My Own Coming Apocalypse - (ie: The Fridge Broke Down Last Night)

There's been a lot of talk about "apocalypses" lately, what with the Mayan calendar coming to an end on December 21st of this year.  

12-21-12 Buy your Twinkies Now!  

Yes, it has been all the buzz of late.  No one really knows what's going to happen on that day (though I'm 99.999% positive that it will be absolutely nothing).  Still, the actual "Mayan prophecy" (if you want to call it that) is supposed to be that the date will be an end to the world as we know it, issuing in a new era of peace.  

Peace.  That would be kind of nice! 

I still don't think it's going to happen on 12-21-12 - but then again, how long is an era?  Not a specific number of years, but it is a very long time.  And what if it is all supposed to be more a "beginning" to an era which just takes time to get things "going" for say, oh... about a thousand years?

Or will it be a "half hour of silence in the heavens?"

Who knows!  Either way, I'm sure there will be turmoil before that full "era of peace" actually makes it here in its full glory.  

For me, in a small way, it has arrived today.  Kamaron is sick, my broken leg is still... well, in a word - broken, Kirk is out of town on business and my refrigerator decided to die last night.  

I noticed it didn't feel very cold as I was putting the lettuce away, and that the door seemed to be kind of hot around the edges but I was so exhausted after trying to do all my Christmas shopping in one evening (hoping to actually be able to focus on work again - fodder for another blog) that I plumb didn't listen to that little voice in my head which repeated over and over: 

"You should fill some extra jugs up with water and put them outside to freeze... just in case."

All I could think was:  "Okay, I'll do it in the morning..."

Well, morning came, the fridge was roughly 70 degrees inside, and our trash can is now full of previously perishable food.

However, there are some blessings to count from all of this!

#1  For some reason, only the fridge died.  The freezer was still functioning, so I didn't lose all our frozen stuff.

#2  The fridge sorely needed to be cleaned out anyway...

#3   Even though I had to unplug the fridge (for fear of it starting a fire), we have a chest freezer in the basement which had enough spare room to fit most of the frozen foods.

#4  It's winter time!  And while I have, admittedly, been complaining - a lot - about not being ready for winter, this morning I'm very thankful that it is keeping the remaining frozen goods frozen (the ones that wouldn't fit in the chest freezer)... as well as our remaining refrigerator foods cold.

#5  Also, that "little voice in my head" gave me a really great idea.  Call it schizophrenia if you like, I'm going to call it something more religiously based, like a prompting of the Spirit.  The point is: How many hundreds of years did our ancestors use the "ice box?"  Some older people still call a fridge the "ice box." 

Which brings on a small story:  

When I was a little girl, we went on vacation to a cabin in the mountains that had one of these charming little oak and metal ice boxes.  It also had army ants... but that's another topic.  On the top of that charming hunk of oak and metal was a lid with a metal box beneath it, which held a big block of ice.  The cold from that ice would filter down to the contents below it, keeping our great-grandmothers milk, butter and eggs quite cool and tasty.  It would work for us too, if we gave it a chance, but I remember my mother looking at it and saying:

"Oh, look... a real ice box... OH LOOK!  ARMY ANTS!!!"  

And that was the end of the conversation.  I was left to try and figure out how this awesome little contraption worked on my own.  My five-year-old self discovered that there was a drain hole in the bottom of the metal box... though where it drained to I was never able to figure out.

When my children were little, I didn't want them to miss out on so much wonderful history; so each year, for home school, we had a unit on the pioneers, after which we would unscrew all of the lights in the house, turn the heater off and unplug the appliances, so that we could have a few days of seeing what it was like to live "in the rough." 

We did laundry in the bathtub, the wood stove kept the house warm enough and the oil lamps were truly lovely.  Then, at the end of our "activity" (which ended the morning of Thanksgiving) we reverted back to modern life and were so thankful for our many blessings!

Unfortunately, our experiment wasn't actually complete, because I secretly never unplugged the "ice box."  We called it an ice box, and talked about the principle of using it as an ice box.  For one of our activities we even discussed how we might go out on a lake, cut blocks of ice from the frozen surface, haul them back to our "ice house" and pack them with straw or sawdust to help insulate it all during the summer, making the supply last until the next winter.  

It was nice in principle, but I'm kind of feeling like, now, I'm being given the opportunity to come clean of that charade and put the principle into practice for real.  So...

#5  I'm thankful for the concept of "ice boxes."  

... and 

#6  Handy husbands who can try to diagnose what's wrong with our relatively new fridge when he gets home.

As an added bonus to this whole experience, whenever that apocalypse actually comes, and the metaphorical "zombies" take out our electric grid, I'm going to know how to survive just a little more comfortably without electricity than I was able to do before.

And... well, that's probably a very good thing.

Teaching "Reverence"

The other day, while sitting around with most of my kids and passing the Labor Day holiday away, we got to reminiscing about old times. Savannah wanted some ideas/memories to blog about on her "personal history blog" but couldn't really think of anything.

I suggested old family home evenings, like the time we stacked wood for a widow, or the time, as parents, were at our wits end as to how to teach our children the concept of "reverence," you know, that age old trick of trying to keep your children from screaming out in church because their sibling took their coloring book, or why it isn't appropriate to throw your cheerios four pews ahead of where you're sitting... complete with the bowl.

Honestly, I take issue with most reverence talks. Reverence is a holy feeling inside of you, a respect for God and his children, a kindness and appreciation for your blessings... it is NOT necessarily the "quiet" that we make it out to be. Why don't we just say it the way we mean it?

"You need to be quiet at church."

Instead we make it out to be some sort of great principle of holiness, that as long as we're quiet we can be thinking about whatever we want and be okay. As long as we're quiet, we can be playing Speed Racer or Angry Birds on the latest I-Pad or other electronic gadget and completely not paying attention to anything being said.

It's like the high priests falling asleep in church and getting their Sunday nap. As long as they don't snore too loudly then, culturally, we're okay with it. But, honestly, if you're not going to listen, why go at all. Church will surely be "quiet" if no one is there, right?

But, I digress. This blog isn't about my beefs with church culture, it was about family memories of trying to get that "Quiet" concept across to my children.

Usually, when they were little and I came up against a brick wall in trying to figure out how to be effective in teaching my kids a certain principle, I would turn it around. I'd call them in for a pow wow on my bed and just be honest with them.

Like so: "I'm kind of lost with this, you guys, and don't really know how to teach you. What would you do if YOU were the parent and I was the child?"

It usually worked like a charm. They would tell me exactly what they would do and then I would temper it to my style of parenting, by removing all the spanks and yelling and other harsh punishments, doing what was left.

I wish I could take full credit for the idea, but it actually came from my mom... who probably got it from the school psychologist. One pleasant sunny day, while we were out on the front lawn, she said to my little three year old self:

"Becca, let's play a game where you are the mother and I am the child. Would you like that?"

"Oh yes!" I agreed, thinking "Free donuts for the entire neighborhood!"

She asked me if she could do some little thing, I don't remember what it was, and I sharply said: "NO! You may not do that!" That request was followed by several more, after which I responded in like, copying what I perceived was a parent's job to do.

Finally, my mother (who by now was in SHOCK at my perception of her parenting) said: "Is that the way you want me to treat you when we switch back?"

My absolute and tyrannical reign of dictatorial authoritarianism, melted in that instant. I had no idea I was supposed to be setting a pattern. I thought I was just copying what I knew from experience.

Suddenly, the light went on and I consented for her to do anything her little mother heart desired.

Fast Forward thirty years. I waited long and hard for it, but I finally had a family of my own! When my children were really little and would ask me for something, I started out by letting that big green mommy out and telling them no! No! NO! You may not have donut holes for breakfast. You must eat something healthy first. - No, we can't go for a walk right now. It's raining! (Note: It was ALWAYS raining in Oregon). No, you can't go swimming, your room isn't clean.

Then one day, I realized: Hey, I'M the MOM and I can parent whatever way I want... within reason. Why NOT say YES? Sort of like the movie "Yes Man!" I became the "Yes Mom!"

Can I have pop tarts for breakfast? Sure! Enjoy them though!
Can we go outside to play? Sure! But you'll need to play in a warm bath when you get back inside.
Can we invite some friends over? Sure! Let's call it a "Tuesday Party" and have cake and balloons and games while we're at it.

Yep, I thought I was pretty cool being the "Yes Mom."

However, all that leniency didn't teach my children that it wasn't okay to bean Old man Dalton in the back of the head with their hot wheels in church... even if he WAS listening to the world series with a little, hidden earphone during sacrament meeting, letting out an occasional squelched cheer at the most inappropriate times.

Finally, at my wits end, I resorted back to my mother's parenting forum.

"Tonight, for Family Home Evening, you kids are going to be the parents while daddy and I are going to be the kids. Your job is to teach us to be reverent for church. Does that sound like a good idea?"

"Oh, yes! Yes! YES!" they chimed, consumately thrilled with the prospects of total and utter tyranny.

Things started out alright. One of them, I think it was Clarke, began telling us how we need to be reverent in church. It wasn't hard. He'd heard it a million times, right?

We sat there, like obedient little children, Kirk and I, and listened to what Clarke had to say... for about 3.7 seconds. Then Kirk flung a couch pillow at my face.

Bam! Square hit!

"You punk!" I scream and flung it right back at him. Of course, by then he had gathered several other items and the war began, throwing items across the room at each other, laughing and pretending to cry and be angry.

We pulled out the stops and recreated every single thing we could remember our children ever doing in church... and elsewhere...

At first they just sort of looked at us and blinked. Astounded that WE, the parents, would be SO AWFUL during a lesson on reverence. Then, soon, they wanted in on the action, but I broke character long enough to remind them that THEY were the parents and they needed to teach us to be reverent.

Bummer!

Clarke then told Kirk that he was going to put him into a time out if he didn't "get reverent."

Kirk then began screaming and flailing in an all out tantrum: "I don't want a time out! You can't make me!" Blah, blah, blah, etc....

Clarke patiently got up, took Kirk by the hand and, after his dad flung another pillow at my face, he put him in the wicker rocking chair and told him to stay there until he could be reverent.

"La, la, la! I'm not listening!" He called out.

I decided to be "the good child" and only stuck my tongue out at him, secretly taunting him as much as I could without being caught. Then "BAM" I get hit in the face with another pillow.

Kirk, by now, was rocking his time out... literally. Back and forth he went, a little at first and then higher and higher and further back until he was almost rocked the chair completely over backwards!

I watched him in awe! He was COMPLETELY out of control and not breaking character for a second. The children were wide eyed as well!

Finally Clarke went to him and announced that he was going to have to give him a spanking for not being reverent. He took his dad by the hand, raised his arm to deliver a spank and before he could even begin the swing, Kirk burst out screaming at the top of his lungs.

"No! No! You're hurting me too bad! Stop beating me!"

Clarke, in his best grown up voice, informed him: "I haven't touched you yet!"

Kirk: "Oh. Okay."

Clarke - spank.

Kirk, falls to the floor, screaming and writhing as though he is in intense and desperate pain. Then he throws another pillow at me and goes back to the rocking chair where he begins the entire charade anew.

I don't remember all of the things that happened that night, it was such a long time ago, but I remember thinking what a good actor my husband could be and how I thought I was going to have a stroke from laughing so hard that I absolutely couldn't breathe.

The kids laughed really hard too.

But then something magical happened... they started being quiet in church.

They also seemed to develop a greater respect for the relationship between a parent and child.

In short, we were all better friends, as a family, by the end of it.

And I guess that's how we taught our children to be "reverent" in church.... or whatever you want to call it.

Flat tires and other infernal tests of marriage

I have a flat tire, which might be a problem, mostly because I hate flat tires.

My car (actually a truck) has a jack hidden in a really inconvenient place under the front seat on the passenger side.

I know this, because after 18 months of owning my truck I finally got the first flat tire that couldn't be resuscitated by a large can of fix-a-flat.

It happened on July 4th 2012... I had driven to my dear friend's house to take a present to her on her 30-somethingeth wedding anniversary. I made it there, somehow, but when I left for home and hit the road, my car/truck began making those dreadful noises on the pavement. You know the kind: Brzzz-thump-a-thump-brzzz-thump!

Being too lazy to actually pull over and check it out, I lowered the electric side mirror and looked.

Yep. Flat. All the way dead.

Now, weather-wise, I've never known July 4th to be pleasant in any state of the Union (disclaimer: I've also never been to Alaska) but here in Missouri it is normally down right miserable and this year it is hotter than ever - over 105 degrees.

To be short in writing, I called my husband, who VALIANTLY came out to rescue me by changing the tire. I do this every once in a while. He seems to like being needed.

Unfortunately, he DOESN'T 't like the heat much better than I do and was getting rather frustrated by the ridiculous design that Dodge came up with in HIDING the jack securely under the front seat. First off, he had to search the owner's manual to even FIND the jack, then spent the next 20 minutes trying to extricate it from the place where it had welded into the frame of the car under the seat.

Seeing that his annoyance was growing to anger, I suggested that we just call AAA and have it changed by them. I figured they could take their little tow truck thingy, lift the back of my truck off the ground... and voila!

The hubs failed to see my strategy at this point, being that he had already (finally) freed the jack. However, when he went to actually use the jack, he discovered that it was broken.

"Okay, tell you what, I'm just gonna call AAA."

"No, I think I can make it work."

Seriously?!?

Meanwhile I'm BAKING in the car, he's BAKING outside the car and we are both wondering why we ever married each other!

I'm thinking: Why torture yourself? We pay $90/year so they can come change our tires for us.

He's thinking: Why doesn't she think I can do this? She called me out here, after all, to do this and I'M GOING TO DO THIS!

As the storm continues to brew in a cycle of failed attempts to get the jack to work, I finally call AAA and run back to hide in the air conditioning of my friends house.

AAA and my valiant hubs changed the tire and let me know when the drama was all over. Then he went the extra mile and, about a week and two nagging sessions later, actually got my tire replaces.

I thought I was doing pretty well to get only one non fixably flat tire in an entire year and a half, but this past weekend, my daughter and I went out to take pictures of our poor sizzling Midwest crops. To accomplish this, I pulled off the road (which are all single lanes in the country) and somehow got something in the tire.

Providence was merciful to me in waiting until I'd taken my girl to the airport and come clear back home before going flat but, alas, it finally did.

I'm okay... really.

This morning I yelled at a computer...

Actually, SCREAMED(!) would be more like it...

And I learned something new. Apparently, my insurance company’s computer-aided answering device has been programmed to detect intense, rage-like anger.

Ha ha.

The story goes something like this.

We pay hundreds of dollars every-single-freaking-paycheck into an insurance plan. For our respectable purchase of their services, they cover a fraction of our medical expenses. For instance, we have an exorbitant $1,000 out of pocket co-pay for diagnostic testing, after which, they will cover 40% of the expense... as long as it is an "in-network" provider.

Crazy, yeah?

Another totally ridiculous rule our insurance carrier has is that, at the first of EVERY single year, we have to call them, or send in some other form of confirmation, stating that we aren't covered by any other additional insurance.

If we fail to do this in a timely manner (as in, say - January 2^nd), then they promptly reject any and all claims made to them. In short, they try to make it as difficult as possible to use the "product" that we've just purchased.

My husband has made 3 attempts since the first of the year to send them the electronic verification for which they’ve asked, but this year they've taken their obnoxiousness to an all new level by not acknowledging his emails.

Just to top off their atrociously awful service, instead of sending medical ID cards for each person in the family, they sent only 1(one) card for the entire family… which my husband promptly put into his pocket.

Wow. In any other industry, those sorts of practices combined would put the business under. However, in the insurance trade, they seem to feel it their right and responsibility to make it as difficult as possible for the common guy to reclaim even 1/20th of the product for which they have paid.

After receiving yet another unpaid billing notice, I got on the phone this morning and called the insurance so that I could work the problem out, civilly, with a real, live person.

Ring, ring, ring:

"Hello, you have reached blah, blah, blah..." the computerized voice tells me. "Please enter your identification number."

Unfortunately, I don't have the ID number, because they only sent out 1(one) card and it happens to be in my husband's wallet, in his pocket... out of state, in California. So, I tell the computer:

"Operator".

This magical word is a cue to the computer that I need something other than what a computer can provide. It is supposed to patch me through to a real person.

Unfortunately, the computer wanted more information first.

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

Sheesh, like I said, I don't have that information so, once again, I say:

"Operator".

The computer responds in kind:

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

I figure the third time is a charm. Surely, it will realize that by three times, I need the help of a human, so once again I say those magic words:

"Operator".

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

I’m starting to get mildly irritated.

"I don't have my number," I say. "Let me talk to an operator."

Apparently, the computer recognized the slightly elevated stress levels in my voice. It changed its voice recorded message ever so slightly.

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number, so I can forward it to an assistant."

By this point, I'd had enough. I wasn’t really angry, but I was irritated enough to want to hang up. Figuring I’d get one up on the computer(and also figuring I couldn't hurt the feelings of a mere machine), I gathered all of the power in me, drew a breath, and SCREAMED into the phone, as LOUD as I could possibly manage:

"O P E R A T O R ! ! ! ! ! ! !"

It was loud enough that Kamaron - who was in the shower... upstairs...- turned off the water and asked if I was okay! The computer instantly, and humbly I might add, replied:

"May I transfer you to an assistant."

Amused by a different response, I maniacally screamed back:

"Y E E E E E E S S S S S S S !!!!!"

Apparently, it is also programed to identify Rage. I must take note of this for the future…

Almost immediately, I got an operator, who said:

“Don't get upset with me.”

Apparently, it also transfers voice recordings.

Ha ha ha!

Duly noted.

My Very Own "Costume Malfuntion".

We all remember it, right... Super Bowl XXXVIII half time. Honestly, I can't even remember who was playing in it that year, but I do remember that Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson were the half time show.

At the end of their performance, JT reaches over and tears off a piece of JJ's costume, revealing (for about one nanosecond) a little "shield" of circling lights underneath her clothes... oh yeah, and over a certain part of her body not considered decent for showing on tv. Ahem... We'll leave it at that... mostly.

The "malfunction" which many people thought to be mostly in JJ & JT's brains, immediately resulted in a widespread debate called "Nipplegate". (Thank you Richard Nixon for providing the fodder for every future conspiracy since your wiretapping at the Watergate Hotel.)

Y'all know how this heavily debated issue turned out, right?

CBS was fined $550,000 for an indecency penalty (a veritable tap on the wrist for CBS), which they had the nerve to challenge since, apparently, there was this little clause in their contracts allowing for "fleeting indecency on the airwaves". They claimed that the wardrobe "malfunction" was "unintentional"... because, you know, Janet Jackson always just happens to wear flashing nipple rings under her clothes... because it makes her feel confident in public or something. It must be one of those: "Ha ha on you; I know something that you don't know!" sort of issues... (kind of like picturing your audience in their underwear so that they’re the ones who should be self-conscious and not you).

Eventually, (after paying court costs roughly ten thousand times the amount of the penalty) the entire fine was dismissed... But I digress!

So, today we had our first ever Stake Conference in our brand new stake building, which just happens to be in the proverbial shadow of our brand new Kansas City Temple! Are we excited about that?

Oh Yeah!

We arrived very early so that we could claim the best seats in the house (Um, that would be the ones at the extreme back of the gym up on the stage... right behind the curtain!). Being the mother in the family, that was the chair I set claim to... right behind the edge of the curtain.

I did this because I believe in setting a stellar good example for my children. Ahem…

So, we sat through half an hour of waiting for the meeting to begin and then the first half hour services for the building dedication, after which they, mercifully, let us stand up and stretch for 3 or 4 nanoseconds before starting the actual stake conference.

Now, anyone who knows me at all, knows that I can't sit still for more than about 5 minutes. I think I have adult onset ADHD or something. Maybe it's autism, or maybe I'm just mentally retarded, like my older brothers used to "affectionately" try to convince me during my tender growing up years.

Whatever the case, I can not sit still! Threaten me with death, go ahead, it doesn't matter. I will never be able to sit still. From their earliest days, little LDS children are taught to fold their arms and walk reverently in and out of church.

Pashaw! I don't think so! I've always encourage my children to skip merrily through the halls of church, mainly because it gives me the excuse of running after them, looking as though I'm sort of, kind of, at least trying to slow them down.

Sitting still just isn't one of my talents.

I do, however, have a few tricks up my sleeve to help out with the incessant wiggling and constant struggle of trying not to stand up in church and start jumping over the benches, yelling “yee haw!”

These tricks generally involve crossword puzzles or a book of Sudoku. I don't care if anyone really believes it or not, but it does actually help me to sit – relatively - still... and even listen (the mission prez and stake prez's talks were my favorites).

So, after THREE SOLID HOURS of torturous sitting up on the stage, not even mildly trying to hide my book of crossword puzzles... or my new phone which has these utterly awesome Sudoku puzzles that light up in red if you get the number wrong, which is great... because if you just happen to be in the mood for a totally brain dead game, you can just go through each number on each empty square until you get it right...

Oh, but I digress, again...

So, after THREE SOLID HOURS of TORTUROUS sitting, I stood to leave, tugged on my dress to pull it into the general vicinity of where it should be and...

“Rrrrrriiiiiiiiiipppppp”!!!

Oh my gosh!

Yep, Janet Jackson style, my dress ripped open right across my chest, baring my white under glory for all to see.

Thankfully, I had a few more layers of clothing between the top of my "costume malfunction" and the bottom... and no, no flashing rings of light to draw attention to it. Not today anyway. Still, I was pretty horrified.

I showed it to Kam, trying to underscore the reasoning behind fleeing the premises as quickly as possible but, being the teenager he is, he wanted to stay and “socialize… just a little bit”.

“No. We need to leave, now.”

“Pahleeeeeaaaaazzzzzeeeee,” he pleads. “Just a teeny little bit?” [holds up fingers with three eighths inch of space between them, hopeful smile spread across his face].

“No; um… in case you didn’t notice, my dress is all ripped. I’m kind of exposed here. We need to go, now!”

“Pahllleeeeeaaaaazzzzzeeeee,” he pleads again.

Oh geeze, I swear, I’m the words easiest pushover.

“Fine! ONE minute and no more.”

There was nothing left to do. My body shield was insisting on flirting with the girls instead of hiding my shame, and I still had to make it out to the truck.

So, I did something I don’t think I’ve ever done in my entire life…

There, in the shadow of the new temple spires, I folded my arms across my chest and walked “reverently” out of church.

My bishop would have been so proud.

And that, my friends, is the story of my very own Sabbath “costume malfunction”.

And the demise of my second favorite dress… which bit the dust just months after my first favorite dress.

Why do the best clothes have to wear out? Blast! I just don't get it. I only had that dress for maybe ten years... that's all... well, maybe twelve... but no more. Sheesh!

Lacey things!

My mother got married in the 1940's and had this incredible wedding gown made out of hand embroidered lace, a satin underdress and a pair of matching lace fingerless gloves with a dozen satin buttons running down the back side of them. *Sigh* Beautiful.

She said that as soon as she saw the material in the store, she immediately knew it was what she wanted... and no wonder. This dress is AMAZING! Soon, my grandmother was sewing away, shaping that amazing lace into a gorgeous Victorian wedding dress.

But that was nearly 70 years ago... and this dress has had a LOT of mileage put on it.

2 years after mom's wedding, Aunt Marian wore the dress to marry Uncle Jack. It looked LOVELY on her as well.

Some years later, I saw the dress and fell in love with it, wanting to wear it for my wedding. The only problem was that I stood nearly half a foot taller than my mother and easily 30 lbs heavier. I tried to starve myself several times, hoping to fit into that beautiful thing.

At one point, it worked! I weighed less than my dear petite mother, but even then, at 123 lbs, my shoulders and bust still wouldn't fit into the dress. Though I tried... HARD... I could never get all of the 30+ satin buttons attached across the back span of my shoulder blades. Grrr!

Maybe if I starved myself to 110 it would work!

Or not...

I forgot that, while the bottom of the back had lots of sweeping lace and satin to spare in its train, the front hit somewhere well above my ankles... barefooted. No matter how hard I tried, the dress was just never going to fit me!

Wah!

All through my young adult years, I hung that dress on my wall and admired it. Unfortunately, my body never shrunk to it's size...

So, it was used for school plays and put through the wringer of abuse. Still, I remained in love with it. When my mom retired from teaching, she gave it to me!! I'm not sure why, but I didn't stop to ask any questions. I repaired the gaping holes in it (thank you school plays) and lovingly re-hung it on my wall where I could ogle at and admire it... thinking that maybe, just MAYBE, I could fit in it if I were resurrected.

Nah... I keep forgetting about the height thing.

In 1988 I got a phone call from my mom. Did I still have the dress [duh, of course] because my sister wanted to wear it for her wedding. Dang! Why was it that everyone else was going to get to wear this dress but me? I made a new satin under dress for it, fitted it to my sister and she was a glowing bride in the most beautiful wedding dress in the world.

I selfishly recovered the dress after the wedding (well, it WAS my dress still) and took it home, hanging it up, once again, to admire in all its frilly beauty.

So PRETTY! *sigh*

In 1989 I began photographing models in it and drawing the pictures into Victorian note cards. They were pretty, and at least someone was wearing my beautiful lace dress. Then in 1997, while working with the young women, we made a deal with the girls that as soon as they finished their personal progress, we would do Victorian Photo sessions. Talk about motivation!

I had several costumes for it, including my own wedding dress, but those whom God had blessed with a naturally petite body got the added bonus of posing in the lace dress.

Wow. Some of them were stunning!

In 2000 we held a road show in our ward. Not only was I involved in writing and producing it, I was also in charge of furnishing all the costumes for our cast of 75+ people! Fortunately, it was a Victorian theme ["Hey, if we write it in a Victorian theme then I already have several costumes, blah blah blah..."].

I did too. I had probably 4 or 5 entire costumes.

I think our costume budget was $75, so I started buying striped sheets and collecting old church shirts and pulled out my trusty sewing machine. There was talk that our costumes were too spectacular (we won best costume!), that there was no way we had stayed within budget, but it wasn't true. We actually had money left over. Sheets go a LONG way! They were amazing... if I may say so myself. Ahem...

Front and center in the production was the lace wedding dress, lace gloves and a lace parasol on yet another beauty that God had blessed with a tiny and petite frame.

Unfortunately, the dress didn't fare so well this time and sustained several gaping tears. But that wasn't the end...

I used it on a model for a series of "Victorian Days of the Week" cards, showing a card for "Wash Day", "Baking Day", "Sewing Day", "Market Day" and so forth. That was a fun project!

In between all of these uses, the dress has hung on my wall, where I could continuously look at it and dream that someday, I will magically shrink in all directions so as to fit into the beautiful lace gown... complete with amazing lace gloves!

Lately, it has really starting to show its age and this past week I decided that it was time to take it off the wall, ever so gently wash it once again and then begin the arduous task of sewing up all those holes. They ranged in size from 1/8 of an inch to gaping disasters of 10" or more in all directions.

I'm here to tell you that repairing antique lace is a very time consuming thing. Often I had to remake the very lace itself with my needle and thread. However, tonight I finished it! And it is beautiful once again.

Perhaps its greatest mission is still ahead...

This past week, Savannah photographed a new model who was accepted by my publisher to represent "Hannah" on my new book covers! [Yay! No more evil looking lady!]. It was a mad dash to get the pictures taken, edited and submitted all in time (with plenty of frustration that my costumes were all here, 1,000 miles away from the project).

The book goes to press on October 11th and the cover designer still needed time to figure out her part of the artwork, but by some very great miracle, it all came together and happened.

I was overjoyed!

Then I realized...

In 3 months, the cover for volume 2 goes to press!

Our Hannah model is very thin and petite... and we actually have time to get model and costumes into the same place as the camera.

Voila!

In the end, we will be able to immortalize my beautiful lace dress on the very front cover of a book... my book even! And that was almost as good as wearing it myself... almost.

I think this will be the final mission of my beautiful Victorian dress. I may even retire it to the realms of my cedar hope chest. Maybe one of my granddaughters will be petite enough to wear it one day... (not likely; they're all in the 99th% of height and weight for their age...) or maybe they'll marry someone small and one of their daughters can wear it... or maybe one of my kids will have a genetic throwback someday... something along the size of my mother.

Somewhere, someday, in another world and lifetime... I'm certain that I will wear it too... with 6 more inches of embroidered lace magically and seamlessly added to the bottom.

And the world will then be a perfect place!

My Many Hats

Everyone knows that mom's wear many different hats. I'm not much of an exception, except that perhaps a couple of them are less conventional.

For instance, today I took my author hat off and put my farmer hat on... quite literally. I parked the truck under the biggest maple tree in the front yard where, despite the 88 degrees outside, it was nice and cool, with a pleasant north east breeze wafting over the farm.

Here in the glorious comfort of that awesome shade, Kamaron and I mixed 400 lbs of grass seed together, a little at a time, and loaded it all into 3 large barrels. We had 150 lbs of Brome, 150 lbs of Bluegrass (my personal favorite) and 100 lbs of Timothy. It was a lovely mix.

Finally, we hitched the spreader to the truck and drove around and around and around the pastures, spreading all that wonderful (and very expensive) seed where it will grow into more lovely hay for next year's harvest.

After that, I put on my "Molly Mormon/Susie Homemaker/Little Red Hen hat and went to the poultry yard to check out all the pears that blew off the tree last night in that amazing storm. As I stood there contemplating what to do with all that fruit (200+ pears) half of me considered picking them all up, taking them to the kitchen and spending the rest of the night peeling, coring and canning them for the winter.

The other half of me, won out. I walked to the chicken pen and let ALL of the chickens out to feast on them, then (realizing they could never finish such a meal) I called all the horses in from the back pasture and turned them loose on the windfalls as well.

I never saw horses slobber so much in my life!

Figuring that 5 minutes of this drool fest was probably more than enough for their good health, I then put on my Annie Oakley hat and chased them all away from the tree and back into the yard... NOT an easy task... where they re-commenced mowing the lawn for me.

My life is so tough!

Anyway, after that, I put my Author hat back on and printed out the latest chapter I'm working on, then I put my Photographer hat on, edited some pictures of Sophie and printed them out for extra pages in my journal because, face it, they will never make journals with enough pages in them!

There are always way too many interesting things going on in life to write about. I can't understand people who feel they never have anything to write about in their journal.

My husband falls into this category. I bought him a journal somewhere around 1990 and dated it from 1990 to the Millennium. It was a mistake, though, as I’ve since realized it will last far longer than that.

Thinking of things to write about is never a problem for me. Heck, if there's nothing exciting enough to write about, then it's time to make something exciting. Journals are just a good time and I love writing in mine.

Let's see... other hats. There is the Chef hat... and I did cook a couple of times this week, at least 3, in fact... 4, if you count clear back to last Saturday!

Then there's my "Nervous Nellie" hat, which I wore during 3 anxious bouts of insomnia over the past few days.

There's my Teacher hat, which I've worn for 23 years now... going on 24… if Kamaron doesn't finish his last three high school courses soon.

Oh, and I can't forget my Patient Mother hat. I wore this like a badge of courage yesterday when Barry took out the paddock gate with the front loader on the John Deere. It would have been more tragic, except that he was able to fix it... except for the loose gate post... and the hole in the pipe of my semi-new gate. All was forgiven however, being that he was moving bales for me... and because he completely missed the truck! Go Barry!

There was my Agri-Business Manager hat I had to wear this week, as I compared crop prices, negotiated hay deals and stuck to my guns over land lease debates.

I still have a lot of other hats: The Nursery Leader hat, the Musician hat, the Artist hat, and the ever important Ice Cream Police hat, etc...

They are all a part of my life... and all of which I'm happy to wear!

Usually.