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!

losing it

I was getting my hair cut the other day, and somehow the circuitous path of our conversation found me telling my hairdresser a funny story. In short, it was the time that I went to the doctor and as is customary, after waiting in the waiting room for about half an hour, they put me in the examination room to wait again for the doctor. I consider myself to be a pretty patient person, but after waiting there for almost two hours (I know, I know....), I thought THIS IS RIDICULOUS! I cracked opened the door, and found that all of the lights were out, everyone was gone, and the janitor was sweeping the floor. They had forgotten me.

I finished the story, and we were both laughing. Then she said, "That is SO funny!" As soon as she said that, I suddenly could not even remember what I had just told her. I had no inkling whatsover. I was too embarrassed to admit that to her, and just laughed along with her, mentally scratching my head. Oh dear.

I'm not the only one.

A few days ago, Frank dropped me off at JoAnn's Fabric store, while he went to a sporting goods store, instructing me to call him as soon as I was ready, which I did. I waited out front for quite some time, then gave him another call. He said, "I can't remember the code to get into my truck!" He was in the process of calling Emily to ask her what it was. Reminds me of the time a couple of years ago that he was paying for groceries at Costco, and couldn't remember his debit card pin number, and was calling all of our girls at BYU, asking them for his number. That took some time, while everyone in line waited. It was a stressful experience for him, but hilarious to the rest of us. Thank heavens our girls still have THEIR marbles.

This morning as we were walking into the gym, he said, "What's my membership number again?" I told him, and then said, "Just picture the number in your mind, typed...that's what I do." He replied, "No, that's overload". I said, "Huh?" He said he'd explain it to me later. He'll probably forget to tell me, and I'll probably forget to ask....or I'll remember to ask, and he'll have no recollection of ever saying that. That seems to be how it goes these days.

My friend Danelle texted me, "I agree"....and I had no idea what I had said that she was agreeing with. When I asked her, she couldn't remember.

At the Rocklin Jubilee a few years ago, after the parade, I was navigating my way through the traffic in old Rocklin in 100 degree weather, when I saw an elderly man looking lost, hot, and tired. I pulled over and asked if he needed a ride. His name was Blackie (a nickname because his last name is Black), and he sheepishly said, "I can't remember where I parked my car." Blackie politely insisted on riding in the back of the truck because he was a "stranger". We drove all around the streets of Rocklin that way, looking for his car, which we eventually found. Poor Blackie.

Now I'm wondering....is that what's next? Are Frank and I going to come out of a store, and have no idea where our car is? (OK, fine....it happens all the time, OK?)

We're losing it. I'd be sad if it wasn't so darn funny! I just hope that the next time I'm laughing, I can remember what I'm laughing about...:)

oh, the joys of fatherhood

I was looking for a picture of our girls to post for this Fathers Day post, and came across this one....one of Frank's favorites. It captures the side of them they sometimes keep hidden from the general public. They would rather this photo be destroyed than posted on my blog, and I'll have to pay for this, but....I think it's worth it. I think! Having a photographer father does have its downsides, girls. Everything gets documented.

The girls love their dad. REALLY just adore him. Sometimes they think he can on occasion be unreasonable, but even then they think that makes him all the more loveable. Every little thing he does is so "cute" and "funny". I love hearing them talk about their dad....with so much affection.

They respect him and his opinion and advice. It carries a weight and wisdom that mine does not, and I have always appreciated that. It's because of him that they have become who they are. The development of their character and values comes largely from him. They never want to disappoint their dad, and that helps guide their actions. They know he loves them, would do anything for them. And they for him.

Frank has always found joy in being a father. He has a special and unique relationship with each of the girls. He loves each one for who they are. Their dad has had the rare opportunity of spending more time with his girls than most fathers get to. He's been their coach, their teacher, and had a lifetime of summers to spend working and playing with them. He has taught them to fish, to play golf, made them watch all his favorite old movies (Casa Blanca for one)....taught them how to work hard...to hammer, paint, and hand him that "whatchamacallit". They have always been his carpenter's assistants, his boat backer-upper guides, his carwash buddies, and has taught them all the proper way to eat Chips Ahoy cookies with milk.... They carry in their memories volumes of experiences with their dad....some funny, some life-changing, all unforgettable and cherished.

We all love his laugh, how he dances when he hears a favorite song. He has a tender heart. He prays for his children's success and happiness. He is a great example for them and a blueprint of what they are looking for in a husband and father. They are so proud of him.

As his wife, today I am so thankful to have been his partner in raising our girls. I love him like they do, and he has made me a better person. Happy Father's Day, Honey!

what almost wasn't

Photo: Danville Apartment #3, Provo, Utah.

February 1980. I had just scrawled in my journal the night before (after a bad date) that I was sick of dating, it was a waste of my time, their money, that every guy was weird, and on and on.....and that the only guy I would even consider going out with was Frank Shields. I had only admired him casually from afar, seeing him washing his "corvette yellow" MG midget convertible in running shorts....his straight, longish (by BYU standards) hair that bounced when he walked.....not even entertaining the possibility that he might be interested in me. I saw him as a "jock", out of my league, and myself as the shy-around-guys "band nerd". I barely knew him, and most of what I knew came from my roommate who liked him with a capital "L". She would visit him at Toad Hall (next door) sometimes, and came home one day and announced that he reminded her of me.

Then, the night after my ominous journal entry, the phone rang. I answered, and a male voice said, "This is Frank Shields...I was wondering if you would go out with me." Because of my very recent journal entry, I was positive that one of my roommates had read my journal and was playing a trick on me. Just as the words, "Who is this...?" almost escaped my lips, I realized that the voice sounded nervous. Hmmmm......could it be? Then.....my roommate who had a crush on him could tell that I was being asked out, and quickly appeared right at my shoulder excitedly asking, "Who is it? Who is it?" That she liked him and had first "dibs" certainly did not escape me, and my immediate instinct was to say no. I was not the kind of girl to steal another's love interest. BUT... I also didn't have the heart to say no to someone who apparently had to work up the courage to ask me out. That, and I felt like "fate" had knocked on my door. So, after a brief, silent debate within.....should I? shouldn't I....I said yes.

When I hung up, my roommate wanted to know who it was.....so I bravely told her. It was Frank Shields. I fearfully waited for her reaction. Expecting her wrath, for that "excited for you" smile to turn to a vengeful frown, I was surprised and relieved when she told me that it was OK, because that very day she had redirected her affections to a darling young man named Marty. Whew!

Even though our first date started off rocky (Frank was an hour late because he didn't wake up from a nap....must have been excited, eh?), all's well that ends well, right? We went out for Mexican food, Frank ran a red light, we watched the movie "Windwalker", caroused around at BYU's Friday Night Live (I still have the blue plastic snail that we won that night in the geography booth), then polka-ed at the dance.....all in one night. And, believe it or not, he gave me a handshake at the door you see in the picture. I knew he was a keeper. Twenty-seven happy, adventurous years, 4 spectacular daughters, 1 perfect grandchild and one on the way later.....I'm so glad I said YES! What almost wasn't, IS.....and this shy-around-guys gal ended up with everything she always wanted.

philosophy: if it makes for a good story, you really can't complain

My college roommate, Nancy, sent me the link to this amazing youtube video (see above) and the backstory. Watch the video, then read the story below. Even though I know that this is already spreading far and wide across the internet, I included this story in my blog because it reminded me that in this life we all have different journeys, but have similar experiences and feelings. It made me laugh and cry at the same time. Her experience with her mom reminded me so much of some of my own. Here is is:

"When I think about my family’s history with the Mayo Clinic, I immediately think of the kitchen ceiling in my childhood home, where a pale orange circle about the size of a basketball is forever stained into the plaster. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice it’s there, but we do. It has a story, of course. Not an entirely cheery one, but we have a family philosophy that if it makes for a good story… you really can’t complain.

My mother, Sharon, had her first tumor in her jaw just after my birth in 1973, and it cost her four teeth and a large chunk of jawbone. 1977 brought the birth of my younger sister, Britney, and another tumor. This one took a deeper, “U” shaped piece of the bone. A year later, a third tumor took the entire lower left quadrant of her jawbone, which was replaced with a metal rod. Winter always meant thick scarves wrapped around her head because the rod would get cold and radiate a monster ice-cream headache.

When she began having pain in her front left teeth, my grandfather intervened. His search led us to the Mayo Clinic and Dr. Keller, who had personally treated hundreds of such cases. The plan was to stabilize the front teeth and eliminate the painful bar by rebuilding her jawbone with a section of her hipbone. But instead, awoke to find the remaining five teeth and exactly half of her lower jawbone missing because of additional tumors discovered during the surgery. She was devastated, but six months later returned for her reconstructive surgery and returned home with her teeth wired shut.

For the next two months, virtually everything she ate was either sucked through a straw, or squirted into her mouth with a giant syringe (minus the needle). By about week three, she had dropped an alarming amount of weight and was desperate for something resembling real food. So my endlessly patient father pureed some spaghetti and spooned it into the syringe. Despite his efforts, the food still clogged the syringe, and we looked on with helpless unease as my mother faced yet another defeat.

In a flood of frustration and disappointment she slammed the syringe onto the counter — spraying the entire contents straight upward to form drippy orange stalactites on our pristine white plaster ceiling. Tears quickly turned to laughter, and the stain and story remain vivid for us.

For the next 25 years, my mother struggled with eating. Her new jawbone was a wonderful improvement, but she could still only chew on the right side. The long term effects included joint and bone erosion and the painful atrophy of her salivary glands and the left side of her tongue. But the daily struggle to eat was much harder to watch. My mealtime memories of my mother are all the same… she rarely finished her plate because she would stop either when her mouth was aching with fatigue, or when everyone else was finished with their meals.

Finally in 2008, her medical complications were extensive enough that the insurance would assist with the implantation of a prosthesis to restore a full mouth of teeth. After more surgeries to implant posts into her jaw, we returned in September for her permanent prosthesis. I watched as Dr. Koka secured it in place, and then something happened that no one had anticipated. Since the earliest surgeries, she has been troubled by the slight droop of her left cheek. Much like our spaghetti stain, no one else would notice, but she did… and it showed in her eyes in every picture I’ve ever seen of her. As he finished the installation, she sat up and looked at herself in the mirror, and what I saw in her eyes brings a tear to mine even now…

She liked what she saw.

We knew the functional implications this final visit to the Mayo Clinic would bring, but we never anticipated the more subtle — but no less powerful — impact it might have. The prosthesis filled out her jaw and cheek and smoothed the contour of her face. She beamed, and I cried.

Needless to say, we floated through the clinic that day on our way out to her first meal. We giggled, we laughed and as we approached the atrium the sun was shining through the glass and the flowers were blooming. It was as close to a perfect day as we could imagine.

And then we heard the piano and the laughter. From the balcony we could see an older couple sitting side by side at the piano playing together and entertaining a host of people. Some were in wheelchairs, others were sitting with canes beside them or standing. Everyone was smiling with all burdens forgotten for the moment. The joy was absolutely indescribable. When we asked them to play one more for us, Fran and Marlow Cowan, who have been married for more than 62 years, treated us to an exceptional performance that is now a “youtube” sensation.

We walked to a nearby restaurant and she ordered a sandwich she would not have tried eating just hours earlier, and I snapped a few shots as she took her first full ½ circle bite out of a chicken sandwich in 25 years! You don’t have to know my mom to clearly see in her face what that meant to her… first the disbelief, then the tears, then raw pride and pure joy. AND… she liked the pictures!!! She was a new woman.

That piano captures just one part of what makes the Mayo Clinic so remarkable. It’s a place where people come not only to be healed and made whole physically, but spiritually as well. Around that piano we come together as an ad hoc family — a community of people on different, but similar journeys – to heal together and share what brings us hope and joy.

And that makes for great stories..."

Thanks a lot, Eric Heiden!

When our family was in Utah last summer for Sam & Mike's graduation from BYU and the birth of Claire, we all went to Barnes & Noble to browse. Each of us came out with a new book. Mine was "The Art of Thank You", Charley's was something about interpreting your dreams, Emily got a planner for school, and Allison bought a book.....can't remember the title. Frank picked up one called "Faster, Better, Stronger", by Eric Heiden, M.D., five-time olympic gold medalist.

When we returned home, Frank dove right into reading, and told me that according to Eric Heiden, I should weigh 114 lbs. Now, in his defense, Frank has never ever told me I was overweight, even when I am. For that, I commend him and am very grateful. Every wife needs a husband like that. But now, with his new book, he told me that the chart said I should weigh 114 lbs. I said, "No Way! That's smaller than Emily!" He said, "You were that skinny when we got married". I was incredulous. When he told me that he was supposed to weigh 140, I grabbed the book and figured out that he was looking at the wrong chart. Whew! Frank at 140 would not be pretty. After looking at the right chart, we determined that we both needed and wanted to lose 25 lbs.

That night we walked a mile (did a "walking test") so we could figure out our V02max (oxygen exchange rate) which is a formula....are you ready? v02max=132.853-(0.0769xweight in pounds or kilos)-(0.3877xAge)+(6.31xGender)-(3.2649xTime)-(0.1565xHeart rate). This will yield your estimated V02max. This took us about half an hour to figure out, even with a calculator. I wasn't sure what this knowledge would do for me, but I was game for trying almost anything that might help me reach my goal.

After the walk, we came home and did the "sit and reach" test. In our family, none of us are very flexible. NONE. It's weird. Frank and the girls are all pretty athletic and active, until it comes to being flexible. So, I put the piece of tape on the floor, with the measuring tape perpendicular to it and Frank went first. Then me. Frank scored 1 out of 5 stars. One star is the LOWEST. I guess I didn't need to explain that. The book said, "Set up a meeting with your health-care provider or a physical therapist and have her assess whether or not you have any musculoskeletal conditions that may be causing this." I actually had 2 stars, barely, and mine just said, "You are definitely stiff". I thought that was funny, but had to concur.

Next we did the recommended stretching exercises for the one star people. We were on the floor contorted in some weird awkward-looking positions when Emily started snapping pictures on her phone camera. Before we could do anything about it, she had already texted them to her friends, girls on Frank's team, etc. I have to admit, they were pretty funny. I can only imagine how hilarious I would have thought it was to see my parents sprawled on the floor twisted like pretzels...and trying to be serious about it. I think our parents had more of a sense of decorum than to do something so humiliating in front of the children. I bet you are wishing that I had posted the pictures Emily took instead of a picture of the book. But she was instructed to delete them...or else!

Well, that was 8 or 9 months ago. We never did a single thing more with that book, and still need to lose the 25 pounds. The other day Frank saw the book on the shelf again, and said,"We need to get back into doing that Eric Heiden stuff". I just said, "Ya....we do!" I'm looking forward to relaxing on the couch for half an hour while we get out the calculator and determine our current V02 max, going for a walk at dusk with my husband, and coming home and having another good laugh at ourselves. That.....and really making some progress this time. So, thanks, Eric Heiden!

afternoon tea at the manor

Thursday I drove out to Mountain Manor to visit my friend Sandy and to attend an "Afternoon Tea". Sandy wasn't feeling up to the trip down the hall with her oxygen tank, so we sat on her bed and had strawberry shortcake and little quiches. Before I left, I took some pictures. The ladies were all so cute in their fancy hats!

the first, and last time ever i saw her face

You might want to get out the Kleenex for this post today. It has taken me nine years to be able to write much of anything about my mom since her passing. I have notes and more notes about the details of my last week with her. I try to write, but it is so emotional for me, that I always end up feeling that I need to take a week alone in a motel by myself in order to do it. Today I want to write something.....as a gift to you, Mom. Every Mother's Day I try to get you something, still. The first Mother's Day without you it was a little music box that plays "Somewhere in Time", the song you requested that Bruce play on the piano at your funeral. You loved that movie, and that song. I felt that it was no coincidence that I picked up a pretty music box in the drug store, thinking of you, and that it played your song. Well, here goes.....I'm going to write about you at last.

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and my thoughts turned to my mom. My earliest memory of my life with her is taking an afternoon nap together on the bottom bunk of the old metal bunk bed at the house in Fairway Hills, cuddled close, my face against her cheek. So close that my eyelashes brushed her skin each time I blinked.....as I carefully examined her face. She, already asleep, was surely exhausted from caring for her five children six years and under. In the quiet, dim room, I watched her, and felt love for this person who lay beside me. My mom. My caretaker, my protector, my example, my friend.

I always thought Mom was beautiful. Though she certainly was, as you can see from her picture, she herself never thought so. There were no airs about her...... no conceit, no pride, no vanity. No admiring her reflection as she passed a mirror. Sometimes I wish that she knew and believed and saw what the rest of us did. Maybe, though, her humility was what made her so beautiful. Yes, I think that must be it. That, and all of the selflessness she exhibited throughout her life for her family. Mostly, I think she was a beautiful mom because she was my mom.

The week before she passed away, I came for a visit and to spend Mother's Day with her. Each morning I would help her get ready by putting her makeup on for her. The effects of her disease had made it very difficult for her to do it alone. Sensing that this could possibly be my last visit, as I'd smooth the foundation over her soft skin, I consciously memorized her face.....each contour of her cheek, her nose, her chin. When she was gone, I wanted to be able to see her in detail. After a week of doing this, I felt that if I were a sculptor, I could sculpt her face.

When I'd finish her makeup and hair, I'd tell her how pretty she looked, but she would not look in the mirror. Probably hopeful that she looked good, but fearful that she might look as bad as she felt, she said "no".

Then, on the day before Mother's Day, I insisted. As I held up the mirror, she silently considered her reflection for a moment, and then the corners of her mouth turned up and she said, "I do look pretty good, don't I?" Something wonderful and hopeful was breathed into her, and that night she asked me to help her put on a beautiful pink nightgown that Dad had purchased for her months before, that she had never yet worn. It had hung in her closet, still with the tags, waiting, I suppose, for a special occasion. She decided this was it. She said she wanted to do a "fashion show" for Dad. I wheeled her out into the living room where he sat, and whirled her around the room in the wheelchair. She was radiantly beautiful, and it made me happy to know that for that moment, she felt it. Dad was so happy to see her happy. It was a special moment, one I'll never forget.

On Mother's Day her livingroom was filled with all of 8 of her children and some grandchildren, my brother Bruce "pounding" on the piano as we all sang and laughed, a replica of many nights in our home growing up. It got pretty loud, and Dad reprimanded us, saying, "Don't you know your mother is sick?" But Mom just said, "No......please....I love it." It was a slice of the life she had loved, and she was drinking it all in.

She passed away expectedly/unexpectedly two days later, surrounded by Dad and my brother and sisters and I. You're never prepared to lose someone you love, and it felt like a dream. Mom and Dad and all of us kids had all just spent a week together. Though it was extremely hard to let her go, I have to say that it was a beautiful spiritual experience.

At the viewing on the morning of her funeral, I couldn't stop looking at her face. All the lines of worry and pain were relaxed. My sister Vickie commented that she looked like someone had just told her something funny, and she had the very beginnings of a smile, a familiar favorite look we had all witnessed many times before. We would miss that look, and all of the others that were a part of her. It was hard to watch Dad close the casket. But I knew that one day I would see her again. I just couldn't believe that I had to live the rest of my life without my mom. It would be a long wait, I thought.

It has been nine years, yet I can still just close my eyes and see my mom's face, in detail. Sometimes when I close my eyes, behind my eyelids the light and shadow come together in a perfect black and white painting of my mom. I just sit and stare intently at her, my eyes closed, and she is always smiling.

I was wrong to think that I would have to wait to see her face again. I can see her eyes in the eyes of my daughters and nieces, her smile in the smiles of my sisters, and lately, her face when I look in the mirror. She's not far, and I know that someday I'll again put my cheek against hers in an embrace, and feel my eyelashes brush her skin.

Happy Mother's Day Mom! I love you!

the more i laugh, the more i'm a merrier me

....from Mary Poppins. It was the first movie I remember seeing. It was 1964, in the Wilma Theater on Sherman Avenue in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho where I grew up. Afterwards Mom bought us the record at Woolworths, and my sisters and I would play the song, "I Love to Laugh", over and over again, singing along and imitating all of the laughs. Each time the song finished, we'd pick up the needle and carefully place it on a certain groove of the record so it would start the song over again. This song made us laugh. Laughing is so contagious, and I do love to laugh.

Some great laughs just beg to be documented.

It was 1995, and my sister's wedding reception had just ended. She asked me if I would launder and return the tablecloths to the lady she had borrowed them from (whose name was Gay) because she was leaving on her honeymoon. Monday afternoon My mom and my daughter Charley (7 yrs.) and I drove down to Sacramento to meet her. We were to meet in front of the church at 2:00. We were running a little late, so when we pulled over at the curb in front of the church at 2:10, I was expecting her to already be there. As we were pulling over, a car coming from the other direction pulled over to the opposite side of the street, just across from us. We watched the 60-ish lady get out of her car and walk to her trunk and open it. She looked over at us, all watching her from the car. I smiled and waved and said to my mom,"Oh, that must be her....she's opening her trunk for us to put the tablecloths in." I opened my door, stood up... and called across the street to her, "Are you Gay?" She looked up, got a disgusted/confused/did I hear you correctly scowl on her face and said, "No!", hurriedly grabbed her bags out of the trunk, and practically ran up the steps to her house.

Then it HIT me, and I was paralyzed. I slowly sank back down into my seat and said, "I can't.....belieeeeve....I just SAID that!" There was a moment of complete silence, and then it hit my mom. She started laughing.....then I started laughing....and then it hit Charley. The three of us were laughing so hard we were crying, choking, wheezing, absolutey dying. We laughed for a solid five minutes. The real Gay showed up and we handed over the tablecloths.

On the drive home, it was nonstop gut-splitting laughter all twenty-five miles. I had a hard time seeing to drive because I was at the point of laughing myself to tears. I could just imagine that lady thinking that the three of us girls, of a variety of ages, were all "checking her out".....and that she stumbled into her house out of breath and told her husband, "You won't believe what just happened to me!"

When I first said it, and then realized what I had said, my immediate instinct was to run across the street and explain....but I stopped short for fear she would think I was chasing her! I had fits of laughing about that incident clear until I went to bed that night, and many times since. It still makes me laugh.

I wish I could call my mom and say, "Remember when we laughed SO HARD?" I'm happy that Charley was there with me, so that I have someone to relive that great day of laughter with.

I can think of three other crazy laughter times I want to document. They involve a trip to Sebastopol for pizza, an inherited money clip, and a back alley eatery in Old Town Sac called "Annabelle's". I'll save those for another time. "When things strike me as funny, I can't hide it inside....I've got to let go, with a ho ho ho ho..."

If you click here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTerKLeQBWk it will take you to the clip from Mary Poppins where Uncle Albert sings "I Love to Laugh". Dick Van Dyke and Julie Andrews....don't you love 'em?

building a cathedral

Several months ago I received this email from a mom I don't know, who subscribes to a list that I also subscribe to. It is entitled, "The Invisible Mom". I thought about posting it, but decided not to because of the length, then heard it read on Dr. Laura as her "email of the day" on my way home from school today. I remembered how much I loved it, and I hope you'll take the time to read it. It's worth it.

It all began to make sense....the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?" Obviously not; no one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this ? Can you tie this? Can you open this??

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a
clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What
number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30,
please."

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the
eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude -
but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen
again. She's going, she's going, she's gone!?

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return
of a friend from England . Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip,
and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting
there looking around at the others all put together so well. It was
hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty
pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package,
and said, "I brought you this." It was a book on the great cathedrals of
Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her
inscription: "To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what
you are building when no one sees."

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would
discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after
which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great
cathedrals- we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives
for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and
expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the
eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the
cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny
bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are
you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be
covered by the roof? No one will ever see it." And the workman replied,
"Because God sees."

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was
almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you, Charlotte. I see
the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No
act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've
baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a
great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become."

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a
disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my
own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As
one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see
finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The
writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever
be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to
sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my daughter to tell the friend
she's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My Mom gets up at 4
in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a
turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." That
would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want her
to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to her
friend, to add, "You're gonna love it there."

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if
we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will
marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been
added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

my best ever yard sale find was at my own yard sale in 1998

Everyone who knows me knows I love a good yard sale. To me it's like a treasure hunt, and exciting....you never know what you might find. This post is the story of an unexpected treasure I found at my own yard sale.

We met when she and her entourage of daycare kids came tumbling down Tweedsmuir Drive in strollers and wagons to our yard sale shortly after we moved in. She reminded me of the pied piper and her magic was worked on me like so many others..... and my heart told me we'd be friends forever. She bought the Fred Flintstone car at our yard sale......and that was the beginning of what has blossomed over the years into what I consider to be a rare friendship.

She's the friend every woman wishes they had. The "girl next door" (in my case, down the street), who calls you up after dark to meet her on the corner to share a piece of decadently dark chocolate from Trader Joes....the friend you know you can call on for help in any crisis, and she'll drop everything.....who makes you feel loved and accepted, even though she's seen you at your worst. She loves you just the way you are. She loves your kids like her own, and they love her like a second mother.....someone who is genuinely interested in every aspect of your life....who is completely real, and so unpretentious....who has a heart big enough to include everything and everyone, including stray animals and stray people....someone you can talk to about anything and everything and for hours on end. Someone who makes you feel like a kid again...full of adventure and possibility. Who would defend you to the end...who laughs with you, cries with you, and always knows just what to do and say in any situation. This is my friend, my "BFF", and I love her. I have learned so much from her, and want to be more like her. I want to have her gratitude for the little things, her humility, her unselfishness, her faith, her wisdom.

I have many that I call "friend", each with their own little special corner of my heart, all for different wonderful reasons. But today I want to pay tribute to Danelle, my Nelly, who is the best and most unexpected treasure I have ever found at a yard sale....strangely, it just happened to be my own.

Wisdom

Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful, or joyful.

My sister Kristen emailed me this slideshow entitled "A Beautiful Life"this morning, which included this bit of wisdom.
As I begin cleaning out the clutter in my life, starting with my bedroom today, I'll use this as my guide. I'm sure it will work for cleaning out the clutter inside my head as well! You'll have to view the slideshow...each page with great words to live by. Just click on the title "Wisdom", and you're there! Have a great day!

what I didn't buy today

Recently I had a very satisfying phone "conversation" with Allison. She was at home mending her jeans, while I read to her from my new favorite book. It is fun to be together when we can't BE together. The book is called "Thinking About Memoir" by Abigail Thomas, a writing teacher and successful memoirist. She counsels her readers to have a habit of daily writing as a way to "seed the clouds in the front and the back of your mind." To keep a notebook handy and "scribble in it everywhere." In August, on a visit, I was reading excerpts of this book to my son-in-law, Mike, who is studying Creative Writing at Utah State University. On my next visit in November, one morning he surprised me with my own moleskin notebook and Tul pen. With the best of intentions, I began writing, but loved this notebook so much that until today, I have kept it in a ziploc bag in my nightstand so that nothing could harm it. Today I liberated it and put it in my purse so that I can do as Abigail counsels: "Everything goes in: grocery lists, things to do, random observations, knitting patterns, recipes, overheard dialogue, everything....Think of it as the written equivalent of singing in the shower." Her book has inspired me to follow through on my desire to someday write my memoir. One of the entries in Abigail's diary is "What I Am Not Buying Today", and she has a list of things she saw and wanted to buy, but didn't. Here is my list of things I saw last night as Frank and I were out picking up a few things....things I thought about buying, but didn't.

No Curious George book about phonics
No package of 3 pairs of garden gloves in 3 attractive shades of green
No flax seed
No red spring baby outfit, 12 month size
No peach pie

So I'm curious....what did you not buy today?

jumping to conclusions

This morning when I took my vitamins, I smiled as I remembered the breakfast table in our house growing up on Wilbur Avenue. Mom had discovered vitamins, and each morning when we'd come to the table, which was always set, there would be a neat little line of vitamins of every color and shape at each of our places. I remember her saying, "This one's for your heart, this one's for your skin, this one's to make your bones strong..." and on down the line. I could never imagine having to put one of those things in my mouth, possibly taste it, much less swallow it! So I would eat my breakfast, then "pretend" to take my vitamins.....but really they were clenched in my hand. I'd go to the bathroom and flush them down the sink drain. I started to feel guilty wasting them, so I switched to concealing them in my underwear drawer. In no time I had quite an assortment in there, as you can imagine. Then, one day, my mom was babysitting her granddaughter Mindy (my niece) who was probably two at the time. Mindy came out of my bedroom with kind of a pasty blue residue around her mouth. Mom saw my open underwear drawer and immediately jumped to a conclusion. She had bought us girls some bright blue solid sachet tablets to put in our drawers to make everything smell nice. She concluded that Mindy must have eaten one, so she rushed to the drug store, bought syrup of ipecac, administered it to Mindy, and Mindy was puking her guts out before they could even leave the parking lot. Upon returning home, my mom discovered my stash of vitamins. All Mindy had done was eat one blue vitamin, which I'm sure was really good for her. Poor Mindy. Mom felt terrible.....and I was busted.

I myself jump to conclusions all the time. If I sense the possibility of danger, in a split second I can envision the whole tragedy from beginning to end. One day when the girls were little, we spent the day swimming at the Mill Pond. We came home tired and sunburned, but decided it would be fun to paint the girls' nails. I put the nail polish remover behind me on the toilet seat so that my little Emily (age 1 1/2) wouldn't get it, because I had this fear that she might drink it. I got busy painting nails, and the next thing I knew, I heard the splash when the bottle hit the floor. I whirled around and saw Emily's eyes, big and red, her mouth open in an "O" shape. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she drank some, and that it also splashed in her eyes. Since she wasn't crying, I concluded that she wasn't breathing. In a panic, I snatched her up, and we raced to the hospital on top of the hill. In the emergency room the nurses pinned her down and forced her eyes open so they could flush her eyes for 20 minutes with a giant syringe of cold water. She screamed for about 10 minutes straight, until she was exhausted and fell asleep. They continued flushing her eyes for another 10 minutes. Meanwhile, Allison, Samantha, and Charley huddled together in the corner of the room, their faces buried in the corner, bawling their eyes out. It was traumatic. But I had saved her from possible blindness. On the way home, I heard the following conversation in the back seat of the car:
Allison: "Emily, did you drink it?"
Em: "No.......".
Sammy: "Did you get it in your eyes?"
Em: "No......."
Oh dear.....So all she did was knock it over. Poor Emily....Her eyes were simply red from too much sunshine that day, her mouth in an "O" of surprise...that's all. Nothing more.
Lesson learned? Somewhat. I try not to jump to conclusions, and you better believe Emily steers clear of the nail polish remover.

please leave a message after the beep

It all started with Mason, my now 9-year-old nephew on Frank's side. He called right before Christmas in 2007 and left a message on our answering machine. He was singing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas".....twice through. My favorite part was "good tidings we bring, to you and your KIDS (instead of "kin")and his closing, which was Love, Love you Emma, Love.... Mason. It was so cute, that I had to save the message...and thus began the practice of saving phone messages. Here are messages 2-10:

Nancy (my old college roommate): "Called to say 'hi', I just lost a dear friend and it made me think about how much I love my friends, and I just wanted to tell you I love you..." She was in her car, driving to Utah for the funeral. Her voice was full of emotion. She's been such a devoted friend since we met at Little Apartments at BYU in 1980. I couldn't erase it.

Allison's old Seminary teacher, apologizing for the lateness of the hour, but he had just picked up the mail and received a letter of gratitude from Allison that had really touched him. He told me later that he "got a lot of miles out of that." It made me happy to know that she took the time to say thank you. Everyone loves to know that they are appreciated and made a difference, and he certainly did.

My Dad: "Hi Jo....this is Dad, I just came home from the Dr.'s office, and uh, saw that you called me. Just wanted to let you know that I'm OK." I love my Dad, and will want to be able to hear his voice at some future date when he is gone, telling me that he's OK. This is a treasure.

Allison (oldest daughter in Huntington Beach): "Hello? Hey mom, it's Allison...um, I was just calling you to tell you that I dropped my phone in the toilet, so if you're trying to get ahold of me..... Love you, bye!" Ohhh....I have gotten that same message about 3 times since she left home! It made me laugh.

Sammy (married daughter in Logan, Utah) "You guys are slackers....why aren't you answering your phone? Hello? Emily? I just talked to you....!" I'm picturing one of those moments where everyone is comfortably lounging on the couch or chair, all looking at each other, hoping someone else will jump up and get the phone so they don't have to move. Losers!

My Aunt Mary, 90 this year, my favorite aunt ever on my Dad's side: "Joanne, this is Aunt Mary, and I was, uh, calling to find out about your dad, call me....I'd like to hear from you....", and then she left the wrong phone number. It was the phone number for Macy's department store. I'll never forget when we took our young family to her home in Modesto for a visit in 1990. I was pregnant with Emily. She had planned this huge water gun/balloon fight in her back yard for the kids, and cooked the biggest lasagna I had ever seen. My sister Kristen and Frank's brother Monte joined us as well, and we took lots of videos that we love watching. On that video is an "interview" of my Grandpa Simon! He was a character.

Jenny (Wells)Miner, a former special student of my husband Frank's: "Hey Shields Family, this is Jenny Miner, just wanted to say hello and see how y'all are doin'....". Frank always says that Jenny is the happiest person he knows. She truly never stops smiling! She is a huge Vince Gill fan, who the Sacramento country radio station called regularly to put on the air. She graduated at least 10 years ago, is married with two little boys, and has called us regularly through the years. She is the epitome of happiness, and absolutely lights up a room.

Sam, Mike, and Claire (daughter, son-in-law, grandbaby): "We just wanted to say hi, and Claire wanted to laugh...."....and the cutest little laugh from Claire, when she first figured out how. Her laugh reminded me of a laughing doll that we gave Charley for Christmas when she was 1 and 1/2. I miss that doll, but now we have a real live doll of our own.

Emily (youngest daughter, 18), who was riding along to an appointment with Allison when she was here for work last month: "Let me guess....Sammy's breastfeeding, Charley's laying on the couch with her laptop, and mom is taking a nap. CALL ME....BYE". The funny thing was, she was EXACTLY right!

NOTE: Charley, I know you don't like to leave messages, but I'm waiting for one from you to complete my tape. There are only about 2 minutes left on this one! Then it will be retired to my bottom dresser drawer with all of my other treasures. I also am waiting to save a message from Frank, but his usually just say, "Jo? Jo? Is anyone home?" And then he hangs up. I'm usually RACING to the phone, but never make it in time because he is too quick. Either that, or his messages are "inappropriate."

Since my mom passed away almost 9 years ago, I have so often longed to hear her voice again. I wish I had thought of saving messages years ago. Fortunately, I do have her on video. But it's nice to be able to just push a button in my kitchen at any time to hear the voices of those I love. If my mom left a message for me today, I wonder what she'd say. I will be thinking about that all day today.

This is just my first tape. I hope to fill my drawer with messages from the ones I love.