For Dad (talk I gave at his funeral on 1-17-2012)

Whenever the Simon family gets together, we like to play a game called “Remember When”….and we can, and DO (as our spouses can attest) go on forever telling stories about our years growing up in the  Simon Family.  There is so much we all could say about Dad and Grandpa, but I want to share just a few special memories.

One of my earliest memories is of when we were living in Fairway Hills, and Dad would give us piggy back rides to bed, and tuck us in by taking each sheet and blanket and throwing it high above us and letting it float down onto us and saying, “Here comes the wind!.....Here comes the rain!.....Here comes the snow!.....” I carried that tradition on with my four girls, and now my grandchildren.  I know that some of my brothers and sisters have done that for their children as well.

Dad built our home on Wilbur Avenue in Dalton Gardens and I have a memory of  being four years old and him coming to me with linoleum samples and letting me choose what color I wanted.  I chose a speckly light blue, and shared my first bedroom there with Valerie.  Not only did he let me choose my own linoleum, but as I look back on my life, I realize that Dad always allowed me and my brothers and sisters to make our own choices in life. He built a beautiful house for us to live in, but more than that, he and Mom made it a home.

 

We had a large garden, and Dad took great pride in both our yard and garden.  We spent almost every summer morning weeding and picking the garden...shelling peas, snapping beans, and shucking corn... and Dad would weigh our buckets and pay us a penny a pound.  I’m not sure how a penny a pound motivated us, but we were just competitive enough with each other that we worked really hard to be the one to get the most pennies.  Speaking of the garden, one year he heard that chicken manure was good fertilizer, so that fall he had a huge pile of it dumped in the garden to be ready for the next spring.  It crusted over and froze when the weather turned cold, but was alive and well in the center.  Who could forget the day that our little sister Kristen, in her knee-high rubber snow boots, walked up on top of it…..and sank up to her armpits in hot chicken manure.  It was quite tricky (and risky) to pull her out because she was right in the middle of it, and her boots created a suction that made it very hard to extract her. But as you can see, she made it out.

Dad was a hard worker, and he taught us to be the same.  We all had jobs around the house and yard and were expected to work before play.  Every Monday night we would sit around the dining room table, each with two baby food jars:  One marked tithing, the other spending….and we each had a bank that looked like a house….for savings.  Dad would pay us ten cents per year of our age, and then taught us to put 10% in tithing, 20% in savings, and the rest in spending…which we religiously spent each Saturday at either the Wilma Theater, the Crystal Plunge swimming pool, or for penny candy at Dalton Market.  I have a vivid memory of the day that Dad took us all down to a big bank downtown on Front Street to deposit our savings.  I still have my little red passbook showing my first deposits in the bank.  He encouraged us to be in 4-H and we raised lambs, pigs, and cows as a way for us to have our own income, to save for college, and to pay for our own school clothes.  He provided us all with jobs at his hardware store, from doing inventory on New Years Eve to checking in freight to working the checkstand. I have always appreciated the lessons of hard work and provident living that I learned from my dad.

Dad was a prankster.  Now you know where we all got it!  Vickie said that when she was a teenager, she had a boyfriend named Stan.  One night she and her friend, who was spending the night, were awakened by this:  “Knock knock knock….Vickie!....Vickie!....this is Stan…..let’s get married…come meet me at the front door, and run away with me and get married….knock knock knock…Vickie!…This Stan….”  This went on for several minutes.  She just lay there in shock….When she and her friend realized that Stan just kept repeating himself over and over, they got up and switched on the light and found a tape recorder under her bed….they followed the cord out the door and discovered Dad and Mom out in the hall laughing.

My brother-in-law Dan said that when he was dating Valerie, when he would be at church with her, Dad would come up to shake his hand, and he would just stare into Dan’s eyes and shake his hand and squeeze it really, really hard, maintaining unwavering eye contact.  Dad really paid attention to who we were dating and made sure they met his high standards for us.  I know that each of our spouses know how much Dad loves and respects them and welcomed them into our sometimes crazy family.

We were allowed to run and play all over Dalton Gardens and Canfield Mountain, but knew that when we heard Dad whistle, we would drop everything and run home.  I remember one of the neighbor girls saying, “Your dad is STRICT”…and he was, but he taught us obedience and respect.  We knew that if we were ever disrespectful to Mom, we were in big trouble.  Even though Dad was strict, we never doubted his love and affection for us.

Yes, Dad was strict….but he was so much fun, and funny!  He played Red Light/Green Light and Mother-May-I in with us in the back yard, and helped us build the most amazing snowman sculpture I had ever seen.  He also tied a rope to the back of the car and pulled us at top speed on a sled all around the snowy streets of our neighborhood.  He would bring us and some of our friends home from school in our old white van with no seats in the back…and we would all stand in the very back….and then he would slam on the brakes so we would all just go flying and hit the back of the front seats.  It was so fun!  We always had Family Home Evening, and I remember one in particular where all we did was lay on the living room floor while Dad sat on the hearth and threw peanuts into our mouths.  We were having so much fun that Mom couldn’t ever get us to stop and have the lesson.

I always loved sitting next to Dad in Sacrament meeting, because he would draw pictures for you.  I remember writing in my Personal Progress book, where it asked my favorite color, favorite book, etc….that my favorite artist was my Dad. And then when he was Bishop, I enjoyed seeing him up on the stand asleep with his chin in his chest, sometimes snoring lightly....and then would look over at Mom, and she was also asleep with her head back and mouth wide open! I guess we pretty much wore them out!

Dad loved to sing, and joined the ward choir, and took all of us kids with him.  Char Griffitts was the choir director, and at the practices he was the class clown and many times she’d have to ask him to be quiet.  I remember her asking him if he was a tenor or a bass, to which he replied, “I’m a tenor….ten or eleven notes off!”  Even in the hospital on Dad’s last day with us, he burst into song a couple of times…and with the effect of his medication, he had us in stitches.

We’ll never forget Dad’s funny faces, funny voices, and how he would come to the breakfast table in his blue plaid robe, with his hair as messed up as he could get it, with some goofy look and some crazy voice.  He loved to make us laugh.

We all got Dad’s unique sense of humor, and whenever someone tells a really stupid corny joke, someone will say, “Dave Simon joke.”  Even ‘til the end, Dad was cracking jokes and trying to make us laugh, even through our tears.

On Dad’s 80^th birthday, we all surprised him by getting all eight of us up to Coeur d’Alene.  After having his birthday dinner at a restaurant, we blindfolded him and drove him out to the old house that he built on Wilbur Avenue, where we had grown up.  One of my sisters had asked the current owners of the house if we could stop by with Dad and just see the house for a few minutes.  I will always be so touched by the fact that, though they barely knew us, when we arrived, they told us that they were going to leave for 3 hours and for us to just enjoy ourselves.  Dad, as he was riding in the car blindfolded, imagined that we were taking him back to his current house, and that there would be a surprise party there with his friends and family.  So when we brought him into the old house and removed the blindfold, he looked around, and surveyed the room….which just happened to have the same exact coffee table that he had at his current house.  He started saying things like, “Oh, you guys!  I love that clock!  Wow…this furniture is beautiful, I love it!"  Suddenly we realized that Dad thought we had taken him back to his current home and had given him a complete home makeover!  We spent almost three hours in our old home, going from room to room, reminiscing, watching old home movies…laughing and crying....and we even found firecrackers that my brothers Bruce and Brad had hidden in a secret hiding place under the stairs over thirty years before.  When the owners of the house returned, the husband said, “Dave, you must have been a really good father for your children to have such good memories here.” I had to agree.

When we found out that Dad only had a couple of days to live, and before I got on a plane to fly up here to be with him, I talked to him on the phone, and one of the things he said was, “Jo, I’ll miss you as much as you’ll miss me.”  Dad, we will miss you.  We’ll miss your big, tight hugs, which were always followed by you looking us square in the eye, keeping a stiff upper lip to keep from crying, conveying your love, and a great big kiss.  We’ll miss hearing you say family prayer.  We thank you for the many priesthood and father’s blessings you have given each of us when we were sick or struggling and needing guidance from our Father in Heaven.  We’ll miss your heartfelt handwritten letters in your beautiful and easily recognizable handwriting.  You were one of the handsomest men we have ever known.  We are all proud to call you Dad and Grandpa.

We are aware that it is a great and rare blessing that we all got to be with both our mom and and in their final hours on earth, gathered together as an eternal family unit, and given the opportunity to receive their  final testimony and counsel for us and to be able to tell them over and over again how much we have loved and appreciated them.  We are so grateful that Dad was blessed to go painlessly and peacefully from this life into the embrace of our mom who has been patiently awaiting this grand reunion.

Kahlil Gibran said, “When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

Dad, we love and miss you, and will see you and Mom soon!

Love, Jo
 (Dad always called me Jo or Joni Kay or Jojee Pojee...after Georgie Porgy Puddin' and Pie....)

My beautiful grandbabies

Meet Noble Lee Blakesley....Buddy Boy, Bug-a-boo, Nobes, Nobie.
Noble will be two years old on November 3....already pottied trained and speaking in sentences.  He loves airplanes and pestering Claire.  If you ask him to do something he doesn't want to do, he says, "It hurts my back." But he is just the sweetest little boy! He told Sam he wanted to go on an airplane to visit Papa Frankie and Gramma JoJo....and Sam told him "not today".  He said, "after my nap".  She said, OK, but not today.  He then told Sammy she was naughty! He always says please and thank you.

And here is our Claire Jayne Blakesley.....Chingalinga, Squibble-dee-dumpshkin, Early Girl, Lemon Meringue Pie...Claire just turned 3 on August 2.  She is a motor mouth....never stops talking!  Shopaholic and Thrift Store Extraordinaire in training. When I was visiting, Sam and I put the kids to bed so we could watch a movie out in the livingroom...pretty soon we heard Claire whimpering like a little puppy in the hall.  Sam said, "It's OK, Claire, you can go get in Mommy and Daddy's bed."  It was silent, and then she said...."but I might  take a wrong turn! Meaning she wanted to watch the movie with us....  We let her, of course!! Well, Grandma said yes....:) I kept calling her Lemon Meringue Pie because she had a lemon yellow silky nightgown on.  The next morning (my last day there), she came in and snuggled with me, and then said she was going to go get something for me to snuggle with when I got home.  She took off...then stopped short, turned around and said, "I'll try to make it yellow."

Introducing Liam Tuimatangi Qaqa.....Tui, L.T., Island Boy, Smiley boy.  He just turned 3 months, and is such a happy baby.  He is trying to talk, and loves to be outside and looking at the leaves on the trees. I love to cuddle with him!  We are watching to see if he gets his dad's curly hair and dark eyes! I was priveleged to see his birth.  The first think the nurses noticed about him was how large his hands and feet are!  He loves to eat and sleep....just like me!  I think we are going to have another rugby player!

Birth Certificates

"Mom, I know you said you gave me my birth certificate, but I have looked everywhere and can't find it. Are you sure you gave it to me?"

Oh yes.....I am sure. I remember well the day she asked for it.

"You mean a copy of your birth certificate, don't you?" (I have in the safe under the bed, under lock and key, each girl's birth certificate, with several copies of each. I learned long ago to have those, to prove their age for sporting events and such).

"No, Mom, I need the original, for a passport."

WHAT? First she leaves for kindergarten, then for college, then to Huntington Beach, and now she wants to leave the country???

There was something really hard about handing over her original birth certificate. The proof that I gave birth to her, that she is mine....the one that her tiny inky footprints were pressed upon. It seemed to me like a document that had the power to keep her where she belonged....with me.

That's how I remember that I had already given it to her. I distinctly remember lying on the carpet by the bed, looking at it one last time thinking, "I guess she is really gone...."

So now that she is here, asking me for it again, I begin to wonder....."Maybe you didn't give it to her after all....maybe she forgot it on the counter, and you conveniently didn't remind her....and it got left at home, where you think it belongs....where you think she belongs.

So I go and look.  No birth certificate. I guess I really did give it to her.

It wasn't there. But she is...and I'm thinking of keeping her prisoner.  Letting go has never been my forte. I'm kind of one of those over-attached moms.

Allison was the first....and that was hard. Never again would we have all four daughters living full-time in our home.  I don't think Allison felt ready to leave, but she was brave and blazed the trail.  Suddenly, Sammy was leaving, and Charley right on her heels.....leaving me wondering, "Why did I have them so close together?"  and "Why didn't I have more kids?"  On our way to take Emily to BYU, we stayed a night in a motel in Elko, Nevada.  I  slept with her all night, hugging her tightly and we both cried.....well, mostly me.  I'll never forget it. There goes my last girl....

Time flies by, kids grow up, and one day they want to leave and take their birth certificate with them.  Well, I'm not giving them up without a fight!

I think I might have 2 or 3.....and I might have lost the key to the safe.

Samantha, Allison, Charley, Emily

you know you might be a hoarder when.....

These things come to me in my sleep, I swear.  I don't sleep deeply very often, but when I do....when the covers are heavy and warm, on a Sunday afternoon........, it just comes.....tumbling, like Niagara Falls.  An idea for my blog.  I slowly awaken, and for a minute or two, as the ideas rush forth, I try to remember each one mentally, until I hit that threshold of "more than three", where I know it is too much, and I spring from my bed, race down the slippery hardword floors to the laptop in the dining room, plop down on our $3 yard sale metal office chair with the vintage green vinyl seat, scramble for a pencil in the desk drawer, and grab some really important document lying there, flip it over, and start emptying my brain onto the paper as quickly as possible.  I always lose some, but most of it gets written, in some kind of shorthand that even I, the author, have trouble deciphering. 

Right now Frank is peacefully asleep.....not even a snore to be heard.....it is so quiet, except for the ticking of my many clocks.  That is all......tick, tock, ticktock, tickticktock-tock, tickity-tock-tick......  I think maybe this tendency toward collecting, which people call hoarding (I kinda hate that word), at least for me....started with the clocks.  I like clocks, and one day decided to start collecting them to put on the mantle.  I have found a few at yard sales and thrift stores.  But too many ticks, all a millioneth of a second off from each other....oh my gosh.....the nonsynchronous cacophony drove everyone crazy I guess. I started finding my clocks with the batteries taken out, lying listlessly beside them.  If you ever spent the night at our house before the clocks were dismantled....I apologize.  It took me awhile to realize it was a problem. I only have 3 or 4 now, spread out around the house.   And now, I have another, bigger problem.  I think I am a.... hoarder.  In the early stages.
But so is my husband.  

You know you might be a hoarder couple when...

1.  You are spring cleaning and think you have put all of your husband's all-occasion, all-size skis neatly away for winter under your king-size bed, only to keep finding other pairs hidden other places about every 5 minutes thereafter.....another....and, what??? ANOTHER!!!  Not to mention all of the ski boots, gloves, masks.....and broken skis, boots, etc (for parts).  Note:  This collection all started with one simple statement from him:  I think I'll take up skiiing again!" ....... Anyway, you email him at work, with a subject line of "WTH?" (what the heck), a picture of the skis you found AFTER you thought you had stored them all, and the words,  "Not counting what is under the bed, I do believe we have a hoarder in the house!" And right on its heels, another one that said, "and Em just told me there are two more pairs in Utah???

You instantly receive back his huffy retort:  "....Ok...lets start talking about the Etsy crap?!? It's ok...you'll "get to it".  Note:  Almost every time you buy something at a yard sale or thrift shop, you say it's for ETSY....an online store where you sell vintage or handmade items.  It takes some time to list it (take a photo, write a description, etc.) And someday, you will get to that.
 
Anyway, to diffuse this righteous anger, you reply with, "Touché.... It takes a hoarder to know a hoarder, and we even produced a hoarder child (Allison)."  Wow.  You  just admitted that not only might your husband a hoarder, but so might YOU be.....and even your firstborn daughter.  You know that admitting it is the first step to recovery.  That's as far as you've  gotten though, you're afraid.
 
2.  As you and your husband are leaving Goodwill on Fair Oaks Boulevard, the clerk says, "Thanks for spending so much money with us today."  What?  You only spent $40......I guess that's a lot for one day, and your cart was full.  The problem is, you had hit about 5 shops before that one.  You had a carload.....all great stuff, rest assured, including some pretty awesome Christmas presents.  You even got home before dark!
 
3.  You never bring in your carload of thrift store finds until after dark, so that your neighbors don't see you do it.  They might discover that you might be becoming a hoarder.  That is your policy.
 
4.  You read a book called "A Homemade Life"....a very good book by the way, a memoir that includes recipes, and read a quote in it that says something like, "Don't bring anything into your home unless you find it beautiful or useful." You decide to rid your home of everything not beautiful and useful.....and come up with very little.  You believe that there is hardly a single thing you  have bought that you don't find beautiful or useful in some way. (You find ways to make things useful....it's called "repurposeing")
 
5.  When you find out that there are TV shows about hoarders, you actually consider for a split second seeing if your daughter can be the star of an episode.  When you mention it, her boyfriend thinks you are kidding at first....but you keep bringing it up.  She'd be perfect!  Really.....Just kidding around.......they probably don't pay that great.  But if they DID......hmmmmm.....
 
6.  You get thrift-shop request lists from your daughters and sons-in-law.....giving you even more excuses to go than you would otherwise....and you know that the best days to thrift shop are Tuesdays (People donate on the weekends, and it is all usually priced and put out by Tuesday morning)  and the day after a holiday.  Score!  You wonder if this yard sale/thrift store obsession had its roots in the day you left your four small daughters to man your yard sale so that you could go yard saling.....true story.   
Moving on...
 
 
 
You know you might have a hoarder child when...
 
1.  She calls you and says she is feeling a lot of anxiety, feeling swallowed up by her "stuff".  She tells you that she cut out (with a saw) 97 boards to put her fabric collection on....only to discover that she needed to cut out 97 more.  Also, that she moved all of her "stuff" into her roommate's bedroom (who was gone for a long vacation) temporarily so she could see the light of day.....and then paints everything in her room with Ace Hardware "Almond" spray paint.  Trying to "neutralize" the situation, I suppose.  She's taking steps, and I'm so proud of her.  It takes strength to "just say no"  to another yard of cool polyester vintage fabric with owls on it!
 

2.  You and your husband plan a "Hoarder Holiday" for your firstborn daughter and her hoarder-in-training boyfriend Steve on Black Friday where you hit nearly every thrift shop in the Sacramento Metropolitan Area before heading down to Napa, hitting a few along the way, spending the night, and hitting all of them in Napa until closing time the next day.  You know the four of you  will have a blast, and you do. Here we are fueling up for the trip (I must be taking the picture...)  When you get home from the Hoarder Holiday, each of you makes a display of your items and take turns showing each one, telling where you got it and for how much....

Allison was a little mortified at the height and weight and depth and breadth of her display, but very happy with her finds.  Our hoarder high was at its highest.  Who needs drugs? It's like a treasure hunt.  The boyfriend Steve even films it all, puts it to music with special effects, and your daughter puts it on Facebook and YouTube. 
Check it out at  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXiHNeY6H18

Here is a photo of me wearing the vintage fur hat Allison secretly bought me in Napa at the Wildcat Thrift Store.....our last stop at night during the Christmas Parade on Main Street you saw in the video, if you watched it.   She surprised me with it at Christmas and I suprised her back by wearing it on the plane when I visited her last weekend.....so brave of me...wearing a fur hat and scarf to Huntington Beach where it was 78 degrees! I looked like I was going to the North Pole! We had such a great time....and yes, visited a few thrift shops in Ventura and Santa Barbara, and showed some pretty fine restraint, actually! We are making a good solid effort to scale down.


So now you know, if you didn't know already.  It's out in the open....we are out of the closet....mainly because there is no room for us in there anymore.
 
Seriously, though, we have it under control.  We may be borderline hoarders, but organized ones. We would never qualify to be on one of those shows!

And on the plus side, Frank and I are all set to go cross-country skiing together soon....Emily is completely outfitted for downhill skiing now and loves her new sport....Frank just went on a couple of weekend snowshoeing trips.....Allison may have a lot of fabric, but I'm so proud of her learning to sew and making such awesome things with that fabric.  We have been able to save so much money on things we and the kids needed, that would have cost so much more in a regular store.  Christmas was filled with some great, unique, inexpensive gifts.  We have had so much fun finding treasures and decorating the house with them, using them in unique ways,  and saving money in the process....but know that our real treasures are our four daughters, their spouses, and little Claire and Noble.  It's family.  I wonder if Frank and I have unconsciously been filling up the house with "things"to fill the void of all of our girls being gone from home.  We miss them so much!

One of these days you will see our ETSY store suddenly filled with items for sale, and we will have the biggest and best yard sale ever to hit Rocklin.  We have a common hobby, and it's fun......and probably just a phase that we'll grow out of.  But for now, we are hanging onto those 50% off thrift store coupons and are planning our next Hoarder Holiday!

Our girls.....taken in an alley on Center Street, Provo, Utah....August 28, 2010

My Family

Bullet Proof....lovin' that song.....perfect for trying sunglasses on at the street fair in Huntington Beach.  Makes me wanna dance the "shovel dance!" (Only my girls know what that is.....) The tags look like spiders, or a weird tattoo maybe. Ali just turned 26.....me 50.  I got in trouble for taking a picture with the sunglasses on, without buying them....haha

Headed Home.....Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Sandy, I'll Miss You!

I want you to meet my friend, Sandy....she's the one on the left.  I miss her. I'm sad that the whole world didn't get to know the amazing woman I came to know and love.  I don't use the word "friend" lightly, for she was the truest of blue.  I knew without a doubt that she loved me. She was the friend that showed me what true strength in the face of adversity really is.  She shaped the last ten years of my life into something more special than it would otherwise have been. I am a different person because of her influence in my life.



For the past 10 years my feet wore a path to first her house across the street, and then for the past 9, my car knew it's way to a little old nursing home called Mountain Manor in Carmichael...."A place of love".  See the lady in the background, just to the left of Sandy's head?  That is Tina....and I love her, too.  Tina is the activities director there, and I never left Mountain Manor without Tina hugging me tightly and telling me she loved me and thanking me so much for coming.  Another amazing woman.  I wish you could meet her, too.  This is a lonnnnnng story....I could write a book.  So much to tell.....so many amazing characters in the story....I have truly been blessed. From what I write, I'm sorry that you will only get a glimpse.



Sandy and I had a connection from the start....back in May of 2000 when she and her mom and dad (Maxine and Bob) moved in across the street.  She was recovering from a major stroke, as was her dad.  They had no car and I noticed that they were hiring a taxi to take them to the grocery store and doctor appointments.  I went to the door to meet them.....Bob knelt down to tie my then 8-year-old Emily's shoe, and said, "If you ever need your shoe tied, you just come over and I'll tie it for you."  With their midwest hospitality (they were from Iowa), they invited me right in, and thus began our journey together. 


Maxine and Bob passed away in 2000 and 2001.....but I haven't forgotten them.  I refer to the corner by Sutter Hospital as "Maxine Corner" because so many times we sat at that light on the way to or from the emergency room. Bob had dementia, and "vacuumed up the dandelions" which he thought were growing in his livingroom, but was a prince of a guy. We went through so much together.....I wish I could tell you it all. They became family to us.  Through the years, so many thought that I was Sandy's daughter, and sometimes I'd let them believe it because her own two children had abandoned her.


I got the call from Mountain Manor on Saturday May 22nd that Sandy had taken a turn, and that I needed to come right away. I had just been there 3 days earlier, the first time ever that Sandy very kindly asked me to leave, because she wasn't feeling well. She was scared.....her doctor had told us recently that her prognosis wasn't good...her lungs were shutting down.


For the past 10 years it had become a ritual of mine as I walked down the hall to her room to glance sideways at the two nameplates outside the door before entering. I had to make sure "Sandy Clark" was still there. To me, her life was always hanging in the balance....every breath was hard work for her, and every step an effort. In the end, I noticed that her upper chest was very muscular from the effort.  Most people would have given up, but she fought for her life every day.  I never knew the healthy Sandy, but I am sure that she was a spitfire....she had the best sense of humor ever, and we had so many great laughs together.  A week before she passed away, Emily and I and Betty Ann (another resident) and Sandy were dying laughing about the time Eric (an aide) had to rescue Pam (an very large old roommate of Sandy's), from the bathtub, and her "girls" were practically smothering him as he tried to lift her out. Good old Eric.....love him, too!



When I got the call, it was surreal. I rushed over, taking the time on the 30 minute drive to remember all of our time together. The tears kept coming.  I was able to reach Frank ...."Hurry, she's dying." When Frank came into the room, she said, barely audibly, "I really like your tie."  After awhile, Frank left to go home. Sandy at this point could barely communicate, but she reached her hand up behind my neck and pulled my ear right down where she could whisper in it....I thought, "She's going to tell me something really important....her last words, maybe". She said, "Tell Frank I really liked his tie." That's Sandy....she is dying, and with her last words, she's paying someone a compliment. I love that about her. I always will.

My oldest 3 girls were in Mesquite, Nevada that night, spending a weekend together in a hotel.  I called to tell them that Sandy was dying.....and relayed to Sandy a message from each of them.  They sent a picture of themselves via the phone of them giving her the "I LOVE YOU" sign in sign language.  It broke my heart to see the tears in their eyes.  They loved her, too.

That night, our friend Jose came shuffling slowly into the room. He placed his hand on her and said, "God Bless You"...tears streaming down his cheeks, shook his head, and shuffled out of the room. He and Sandy came to Mountain Manor about the same time, have always sat at the same table in the dining room. Jose is special to me, too. He was hit by a train when he was four years old, and has spent his life in "facilities"....he is basically blind, and speaks a mixture of Spanish and English that you learn to translate. He also has no family that comes to visit.  He loves Chile Rellenos. That is another story that I hope to write.



I always thought I was all Sandy had....I knew she loved the staff, and that they really liked her, too, but in those final hours I witnessed the great love and affection that the nursing staff and her friends there had for her. There were many I love you's, kisses on the forehead and cheek, squeezing her hand, thanking her for the impact she had on their lives. I could never leave Sandy alone these past ten years, and I would not leave her side while she was dying. I spent the night there at the manor, and Sunday morning when I was alone with her, I told her I loved her one last time, that I would miss her, but it was really OK to let go. And she did. 



Rhoda and Anau were the nurses on duty......both in their late 20's.  They told me that every time they came into the room together, Sandy would make a comment about what they were wearing, like, "You girls are looking sassy today!"  As Sandy's good friend Elaine and I watched, Anua very gently arranged Sandy's body.....straightened her legs, folded her hands, closed her eyes, brushed her hair.....and had to continually wipe her own tears that kept falling on Sandy's face.  She finally put her cheek next to Sandy's and just wept. 



Now don't you wish you had known Sandy, and all of these other people, too?  I do.

When I returned ten days later, I brought a big bouquet of flowers with a letter to the staff.....telling them that the work they do is what the Savior would do if he were here.  We all laughed and cried as we talked about our friend Sandra Jean Clark. 

Her best friend at Mountain Manor was named Elaine.  Elaine and I kept vigil together at Sandy's bedside that night, and became very close.  Sandy kept jokingly telling Elaine that she wanted her to go with her. When I left that day, I promised her my days of visiting Mountain Manor were not over just because Sandy was gone.  This is Elaine, on the right.....


A couple of days ago, I returned, with the express purpose of visiting Elaine and Jose.  I walked in, and saw Tina at the very end of the hall....when she saw me, she stopped short and said, "Jo?"  I walked the length of the hall to her as she just stood there, not moving.  She was crying....and told me that Elaine died unexpectedly.  That when she had heard the news, she literally layed down on the floor in Elaine's room and cried and cried. Elaine is the one that referred to Mountain Manor as "A Place of Love."  I'm so sad that Elaine is gone, but it makes me smile to know that those two are together, probably doing cartwheels or something.

I went down the hall to visit Jose, who is now missing his two best friends.  We had a good talk and I told him I'd bring him some chile rellenos next time, which got me a big smile.


Finally, I stopped by the office to see if I could get copies of some pictures of Sandy.  When I walked in, Carol at the desk said, "Marjorie.....we'd like you to start visiting Marjorie.  She doesn't get any visitors." So Marjorie and I met for the first time, the beginning of what I hope will be a great friendship.


Well......like I said, it's a long story.  I just know one thing.  For the rest of my life, I will be visiting my friends at Mountain Manor.  All because I met Sandy.

what goes up comes crashing down after oral surgery, and sometimes sisters say the darndest things just to make their younger sister feel stupid.

Modern Drug has dredged up a random memory for me today. Please don't think I'm weird, but I'm just going to get it down on paper, for "posterity". And if Barb reads this, I'm curious if she remembers it the same way, or remembers it at all. I think I am the keeper of random, meaningless memories from our growing-up years in the 60's and 70's.
One day when I was 15, I had oral surgery. My younger brother Brad had told me that when he went "under" for the first time, he sang, "Saturday Superstar, Saturday Superstar, Saturday Superstar Mo-vie!" one time, and then it was over. He must've sang it pretty darn slow, I figure. My older brother Bruce had just had oral surgery a week before, and afterward was in so much pain that he stomped his foot really hard on the floor for a couple of hours. I wondered what my own experience would be.

In the waiting room, I was scared ....but thanking my lucky stars at the same time. The girl ahead of me was getting every one of her teeth pulled and getting dentures. I was only getting two upper molars sawed off the bone. Yes, I said SAWED. Not pulled, but sawed off with a saw, I assume. I had braces, and, the orthodontist had recently discovered that my teeth weren't moving because of these two steadfast stubborn old fellows. "They must be removed", he said....and so they were. I now have two bridges in their place, and all other teeth were able to move into their assigned spots.

After I emerged from the fog of the anesthetic, I think I was high. I was joyously happy. About what? I didn't know. I lounged on the recovery couch with a great big smile on my face, and everytime my mom asked me if I was ready to go yet, I'd slur in a sexy-sounding voice, "in a minute....". She'd ask me again in 10 minutes, and I'd say the same thing. Repeatedly for 30 minutes, which to me seemed like three. I thought she was getting really annoying, but I just laughed it off....hahaha. You silly, impatient mother!

On the way to Modern Drug Coffee Shop for a milkshake, which was next door to our dad's hardware store, I, who was normally shy, got on the CB radio and carried on lengthy conversations with truck drivers and anonymous kids around my age. I really enjoyed that. I said "10-4" a lot, and other CB codes I had learned.

When we entered the drugstore, I turned a corner down an aisle, and ran into my sister Barb, a year older than me. When I saw her, I burst into uncontrollable, audible sobbing. I couldn't stop myself. She said, "What's wrong with YOU?"

I sat next to her at the coffee shop counter with my face in my hands, crying about....WELLLLLLL? I just couldn't tell ya!

The old crabby waitress named Bird served up our chocolate milkshakes, and the concerned regulars sitting directly across the narrow formica counter from us kept asking my sister "Is she alright???" To which she replied, "Oh....pfft...she just got a tooth pulled"...and then rolled her eyes.

Claire Jayne & Noble Lee....our grandkids!

Claire...modeling her one-of-a-kind dress that Sam made from a kit Allison put together from her collection of vintage fabric and notions....love it! Claire has been calling us a lot on the phone without her parents' knowledge. We love listening to her messages...my favorite is when she raises her voice an octave to say, "Byyyyyyye, PawPaw!" She calls me JOJOJOJOJO....so funny!

Here she is again, showing off her new swimsuit! My guess is that she'll get up tomorrow morning and want to wear it with Noble's onesie, her red rubber boots, and a bunny hat! That's Claire....!!!! I remember well the day Sammy was two and came out with her tights OVER her pants and proudly exclaimed, "Me dwess mysewf!"








Noble....ohhh....shhhhh! Sleeping. He's not so little anymore...he and Claire are almost the same size! I love his little bald head....can't wait to rub it!

And when he's awake, Sam and Mike say he just smiles and laughs! I always thought that Sam and Mike thought he looked like Frank because of his "bald" head (Frank shaves his)...but close your eyes, and picture Frank laughing....are you seeing what I'm seeing? Twins! Time will tell, but I think he's a Mike/Frank combo, which makes sense, because Sam was always a little Frankie-face.

My Music

We're cheap....but some things are worth more than $5.99/person

We were walking down the sidewalk in Old Sac, away from Annabelle's, back to the car. Frank, Charley, Emily, and I. There was no talking, and then I interrupted the silence by thinking aloud: "I think that was the worst meal I have ever had in my whole life!" Frank looked at me thoughtfully and said, "It WAS, wasn't it!" We all started laughing, and the laughter didn't stop for the 5 more blocks to the car and for several more miles in the car ride home. We called Allison and Sam to tell them about it, but no words would come out....just laughter. I know they were jealous....wishing they could have been there to partake of the family laugh-in, if not the food that brought it on.

We are not food snobs. We'll eat almost anything, and on this day, we DID. I can't believe it, now that I think about it. Always ones to get our money's worth, and not ones to rock the boat, we ate the food and didn't ask for our money back, even though at first we thought we had been completely ripped off.

This is how we ended up there in the first place: We had gone to Old Sac to take pictures and walk around. After hitting the candy store that gave out "free" samples, we were on our way back to the car with the intention of stopping to eat on the way home.... until a little girl on the street corner handed us the coupon. Annabelle's. Perfect! It sounded like a good deal, was only a couple of blocks away, and we were really hungry.

The establishment was in a back alley, down some stairs, and it smelled like sewage, dead animals, old trash. We overlooked it. That should have been a big red flag. We walked in the door, and right inside was the cashier. You paid first, which, looking back, was another blazing red flag.


If we had just glanced around before handing over our debit card! Past the sentinel at the cash register, we first noticed the big scruffy camping jug on the end of the salad bar table. Then the paper plates and the salad bar consisting only of a small bowl of wilted iceburg lettuce, some faded and limp broccoli florets...tiny stale croutons...and some unlabeled dressing. Their "pasta" dishes were various noodles floating in colored water, with crumbled dried leaves on top. The pizza wasn't out yet. I know we, and the other patrons, were all thinking the same thing: you can't really ruin pizza. We all anxiously awaited it's arrival out of the oven, while tentatively eating our other "food". Then...one 10" pizza was plopped down on the table. We practically tripped over each other trying to get to it. When I saw it I knew for sure that it was the cheapest frozen pizza you could ever possibly buy at the cheapest store you could find.....back in the 60's...maybe. We still ate, a little, and didn't complain at all.....none of us did, which was weird now that I think about it. I guess we were trying to make the best of it, trying to be polite, trying to get our money's worth, and trying not to throw up, all at the same time. Too much trying. You shouldn't have to try that hard.

FAST FORWARD

Today, a couple of years later, Frank and I passed by Old Sac on our way home from the bay area. We were hungry, and I jokingly said, "Well, we could stop at Annabelle's!" Then I decided it would be fun to google it, and see if there were any reviews. Well, we hit the jackpot! Here are a few:

"Stay Away..."‎

"Run Away‎..."

"E-Coli Heaven‎..."

"I stay near Old Sac as a business person for a month at a time. During my last stay I heard more bad things about this place than any other place by the people at the hotel. I didn't have the cajones to try it myself...."‎

"The mac & cheese stained the plates & our mouths!! YUK!!!"

"The waiter smelled like BO." ‎

"Their pizza is so bland and so dry that it felt like I was eating some sort of thick paper."

"The salad bar can be more properly labeled a lettuce bar."

"Pizza tasted like plain plain plain plain s---."

"Oh, and they give you a cup and if you want water you can get it yourself from one of those cooler jugs that you see at football games. Those big orange coolers, yeah you know what I'm talking about. So serve yourself some water if you get thirsty. And I wouldn't know how the water tastes 'cause I was totally disgusted."

"You dont even have to fill up your glass of water, just drink the mac and cheese and you will be fully hydrated and hungry."

"Super dark in there, kinda scary. The bathroom creeped me out...."

"It was weird.... I walked by the kitchen on my way to the restroom and didn't see any cooking going on in there. It was empty!"

"The macaroni and cheese is watered down and the "ziti" is pasta with a mixture of one part tomato sauce, three parts water. The salad is okay I suppose if you don't like toppings on it."

"Horrible Food...."

"The 'buffet' was a gastronomic disaster. The pizza was horrible. Honestly, if you spread Wonder Bread with catsup and melted a slice of good old American cheese on top it would have been better. Did I mention bland and tasteless? One pizza had a few tiny pieces of sausage (of unknown origin) scattered across some portions of it. Horrible. As for the 'pasta' dishes-- I hope no real Italians ever come to this establishment to dine as they would feel compelled to destroy it as an insult to their culture and national cuisine."

"Pros: Proximity of unclean restroom to dispose of disgusting food. I would eat from a trash can before I ate here again."

"Literally the worst place I have ever eaten. I felt like I was robbed...I think I would commit suicide before eating in this place again."

"It was absolutely positively the most hideous dining experience I've had in years, bar none."

"You take a stairwell down below Old Sacramento to find Annabelle's. They have great lunch specials, and a family-friendly atmosphere. And, there's even a patio!"

WHAT??? OK, that had to be written by the owners....and so must the next two:

"Great Pizza doesn't even describe it‎."
(You're right, that DOESN'T describe it!)

"If there were more stars I could add I would, as its such a great Pizza Parlor. But its not like a 'regular' Pizza Place, it's more of an old school pizza experience. Its very home-oriented. You feel very comfortable at the location."
(Liar!)

After reading the reviews (the REAL ones) written by the customers, Frank and I felt validated, like we had proof. Those we've told this story to gave us that look that said, "You're just exaggerating....it couldn't be THAT bad!" But as you can see, Frank, Charley, Emily, and I are part of a select group of people who have all experienced the same, horrifying dining experience and lived to tell the story.

The review that captures my feelings about Annabelle's best is the following:

"The only good thing that came out of that place was the jokes and laughs we get every time we mention it!"

Yes, it cost $5.99 per person, but I've been thinking....it was worth it. You know, some people pay to go to the movies to laugh. Those cost more than going to Annabelle's. So I think it was a great investment! We will never forget it, and it will provide for laughter repeats for years to come. I love that. Next time you're in Sacramento, you gotta go!

My son-in-law Mike is a writer, and I think we'll take him there the next time they are here...there is a good story there. Maybe after he finishes the one about Manni, the grocer/mortician in our former town of Portola...the man with the long, curled and waxed mustache that roasted chickens at Southside market by day, and embalmed dead bodies in his basement at night.

Love Love Love....Charley and Vito, married!

49....and feeling fine

I read that in Fiji they don't really celebrate birthdays, and so I'm wondering if maybe they don't keep track of them, either. I had one on July 16th. The part about not keeping track of them is sounding kind of appealing to me nowadays. How did I ever get to be 49? Ugh.

Here's a question for you: If you didn't know how old you are, how old are you?

Some days I feel 13...and others 75. Today I feel......29ish. But the calendar tells me that I am..(sigh)... 49. If it weren't for that truthful mirror that I only give a passing glance to these days, and my creaky joints, I might be able to pretend otherwise. I always thought when I was this age that I'd feel mature...wise. I'm still waiting. I feel like an imposter.

How do I feel at 49 years old? I feel fine. At least that's what Allison's birthday card she made for me said, so I'm going to go with it. I like it!

My birthday this year was memorable for me. I didn't jump out of an airplane, just sat comfortably on the purple couch and opened my very thoughtfully chosen and handcrafted gifts from my girls and my husband. It was nice.

Allison, who knows that I love a certain shade of aquamarine blue, color-coordinated her gifts.....vintage earrings, homemade all-occasion cards (as seen in the first and last photos), pretty hairpins, and a vintage photo album with little phrases that mean something to her and me. The things she wrote made me laugh....and made me cry. Below is one of those little phrases. I'll explain. A few years ago when Ali was in college, she decided to dye her hair dark brown. When she emailed me the picture, I flopped down on the bed and cried. I felt like the old Allison was dead and gone....that someone had taken her place. Sammy comforted me by firmly stating, "MOM.....she's still the same person!"


Sam and Mike, who always create the most amazing gifts for a fraction of the price, painted a vintage napkin dispenser for me, which was, incidentally, in the same beautiful robin's egg blue color. I adore it. My girls know that I love things to coordinate. I dislike "matchy-matchy" as we call it, but "clashy" really makes me squirm. On Sundays, I'd always have to ask what each of them were wearing, just to make sure that we didn't clash!

Charley got me her traditional gift: pedicure/foot massage, which I love, and have come to count on and look forward to each year. It's a little piece of heaven for me. And she always makes the cutest homemade cards, as seen below.


Em wrote me the BEST letter...."20 Things I Love About You", and gave me a cream and sage green pinstriped cotton bathrobe that she "picked out" (shhh.....our little secret, Em). And being the only one home, she was there to help me "celebrate", and treated me like a queen for a day.


Frank got me a cool electronic gadget that stores music for my workout and pictures and videos, too. Any excuse to shop at Fry's! He always remembers when I mention that I like something, and he doesn't know it, but it is a known fact that I have ESP, and somehow already know what he got me before I open it. I feign surprise, though, of course! He took me to breakfast, and then to lunch at Plutos for a choose-your-seven-toppings salad with tri-tip steak - my favorite!
Funny story: At breakfast, we had a really good laugh when the stereotypical IHOP waitress asked Frank how everything was, to which he replied, "Fine", to which she replied in her husky-smoker-waitress voice, "Mmmmmm-HMMMMMMMMmmmm". The only thing missing was her slapping him on the butt! Em, Frank, and I all looked at each other, and when she walked away started noiselessly laughing so hard that it was embarrassing! Between chortles, Frank wheezed, "See...hahaha..I'm...hahaha.... still....hahaha... good-lookin'! I guess you had to be there.

So....I'm 49, and feeling fine.....hoping to always stay young at heart. But..... I just might stop counting birthdays this year!

Finally, some words of wisdom, from the song, "Young at Heart":
"And if you should survive to a hundred and five
Look at all you'll derive from just bein' alive!
And here is the best part, you have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart."

claire jayne blakesley....age one....candid photograph by Grandpa Frank

You gotta love that goofy smile! When she wakes up in the morning, the first word out of her mouth is an enthusiastic "Hi!"......and according to Mike, "repeated 50 times". She melts me into a puddle. After our visit in August, Frank said, "I can't believe how much I love her....I almost cried when we said goodbye." Me too.

i'm ruined!

I just finished a really good book, and now I'm ruined.

I know from prior experience that now, for possibly months, no other book will compare. Oh, I'll still read.....I'm the kind that even reads the backs of shampoo bottles and shaving cream cans in the shower, for heavens sake. Beside my bed my small nightstand bears the weight of a haphazard stack of reading material, as well as another stack on the floor most days. Most nights I fall asleep....reading.

My love of reading began on those rainy Saturdays growing up, when Mom would pile all of us kids into the station wagon and drive us to the big two-story brick library on 7th Street, and we could bring home as many books as we wanted. I think I read nearly every autobiography in a series they had for children, every Trixie Belden mystery, every Phyllis Whitney romance novel. We would come home, and my sisters Pam and Barb and I would spend the day in our California King bed, reading our books and eating sliced apples with salt. When we'd finish a book, we'd all sit at the kitchen table and construct shadow boxes from old shoe boxes, depicting scenes from our books, to be displayed on the shelves in the upstairs children's section. I still remember so well the smell of that library, the creaking stairs, the hushed tones.

I was crazy about books. When my siblings fanned out across the family room floor to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings, I would try to do that too, ....but would always end up sneaking away to my room to, well.....read. Kind of nerdy, I'll admit.

And now, after this latest book, I'm "ruined". Every book I pick up starting now will be judged by this last one, and they will all fall short. The last book that really ruined me was titled "Follow the River". I read it in 1998, so you can see why I am concerned. It might be awhile! Don't get me wrong, I've read and enjoyed many books in between, but sometimes a book comes along that does something to you.

The title of this latest ruinous book is "The Girls", by Lori Lansens. I had never heard of this author, or either of her two books. But Emily got a summer job with a lot of down time, so one morning I decided to take her to work, then head over to a nearby thrift shop to find her some good books. Emily also loves to read, and must come by this addiction genetically, I think, since everyone in our family loves a good book. I picked up the book I speak of for a mere 99 cents. I thought, "Well, if it's not good, I'm only out a buck."

After reading it, I would have paid 99 dollars. It was that good, at least for me. I'm picky about what books I read. The writing has to be good. The characters believeable. It has to transport me to another place, and leave me wanting more when I turn the page to find that it is the last. I have to keep thinking about the book for days after I've read it....and start rereading it again in the very same day. And call my sisters, daughters, friends.....and give them an oral book report over the phone.

This novel by Lori Lansens was, for me, nearly perfect. I am amazed by her skill and insight, the research she did, her amazing talent. I usually don't mark up novels, but this one I read with a pencil in hand. The first paragraph pulled me in and all day long I kept dropping projects mid-course to lay on my bed and read some more. Here is that first paragraph:

"I have never looked into my sister's eyes. I have never bathed alone. I have never stood in the grass at night and raised my arms to a beguiling moon. I've never used an airplane bathroom. Or worn a hat. Or been kissed like that. I've never driven a car. Or slept through the night. Never a private talk. Or solo walk. I've never climbed a tree. Or faded into a crowd. So many things I've never done, but oh, how I've been loved. And, if such things were to be, I'd live a thousand lives as me, to be loved so exponentially."

I bought this book for Emily, but she hasn't been able to pry it from my hands quite yet. I'm in the middle of my second time through.


If you google "The Girls" by Lori Lansens, you will find scores of wonderful reviews. I guess you can tell that I want you to read it!


"The Girls is so deeply imagined, so vivid and fresh, by turns funny, by turns astonishing, by turns sad. What wonderful writing! What glorious characters! I found myself weeping when I'd finished not only because of the ending, and not only because the book was done, but because of the pure joy of the whole experience." --Jane Hamilton, author of A Map of the World

If you're a reader, you patiently read through this entire, gushing blog. If not, I guess I could have just said, "I read a good book, and I highly recommend it."

If you think you are not a "reader", I think you're wrong. You've just never found a book that ruined you.

walking on the ceiling

I was four years old, and lived at Route 2 Box 351B1, at the blue-gray house on Wilbur Avenue. It was built by David B. Simon, our dad. That's me in the picture,with the bandaid on my knee. I remember going through a lot of bandaids. I noticed that I don't look that much different today, really. Same hair, pretty much the same figure, too!

I remember an afternoon sometime before we moved in when Mom and Dad showed me two linoleum samples and let me pick which color I wanted in my bedroom....the pink, or the blue. I chose the blue, and shared a room with my younger sister Val.

That house holds many vivid memories for me. To this day I can tell you all of the floor coverings in that house: Mom and Dad's bedroom had a long, wispy lavender carpet, a kind I had never seen before, and never since. The living room (rarely used, as most "living" rooms are) proudly wore a sculptured royal blue. A greenish grooved linoleum (I remember scrubbing those grooves....) covered the floor of the dining room, kitchen, bathrooms, laundry room, office, and family room (whose floor was protected by an enormous, oval, green braided rug). The "little girls" bedroom had light blue linoleum, the "big girls" had pale pink. Then there were the stairs....striped, like Joseph's coat of many colors. Very unusual, and I have wondered why my seemingly conservative parents made that unconventional choice. We rarely walked down the stairs, but rather rode those stripey steps all the way down on our bums, over the years wearing down a path of sorts, to Mom's dismay.

Downstairs, we had the boys' room - once again...linoleum. The vast majority of the basement was plain, cold, cracked cement, and we called it "The Big Room"....a room we biked, rollerskated, and played a dangerous game of tag called "wet rag" in. We even put on plays down there and charged the neighborhood kids a quarter to watch. I loved our new house. As interesting as I found the floors, I found the ceiling just as intriguing.

If I wasn't out in the driveway pedaling my hand-me-down tricycle in circles with a cap gun in my hand, digging in the dirt hills or kicking the ant hills around our newly constructed home, or following a baby bird across the field in my nightgown at sun-up....you might find me lying on the rug on the family room floor, legs crossed, my hands clasped behind my head, gazing up at the ceiling...and in my mind, I would "walk" around the "room"..... on the ceiling. It was blank, white, vast, clean and uncluttered, except for an occasional light fixture, which stuck up like a traffic signal, defying gravity. I envied this interesting space they occupied. It was like another world, one I wanted to explore, one filled with all new possibilities and adventures. It was like turning the house upside down, and having a whole other, very different house to explore. And in my mind, that's what I would do....explore. Boldly going where no man has gone before.....(is that from Star Trek?)

You walk on the ceiling when you step into another person's life and see the world from their unique perspective, and come to a realization of why they are the way they are, and understand why they do what they do.

You walk on the ceiling when you push yourself to do something you never thought you'd have the courage to do....and a whole new wonderful world is opened up to you.

You walk on the ceiling when your whole life changes and you must discover a "new" life.

One by one our older three daughters have left home, and on August 26th Emily will follow suit. As I think about my life so far, it has been like my home on Wilbur Avenue.....colorful, varied, and full. The experiences I've had raising my children run the gamut of the ordinary "linoleum" day-to- day stuff, through the tender "wispy lavender" moments, to the fun and funny "striped" ones where we laughed until we were speechless and spent. I have loved my life as a mother, more than I can tell you. Not always easy, but I'd do it all again....and how I wish I could!

Though I know that my life will be turned upside down when we leave Emily at the dorms in August, and return to a home devoid of children, my hope is that I can "walk on the ceiling".... and even though it is bare, and different than the floor I am accustomed to, that I will have the wisdom and the courage to view it as I did the ceiling in my childhood home 45 years ago....as a new adventure. Definitely different, certainly new and a little frightening, but wonderful in it's own unique way, full of possibility and promise.

(But first, I'm going to be depressed and cry for a few days, if you don't mind).

it isn't good to be alone, it isn't good

Meet Chuck (Norris), our new Betta Siamese fighting fish, a gift from Emily to her dad this Father's Day. This isn't actually Chuck, but a picture that looks quite like him.

Bettas are native to the rice paddies of Thailand and Cambodia. The aggression of bettas has been studied by ethologists and comparative psychologists (got that from Wikipedia). Bettas usually must be in a tank by themselves, because they will fight to the death. This excludes mating, of course! Bettas will even respond aggressively to their own reflections in a mirror (haven't we all?). Interestingly, though,they are quite curious and will watch humans going about their business nearby. I often catch him eyeing me while I wash the dishes or wipe the counters.

When I fed Chuck his 3 flakes of fish food this morning, I felt sorry for him, all alone in there. I can't stand for anyone, man or animal, to be alone. I think that is pretty much how we all react.

When Ryan (good family friend) and the girls brought home a bunny for Frank for his birthday one year (gosh, it seems like we always give him animals on holidays, doesn't it!), we were home only a few minutes when we rushed back to get bunny #1 a buddy. We had been through the "one bunny" scenario, and it didn't work out too well....lots of hissing, growling, biting. Sidenote: That Bunny's name was Bun-Bun, and was given to Allison her freshman year of college by a suitor, who asked her to the spring formal by giving her a baby bunny in a cage with a note that said, "We'll have a hopping good time!" So cute....but somehow, we ended up with that bunny!! One day he escaped. Frank was devastated ("GIRLS.....two of you go that way, two of you THAT way...and find him!") We never did find him, so that's why everyone wanted to get Frank a replacement(s). Sorry for the long explanation, back to my point....

If I see someone alone, my heart goes out. That sentiment has really propelled me into trying my hand at matchmaking at times, and to collecting elderly friends who don't seem to have anyone else. I'm always introducing my menagerie of independent study students to each other, hoping they will find something in common and become friends.

As I mentioned, bettas cannot coexist with another fish, they will fight to the death. I guess there are some people like that. They won't let anyone get close, and guard their hearts a little too well. It's sad to see what they miss.

So, being the betta that he is, why does Chuck look so lonely? Why does he seem to watch our every move through the plastic walls of his mini-aquarium? I have to wonder what this fish is thinking. I know he has to want company, someone to tell about his day...what he saw, heard, how many laps he did around the pool, all the day-to-day stuff.

I remember one night I was visiting in Provo, all by myself, and spent the night at my brother's house. He and his wife had prepared a really nice, cozy room for me to sleep in, but when I was in bed, with the lights out, I felt an odd, unfamiliar feeling. It was lonliness. I truly felt like a fish out of water, so to speak. No one to talk to til I fell asleep, no hand on my shoulder, not even any snoring. I missed the familiarity and closeness of my family. I distinctly remember thinking, "Is this how it feels to live alone?" I suddenly had so much compassion for anyone who does....the widows, the single moms, anyone with no one.

I suppose there are some who are used to it, who relish it, who actually enjoy the solitude. Not me. It's nice to have a little alone time occasionally, to sit back and think, evaluate, and dream. But I have to have my connections. My family and friends make my life what it is.

Chuck, Chuck, Chuck....I want you to have a friend, a playmate, someone.....anyone! I'm going to start looking for a little fish friend for you....because it isn't good to be alone. It just isn't good!