Stream of conscious...

I'm headed to Las Vegas for a work-related conference, and I haven't been there since, oh, 1982. Growing up in Utah, my family passed through town every other year on our way to Disneyland, and I'm not sure I want to see how much Vegas has changed. From what I've seen and heard, it's a completely new city--yes, I want to see the Bellagio fountains, catch a show, see all the big new hotels, but I want to visit old town, too, and the less touristy parts. I hear there's an outdoor museum of old show signs and neon light displays--The Killers filmed a music video there, and it looked really interesting from what I could see.

Wayne as my grandparents knew him. Danke Schoen.

My grandparents vacationed in Vegas fairly frequently, and were acquainted with Wayne Newton. Every time they attended his show, he'd point them out and welcome them by name. I believe he has a couple of assistants who are solely in charge of spotting regular fans so he can publicly acknowledge them. "Congratulations on your fiftieth wedding anniversary, Ed and Gladys! You make a beautiful couple!" How this trivia made a home in my memory is a mystery to me, but I know I'd feel downright giddy if Bono gave me a friendly shout-out on U2's next tour.

A shout-out for Chelle?

Sometime in my late teens, we drove to Vegas while I was reading Stephen King's "The Stand." You can only grasp how creepy that was if you've read the book. (No, the ridiculous made-for-TV movie starring Molly Ringwald absolutely does not count.) I still get spooked even thinking about that scene in the desert. I can't deal with horror nowadays, but I'll say this: if you think Jack Nicholson was scary in "The Shining" then give the book a read for even more spooky kicks--it's better than the flick. I do not kid.

Oh, two more novels that left an impression on my young and impressionable self: "The Witching Hour" by Anne Rice, is set in New Orleans and worth the read simply for the richly colored location descriptions. Thanks to her, a tour of the Garden District is definitely on my list of things to do before I die. Robert R. McCammon is famous as an author of horror novels, but his work "Boy's Life" isn't horror, but rather a coming-of-age tale narrated by a young boy. I'm not telling you another thing about it--if you haven't read it, go buy it or check it out from the library. Back when my friend Cam lent me her copy and insisted I read it, we passed it around so many times that the pages were falling out. Y'know, now that I think about it, I might just read it again this summer.

Which brings me to another thing--one of the best college courses I took (and actually attended on a somewhat regular basis) was a literary criticism class taught by one of my favorite professors. She talked about how the beauty of reading and re-reading a poem, novel, or play lay in the fact that each experience is unique because while the work itself hasn't changed, the reader has. I think that's the general idea behind scripture study, philosophy, or Shakespeare--it's not necessarily the repetition, but the multiple layers of meaning that reach out at different times and speak to the reader. I've heard many people say they can never read a book or watch a movie a second time, but I think that's kind of sad. Michael and I both love "Fight Club" and we've seen it several times--with every viewing, we catch something new. Repetition wise, however, I do admit to repeatedly admiring Brad Pitt's ripped bod.

Great movie.

Alrighty then. Not much for staying on topic today, am I? Have to go and polish my toes for the trip.

Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies

I do believe that I'm being, as we Mormons say, "fellow-shipped." This means that someone who is actively and regularly involved in the church offers a sincere hand of friendship to inactive members (a.k.a. Jack Mormons, of which I am one) and warmly invites them to get their lazy butts out of bed on Sunday mornings and go to church. With heels AND pantyhose, which is just one area of many with which I struggle.

Yesterday I walked out of my house to find the monthly Visiting Teaching Message flyer from the Relief Society lying at my door. (The Relief Society is the women’s organization within the church, and the Visiting Teaching program is part of that.) I hadn’t heard anyone knock, so I’m not sure if I’m going deaf or if my visitor door-bell ditched me--perhaps she's shy? Either way, I first suspected my already-assigned Visiting Teacher. Cheryl's been a good friend for years, she makes me laugh and I love her to pieces. And I know that while she never pressures me, she wants me to go to church every week. I want her to go out for Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies every week, but I won't pressure her, either.

Dutch Baby

But then I decided that no, it couldn't be her because she would never simply leave a flyer--she hasn't once come to see me without a big ol' present from whatever major holiday hits on a given month, and besides, she already brought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and alcoholic Nyquil not two weeks ago. And as we've already had Flag day, all that's really left is Summer Solstice or Gay Pride month, and neither of those are up her alley. Nope. Not her.

Anyway, I was all feeling warm and fuzzy that someone cared enough to drive all the way out to my house (we live in the country and the majority of the church folks live in town) just to drop off the Visiting Teaching Message flyer. How sweet that someone thought of me. Since zealously, smotheringly religious Little Richard moved back to Utah, Michael and I have been talking about attending church again every now and then, as we're no longer under Dad's critical eye. So I read on with some interest about who's having a birthday this month, scripture of the month, and "Oh, yeah! They have a book club now--that could be interesting." But then I caught this bit, reproduced here exactly, except for the big square surrounding it to better catch your eye:

Are you contributing to our REACTIVATION & MISSIONARY GOAL?
Don't know what that is?
Well... we each have been asked to invite as least one guest to a Relief
Society meeting or activity each month.
How are you doing on our goal? ...I have some work to do.

Sigh. I hate this part. It rouses the rebel within me; I start to get a facial tic and suddenly want to drop the F-bomb. In regard to my church attendance, my very good friend Jeralee wisely said once that I'm an adult and I'll go when I'm ready, which is one of the many reasons that's she is my very good friend. And yes, I do believe that I know how the writer meant for that little reminder to come off--as though she had just typed "How are you doing on our goal?" then paused, asked herself that very question and answered with something meaning "Because, by gum, I know that I sure have some work to do! I better get going!" My gut reaction, however, was disappointment at the realization that I'm most likely someone's assignment; if she invites me to a church activity, she can feel good about having done what was asked of her and move on to her next problem. But I'd very much like to feel able to worship solely because I choose to be there, and not to fulfill someone's obligations or expectations. Am I being difficult here?

I've given it some thought--I could take offense, but I'm not going to. I think it was simply a well-intentioned but poorly phrased reminder for active members to try to make everyone feel welcome at church. My mystery visitor was trying to do the right thing, and who knows, maybe she actually does want to make friends. I know that I'm looking forward to meeting her so I can invite her out for Sunday Brunch Dutch Babies.

Enough already....

Three weeks now, I've been sick. Or make that twenty days. I'm short one--get back to me tomorrow. I've gotten to the point where, if one of the cats hurls up a hairball, I can walk calmly past it for days. My leg hair is long and prickly enough that it wakes me up when I turn over in bed. My cheeks have broken out because I go to sleep with a cough drop in my mouth and wake up with sticky cough drop spit smeared across my face. My hair is kept in a ponytail atop my head, as I don't want a thing to do with it. I'm a pretty pretty girl and Michael can barely resist my hot and sexy flu-wear. I think I'm going to design my own line.


One issue that's hit particularly hard is that while normally I'm a voracious reader, and can almost always count on a book to get me through the bad times, during this extended flu/cold/whatever it is, I can't seem to concentrate. I've read the same chapter in the same book over and over--each time I either start sneezing, need to grab a tissue to replenish the world's phlegm supply, or my head starts to ache. It may not help that I'm reading "The Ghost Map: The Story of London's Most Terrifying Epidemic--and How It Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World." It follows a Cholera outbreak in Victorian London and is big on symptom descriptions. I lay in the dark at night and worry if I could get Cholera next. Re-hydration is critical to cholera victims, and so I've made sure to toss back bottle after bottle of water.

Nana

Remember Nana in Disney's animated version of "Peter Pan?" Well, I have three anthropomorphized feline nursemaids: Cotton, MaGoo, and Zilla. Each feels strongly that they can improve my health with a good long cuddle. They cuddle in order of superiority: Nana Cotton, the oldest, goes for the neck and head; Nana MaGoo, who is number two, settles her very large and weighty self across my back, and Nana Zilla takes the legs and feet. As they settle in, each takes on the weight of solid lead. They then begin to generate heat to recreate a sweat lodge environment in the bedroom, until I wake up gasping for breath and toss them out of the room. They are each indignant and quite concerned to have been banned from my sickbed. They protest loudly and paw at the door. How will I survive without their ministrations? Especially since Michael is gone this weekend on a quick trip to Canada with a buddy to pick up a motorcycle that was just too good a deal to pass up. Without the cats to tend to me, I may be dead by the time he gets home.

Nana Cotton

Nana Goo

Nana Zilla

'Course, you can't underestimate a cat's instincts. Apparently in a Rhode Island nursing home, there's a cat named Oscar who's known as a "furry grim reaper" because he instinctively curls up with patients who have only a few hours left to live. He's called over 25 deaths.

Yeah, maybe the cats can sleep in the living room a couple more nights. I think I'm feeling better already.

Happy Anniversary Baby, Got You On My Miiiiiiind...

Sixty-six years ago last week-ish, my parents were married by a judge in Provo, Utah, with my maternal grandparents witnessing. Tradition begs the following tale be told:

My most excellent mother, may she rest in peace and know she is missed-missed-missed each and every day, was an adorable blonde with sparkly blue eyes and a wicked sense of humor. My handsome dad was downright dashing, with curly black hair, a Romanesque nose and not one shy bone in his entire body. She'd first spied the man in uniform while he was stationed next door at the Civilian Conservation Corps, and she got his attention with a well-aimed snowball. Dad took a gander at her and decided introductions were in order. Delighted but playing it coy, she jumped up to sit cross-legged on the greenhouse roof, which promptly caved in on her. (Now, don't go thinking this was because she was even a teensy bit heavy, for it is a fact that, not six months later on her wedding day, she weighed only ninety-seven pounds. And no, it is not sufficient to say she weighed less than a hundred pounds: She weighed NINETY-SEVEN POUNDS, pal, and you'd best not forget it, especially if you're my dad.)

Senior Portrait

Conversation led to the inevitable first date. As fortune would have it, he took her to the fair, where they got their picture taken in the photo booth. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight, and she beamed brighter than the lights on the Model A. That photo is among my prized possessions.

First date, Spring 1942

Exactly when he proposed is a mystery, but where he proposed was cleared up only recently. I grew up hearing that he asked for her hand after a dance at Bridal Veil Falls, a gorgeous spot in Provo Canyon near what would eventually become Sundance Resort. I always assumed that since they were at the falls for the dance that he proposed there, too. But after she passed away, he revealed that they were hiding behind the sofa in my grandparents' living room, and prior to her accepting him, he sang "You Are My Sunshine."

Her bridal gown was Kelly green, a cute little knee-length number that's tucked away in her hope chest. Her hair was curled in the style of the day and she weighed, you'll remember, ninety-seven pounds. But what she'd never forget were the shoes. For some reason she had to wear a pair of heavy oxfords that she absolutely hated, and for the rest of her life she would insist on wearing nothing but cute, feminine, and entirely impractical shoes.

Just Married!

Mom, Dad, and her folks climbed in the car that morning and headed southwest, out of Heber Valley and down Provo Canyon, past the newly-built Deer Creek Dam and Reservoir, through the Wasatch Range and Mount Timpanogos, on what is now Highway 189. What made the hour-long trip so memorable, and what my dad has never quite gotten over, is that for the entire duration, his future mother-in-law could not help repeating to her daughter, "Now, sweetheart, you do not have to do this. You realize that? You do NOT have to do this, you absolutely don't. If you want, we can just turn right around and go back home, because you do not have to do this." Dad was never sure that he shouldn't take it personally, and frankly, none of the rest of the family was sure about it, either.

The 50th wedding anniversary bash, June 1992

But he did right by her. He swept her away for a two-week honeymoon in Yellowstone Park, built homes in Heber and eventually Salt Lake City, adopted two daughters, traveled the country, and shared the next sixty-four and a half years together. I found a CD of WWII songs that included "You Are My Sunshine," and when it played at her memorial, he clung to my arm as he wept and his whole body shook. In the forty or so years that I knew them, they bickered constantly, but as I was young, I failed to see the depths that lay below their daily interaction. I've been taken back by how deeply he has mourned her, and I've learned as much about him since her death as I knew in all years prior. He moved back to Utah in part to recapture his memory of her, but when I last spoke to him, I heard the gravel of reality in his voice. I cannot comprehend what he is feeling, but I love him all the more that he has felt it.

You Are My Sunshine
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You'll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away

The other nite, dear,
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
And I hung my head and cried.

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You'll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away.