guys

Brother Wells

Brooks

Second Rescue Monument

Company A men honoring our "Women's Pull"

My trek girls

There’s over 100 more photos of the trek in our Facebook album:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=sent#!/photo.php?pid=13568224&id=809315082

 To look through the whole album, click the blue “next” button by the top righthand corner of the picture.

Enjoy!!

Daniel:  Why don’t you want me to put you to bed?  What does Mom do that’s so awesome?

Reece:  I just like Mom better than you.   

_________________

(Just before Nathan got married, I asked Reece who he was voting for - Nathan or Amanda?)

Reece:  It’s a wedding, Mom.  Nobody wins.

(After the laughter died down…)  Oh wait, everybody wins! 

_________________

EmmaKaite:  Sadie, your breath really stinks this morning.

Sadie:  Does it smell like poop?

Emma:  Yeah

Sadie (matter-of-factly):  Oh, then that’s yours.

_________________

EmmaKaite (to me):  Heh heh.  When you drive, your arms kind of flap . . . right there on the bottom part.

_________________

In the midst of our chat, I mentioned some of the reasons I had for her awesomeness.  She denied being anything but normal.  She said something like “Oh, that’s not me.  I do at least three embarrassing things every day.” (She knows the average because apparently her kids keep a tally.)

Here is a soul sister!  There are days I say or do something embarrassing ON THE HOUR!  Thankfully, most days include only one or two mishaps.

Like the time I couldn’t see over my pregnant belly to properly dress myself so I showed up for work wearing one tan shoe and one blue shoe.  Yeah, they noticed.

Or the time my Bishop asked if I would serve as the Primary President of our ward to which I promptly retorted, “Have you been drinking?!”  The look on his face told me that’s not a question one normally asks a Bishop.  In the same meeting, I referred to a couple in our ward several times as “The Butts”.  I found out over a week later that when Erin and Jason got married, Jason changed his last name to “Botz”.  Again, “butts” is just not something one repeatedly blurts out when meeting with the Bishop.

Or the time we were at a beginning-of-the-semester work party and I slid my hand up the underside of what I thought was my husband’s arm.  My mind always replays what happened next in slow motion…

Daniel’s arm is soft.

Odd, Daniel’s arm isn’t normally soft.

Hey I see Daniel clear across the circle.  Hi Dan!

Hmm…how exactly can I have my hand up Daniel’s sleeve and yet be facing Daniel who is standing four feet away across the circle?”

After twelve eternal seconds, it registered.  I was actually feeling up my boss’ husband’s arm.  Embarrassed to no end, I laughed loud and hard.  He didn’t crack a smile.

Or the time I…

You get the idea.

So you can see how I could relate to my amazing friend.  I’ve been there.  I mean really been there (and still visit ‘there’ pretty much every day).  I wanted to disclose all of my own daily mishaps and misadventures, but I didn’t.  I simply said “Yeah, but you’re Real.”  Without thinking, she replied “That I am…very real”.  Her comment was so endearing to me because I’ve always loved Real people.  Not real as in non-imaginary, but Real as in genuine.

It’s taken me several weeks now, but I think I’ve finally figured out what Real is and why I love it so.

Much of what I know about being Real comes from a conversation between the Velveteen Rabbit and the Skin Horse.     

“What is Real?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily or have sharp edges or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

There it is.  Just about everything there is to know about being Real hidden in a children’s book about a talking stuffed animal.  Genius.

Real is not perfect.  It’s not perfectly non-mussed.  Real has flaws and defects and shortcomings.  Real botches stuff up every once in a while.  Real trips over things and slips sometimes.  Real is not perfect.

And it’s not superficial.  Real has a certain depth.  According to the Skin Horse, “Real isn’t how you are made.”  It doesn’t mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle.  Real isn’t shallow or pretentious, shiny, showy, brand new, or brand name.  It can’t be purchased and it’s definitely not decorative.

In Little Women, Mrs. March tells her three girls, “If you feel your value lies in being merely decorative, I fear that someday you might find yourself believing that’s all you really are.”  I want to give Ms. Alcott a high five on behalf of those of us who are not all that into being decorative.  Those of us who heavily rely on the belief that some days pulling your hair back in a ponytail is the same thing as taking a shower.

Sometimes it’s more comfortable to be superficial, to take care of all the surface stuff.  I think that might be because being Real often hurts.  It’s uncomfortable having all your fur loved off.  It takes a great deal of quiet strength to be dragged, dropped, squeezed, repeatedly broken and repaired again.

Real is all worn down and loved up.

That being said, Real is beautiful.  The kind of beautiful that comes from way down deep inside.  I found some Way-Down-Deep-Inside Beauty Secrets originally discovered by Sam Levinson:

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.
For poise, walk with the knowledge you’ll never walk alone.

He adds, “The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair.  The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.  The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.  It is the caring that she lovingly gives and the passion that she shows.”

Sister Hinkley is someone I want to be when I grow up.  She wrote, “I don’t want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails.  I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp. I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbor’s children. I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping weed someone’s garden. I want to be there with children’s sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder. I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived.”

The secret to becoming Real is right there in the middle of the mud and weeds and sticky kisses.  It’s forgetting ourselves and looking after others.

President Spencer W. Kimball said, “The more we serve our fellowmen in appropriate ways, the more substance there is to our souls.  We become more significant individuals as we serve others.  We become more substantive as we serve others — indeed, it is easier to ‘find’ ourselves because there is so much more of us to find”

More than anything, Real loves.  Even when it’s inconvenient – especially when it’s inconvenient.  Mother Teresa had a good grasp on being Real.  She said, “You must live life beautifully and not allow the spirit of the world that makes gods out of power, riches and pleasure make you forget that you have been created for greater things – to love and to be loved.”

And so it is with the Real people in my life.  They live beautifully.  They are gentle and strong.  Tender and kind.  They have not forgotten the reason they are here – to love and to be loved.  They are Real. 

That they are…very Real.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrRNlwSVOkA

Sadie (a few minutes after she learned ’Mo’ died)   ”I wish I could die and live with my guinea pig.  Actually, I wish he would come back alive and live with me.  I’m too young to die.”

EmmaKaite  “Mom, you’re addicted to showers.  You take one like every day.”

Reece   “My teachers at the Children’s House don’t wash their clothes”

Reece (at dinner – maccaroni & cheese)  “Thanks mom, for the delicious meal.”

EmmaKaite  “We’re pretty sure Wiley wants to be Sadie’s boyfriend.  At recess, he came up to her and said ‘Hey Babe.’”

Reece  ”So Mom…if you were the only one here, would you have to babysit yourself?”

Reece “You know Mom, you can’t fight fire with fire. No really…you can’t.”

EmmaKaite: “Well, boys are a mystery, mom.”

Sadie: “Can I have my English muffin blind?…uh no…I mean naked…no, I mean PLAIN with nothing on it!”

Reece: “No. I didn’t break up with her, Hannah Montana broke up with me…on the phone.”

Sadie: “Stop killing me!”
Me: “Reece, stop killing your sister. Nobody likes to play with people who kill them.”

Reece: “Can I have a zu-kiwi?”
Me: “You mean zucchini? Odd, but ok…”
Reece: “No zu-KIWI! You know, the green strawberry that has that brown fur?”

Our neighbor's Willow

Our Aspen

Our Pine

Sumac in our back yard

Tree in our back yard - don't know what it is

Our back yard with the Wellsvilles in the background

bird house in our back yard

I put more frosty photos in my Facebook album:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=373620&id=809315082&l=f12f92f2fa

March 21st, 1993.  Imagine a Sunday morning in a household bustling with girls getting ready for church.  (You have to imagine it, but I was fortunate enough to have been part of it.)  As was often my habit, I sat back and watched this microcosm of motion take its natural course. 

Mentally noting the activity like a National Geographic field reporter, I observed the following:  Socks previously matched and put into a drawer, once pulled from the drawer, no longer match.  Hair evidently doubles in length on Sundays because it takes twice as long to blow dry.  Toothpaste shortages happen instantly and three minutes before it’s time to load the car.  Scriptures apparently have legs and can walk away from the place they were formerly laid.

I also observed (as a result of the aforementioned bustling) a busy mom and a teenage boy with an unusually big heart.

Looking back, I wonder if Erick had blown his hair dry that morning, because he was graced with an incredibly ingenious idea – he would lighten his mom’s load by cooking breakfast for the family.

After a good twenty minutes of clanging, pseudo-measuring, mixing and (I’m pretty sure) experimenting, the batter was ready to meet the nuclear-hot griddle.  The first ladle of batter seared and whistled as a small poof of greasy smoke clouded Erick’s face.  Working his way through the heat and smoke, Erick scraped and flipped the pancakes like he had been flippin’ pancakes all of  twenty minutes.

I knew the time would inevitably come for us to consume the cakes.  I stepped toward the chef, very literally a martyr.  Erick’s face beamed as the creature on the spatula fell to my plate with a “fwop”, batter oozing through crusty, burned cracks. 

Mmm.

I remember a lump growing in my throat as I watched the mass inch its way across the plate toward my fork.  It took the same amount of time for the butter to melt as it did for me to realize…the lump wasn’t a physiological response to the gooey black thing sliding around on the plate in front of me.  The lump was actually an assemblage of gratitude and respect.  It was a growing emotional response to Erick’s natural selflessness.

Needless to say, cooking was not so much Erick’s gift.  But in this instance of what he called “cooking”, Erick’s gift lived and shined.  His real talent was caring, providing, doing, and sacrificing.  He lived and breathed an innate kindness.  From Erick, I learned that kindness is not something you wish for; it’s something you make, something you do, something you are and something you give away.

Those black, gooey cakes were (hands down) the most delicious not-so-fantastic pancakes in the history of Sunday morning pancakes. 

So today I’ll burn me up some cakes and celebrate Erick, his sweet (yet charred) selflessness, and real kindness. 

This world is better for having welcomed Erick 34 years ago.

Here’s my contribution:

You have to understand just a little speech and language background to really enjoy my favorite funny memory of Ginny.

Consonant clusters like “pr” or “shr” are difficult for toddlers to pronounce.  They will often substitute clusters with easier single consonants like “w” or “f”.  EmmaKaite was famous for doing this and we had lots of fun demonstrating her “trick”.

In the late spring of 2003, we stopped by to visit your mom.  She had obviously just been through a round of chemo.  She was weak and her pale face faded into the shades of pink on the scarf covering her head.  However, we weren’t surprised to find her still smiling and infectiously positive.
 
I poked Daniel with my elbow and asked him if EmmaKaite should do her trick.  After a moment’s deliberation on the appropriateness of the demonstration we plunged forward.  
 
I told EmmaKaite to look at Ginny and say “Oh Shrek!”  

Promptly and proudly, EmmaKaite turned to Ginny and blurted out “OH F***!”

Nervous chuckles broke into real laughter as we watched Ginny’s reaction.  She laughed with such force and depth, tears filled her eyes and brightened them so that they looked like gigantic blue jewels.  Big, fat drops of pure joy spilled down her face.  We laughed the kind of laugh that etches the moment in your mind forever.

When I close my eyes, I see the two of them at the dining room table squeezing each other.  I’ll never forget the loud, angelic “Oh F***!” from a little girl with dimples and curly hair, packaged in a pink top.  And the loud, angelic belly laugh from a woman with dimples and no hair wrapped in a pink scarf.

Looking back, I see the irony of an insidious, destructive disease trying to ravage our upbeat, happy Ginny.  Cancer could not destroy her spirit. 

“Cancer is so limited.  It cannot cripple love.  It cannot corrode faith.  It cannot shatter hope.  It it cannot eat away peace.  It cannot destroy confidence.  It cannot kill friendship.  It cannot shut out memories.  It cannot silence courage.  It cannot invade the soul.  It cannot reduce eternal life.  It cannot quench the spirit.” 
 
Cancer is so limited.  It cannot not take this memory from me.  And now, it cannot take it from you.

Happy Birthday, Ginny. 

I think we’ll pop some popcorn, put on Shrek and work up a good belly laugh for your birthday.

It was just after the birth of my second daughter Sadie, when I noticed the manifestation of an army in its infancy.  They were approximately three inches long and void of all pigmentation.  The Grays.  I used to pluck the little traitors in a vain attempt to repress a full revolt of The Grays.  I naively believed I was coming out ahead until I started sporting hairless patches resembling the leftovers of some sort of dermatologic parasite. The bald spots were proof that gray hairs are sign of old age, not of wisdom. 

I abandoned plucking because the determined little troops inevitably grew back – wild and unruly.  And they brought reinforcements. 

After my plucking strategy failed miserably, I tried a new tactic.  My secret weapon:  the black Sharpie marker.  Starting with the most obvious offenders, I attacked each strand with a blast of permanent ink.  As the number of Grays grew, so did the noxious fumes.  I was getting high.  Some call it ‘huffing’, I call it ‘getting ready for work’.  Whatever you choose to call it, I got pulled over for driving while under the influence…of Sharpie fumage.  (Not really, I got pulled over for speeding.  I have an overactive imagination.)         

Frightened at the prospect of 28 days in court-mandated Sharpies Anonymous, I decided my campaign against The Grays would have to come to an end.  It was time to make peace with The Grays.  I could not best them.  Attempting to do so had been in vain, frustrating and sometimes hazardous to my health (not to mention my less-than-perfect driving record).   

Why was it so important for me to annihilate The Grays?  What was the real enemy?  What was I trying (and failing) to fight?  Aging?  Maybe.  Funny thing is, I’m ok with aging.  Many of my most favorite people are “old”.  It happens to the best of us and it sure beats the alternative. 

I think I saw a bamboo-framed proverb in Chinese Guy’s shop that said “Men grow old, pearls grow yellow; there is no cure for it.”  Just like I don’t see the need to lose mole fat, I don’t see the need to cure aging.  There is nothing wrong with it.  If there’s nothing wrong with aging, there must be nothing wrong with the evidence of aging…The Grays.  

One morning, after a productive session of blow drying, The Grays and I came to an understanding.  The hostilities were over; we were at peace.  I was at peace with aging and the human experience.  I left The Grays alone (buried my Sharpie, so to speak) and they grew back – long, pearly, and not so unruly.  I learned to accept that the silvery wisps might even be beautiful.

As part of the armistice, The Grays allowed me to name them after whoever had been giving me grief.  The collective Grays had become individuals —personalized and endearing.  They were not so much enemies to defeat, but bright monuments to life experiences. 

(As a side note, the process of naming The Grays is a fascinating one.  The name depends on the duration and severity of the grief given.  Understanding the biology behind hair growth [human hair grows at a rate of about ½ inch every month] proved extremely important in the naming process.  I have a Gray individual here that is 16 ¾ inches long.  Given rate of hair growth and length of the strand, I will most like likely name this one ‘Daniel’.) 

Today, I wear an entire band of silver strands proudly.  They are my thin little ribbons of honor, symbolic of hard days survived and tough times conquered.  Battles won more often than lost.  

It comes down to this.  I’ve learned aging doesn’t happen on your head – it happens in your head.  

Nobody grows old by achieving a certain number of years.  We grow old by surrendering our passion.  Years will steal the pigmentation from our hair, but deserting our love for life will steal our souls.  Finding the source of our passion and using it to bless the lives of those we love - that is our best offence in defeating old age. 

So now what do I do with the gross of Sharpie markers sitting in my bathroom closet??

Festivities commence at dawn with the long-standing Sham Battle complete with real cannons, fake indians, and a burning cabin. 

(ok, so maybe she is a real indian)

The main attraction, however, is the parade!   

We still chuck candy from floats.  In fact, we chuck a lot of goodies from floats.  Actual items I’ve caught include: well over 20 different flavors of salt water taffy, frisbees, otter pops, corn, roses (those hurt a little), mini loaves of banana bread, cheese (a kid favorite), ICE CREAM, and a mother barn cat with four kittens.  I’m kidding about the cat, but I wouldn’t put it past any of our neighbors.

After hooting and whoohooing at the floats, we migrate to the ancient tabernacle and feast on Dutch oven dinners consisting of pulled pork sandwiches and peach cobbler.  Rootbeer Reunion (www.rootbeerreunion.com) provides the soundtrack for the feast.  Inside the tabernacle, there are quilts and other local art on display.  Last year I set up a table exhibiting my photography right next to the very popular pinewood car and truck sales lot.  They finance.      

Everyone attends the Founder’s Day Celebration.  It’s a reunion of sorts.  The fact that we see each other every day at the post office, in Macey’s (our grocery store), at the dentist, walking dogs, walking goats doesn’t really matter.  Wellsvillagers love an excuse to get together…

…and talk.  Here in Wellsville (natively pronounced ‘Whalesville’) we share a common language.  It didn’t take me long to learn and value it.  One phrase I find very useful is “pre-she-ate-cha”.  Outside of Wellsville, you might hear “I appreciate you doing such and such”.  Not in Wellsville!  Variations on “pre-she-ate-cha” include (but are not limited to) “sure-pre-she-ate-cha” and “pre-she-ate-it” or “she-sure-pre-she-ate-sit”.  We are a grateful community.  You may have noticed there is no “you” or “your” in Wellsvillese.  No need for such formalities around here.  Acceptable substitutions for “you” and “your” include “ya”, “cha”, and “yer’. 

“Clear over there” is another term that I have found very useful in describing either long distances or completeness.  “Clear over, clear up, clear down, clear through” all indicate either something one couldn’t imagine being any farther away or a completed task.  For example “We were clear over at the school when we burnt th’ cabin clear to the ground.” 

Things you gotta do when you visit Wellsville:

You have to get your car tuned and the cat removed from the engine at Tom’s Service. (Yes, they have experience with this. Yes, I have experience with this.  For tough cases, Gerald calls in his 11 year old, Andrea the Cat Whisperer).  While you’re there, say hi to Tom, buy a soda water for yourself and a candy bar for the kids.  Candy bars taste better from Tom’s.  I think it’s the axel grease. 

Stop at the Wellcome Mart to purchase dry ice for rootbeer. (And yes, we spell Welcome with two l’s.  It’s just the way we roll around here.) 

Stock up on berries from the Weeks (natively pronounced ‘Weekses’).  President Monson did just three weeks ago. 

(The lady in the pink shirt is *not* Pres. Monson)

Learn the whereabouts of “The Purple Church”.  It’s not really purple which makes it darn near impossible to find; unless of course, you’ve lived here for 17 generations like most of the residents.  It used to be purple until they tore it down and built a new reddish/pinkish brick church on the same ground.  The name is too seeped in tradition to change it from “The Purple Church” to “The Reddish/Pinkish Brick Church”.

Purchase a snow cone from the kid who runs the Sno Barn.  We’re trying to put him through college one 50¢ snow cone at a time. 

If it’s summer, you have to brave the Clarks’ Redneck Waterslide. 

In the fall, Clarks’ Redneck Waterslide mysteriously becomes Little Bear Bottom Corn Maze.  CornMAZING!  (Remember “Choose The Right”.  That piece of advice will work on either one of the elaborate corn mazes within two minutes of our house as well as in life in general.) 

While you’re there, go for a tractor ride with Jed through the haunted corn maze. The rumor about the crusty husk of a cat hanging by its tail in the barn previously being a real live kitty is TRUE!  Oh yeah, and say hi to Bob our rooster.  He proudly roosts in that very barn.

Also, you gotta hang out around a fence.  Just about any fence will do.  They are perfect places for shooting the bull (literally and figuratively), accomplishing your visiting or home teaching, unloading excess produce from the garden, or just leanin’ when you need to lean. 

Fast Sunday is the perfect church meeting to attend.  It’s likely you will be moved to tears by a grandpa in his Sunday-best boots and Wranglers.  (The black ones pass for formal attire in Wellsville).  There’s nothing in the world like an old farmer’s testimony of the gospel.

(Reece and beloved Arol Maughn)

Wellsville Elementary hosts a Christmas sing-a-long every year where they sing Christmas songs!  Gasp!  Yes, each grade takes a day out of the week and invites their family to join a sing-a-long (during the school day, on school property).  I cry every year.  It’s really kinda painful (and technically impossible) to sing Silent Night with a lump in your throat.  But I do anyway – proudly.

(check out the kid on the left picking his nose)

The guy in jeans, boots and gigantic belt buckle sings proudly, too.  He’s the principal, Mr. Dobson (not Dr. I Don’t Have Time to Eat Lunch With the Second-Graders or Can’t be Bothered With an Office Full of Runaway Gingerbread Men).  Judging by the size of the lump in his throat when he sings Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!, I would guess the Gingerbread Men are hiding in his pharynx!  Just a hunch.

Cherise is our school bus driver.  She has been since the beginning of time.  She’s the best.  Cherise picks up my kiddos right at the end of our drive, then coasts 50 yards down the highway to pick up Bishop’s kid at the end of his drive.  And so on.  Cherise knows all of the kids names, their parents’ names, the goings-on at school, who likes who and possibly our social security numbers. 

(EmmaKaite's first day of Kindergarten. Cherise is hiding behind the door.

(Three years later, Sadie's first day of Kindergarten. Cherise has come out of her hiding place!)

Another Wellsville phenomenon is the common occurrence of livestock strolling down the highway.  Or across one’s front yard.  Or sometimes right through the front door.  Just yesterday I met with a pygmy goat standing in my entrance.  (It was very polite of him to take his shoes off, as is the custom.)

International Harvesters, John Deeres, and over-sized columbines creep down the highway, chug thru the fields and sleep on Sundays.  Crop dusters also sleep on Sundays. They have to. It’s exhausting dive bombing kids picnicking in their back yard.  It’s takes extra oomph to dip a wing to say hello.

Kids like vegetables here.  Utopia!  Little Wellsvillagers are involved in every aspect of growing food from tilling and weeding to full on irrigating.  My theory is it gives them an enhanced appreciation for the end product: their very own bean!  Kids devour home grown corn, squash, zucchini, beans, broccoli, and the quintessentially despised legume…the lima bean.  It’s a favorite in our household.  Disturbing, I know. 

(For you city folk, these aren't beans...grin They're summer squash bottoms)

(Neither is this a bean. I just couldn't bring myself to photograph the disgusting bean.)

Just so there’s no misunderstanding, it is not all summer all the time.  We get snow.  We get an overabundance of the fluffy, white delight! 

       

We don’t lock our doors.  There’s no reason.  Something we had to get used to is the fact that Wellsvillagers will walk right into your house.  There is no formality of ringing bells or knocking on doors.  Wellsvillagers are welcome in any house in Wellsville (as long as we take our shoes off.)  I’ve learned not to walk around in underwear unless my aim is to earn a new nickname.  Still, we do not lock our doors – except in harvesting season.  If we do lock doors, it is for this very reason:  if you do not, you will be the recipient of hoards of excess garden produce.  Once word gets out that you have an unlocked door, you’re a goner.  You might as well put a sign out on the highway asking for it.

(We know who did this and we *will* get you!)

However, locking your door in late summer/early fall does not totally protect you from veggie dumpage.  In 153 years, there has never been a case of someone having to stamp out a bag of burning dog poo on their porch.  However, many have fallen victim to the Doorbell Zucchini Ditch.  If they cannot leave it in your house, and your doorbell is broken, they will ditch it in your milk box.  The milk box!  Anything can go in the milk box – harvested produce, packages, letters, root beer milk, lesson manuals, tithing envelopes…it’s where we “hide” stuff.

Wellsville is a grand place to live.  In fact, I’ve found only one hiccup in this whole scheme.  There are little old ladies who, under the guise of asking for help canning their bumper crop of tomatoes, conspire with their husbands to pack your car full of produce from their garden while you’re up to your elbows in their skinned tomatoes.  Never again, Sister Hatch!!  I’m on to you.   

Well, sure pre-she-ate-cha readin’ clear to the end of my tribute to our Wellsville.  Gotta run, I’m pretty sure I hear someone at the front door.  I have to be vigilant (it being zucchini season and all).

Even more embarrassing?  I’ve done it before!  I didn’t spray directly in my eyes, but in the general area.  On April 26th, in a rush to get ready for church, I mistakenly grabbed Arrid Xtra Dry instead of Aqua Net Xtra and proceeded to drench my freshly done ”do” with 24.6% Aluminum Chlorohydrate.  I would not recommend this substitution – there is absolutely no hold in Arrid Xtra Dry. 

Lest you should worry about the health of my right eyeball, I am fine.  I still have the same lousy vision I’ve always had.  You know, I’m just grateful my eyeball remained odor-free for the entire three hour meeting.  That’s what’s really important.