I love running across pix of Mom. Here she is, sometime around four years ago, visiting me in my former Delta abode. When I was in town, Mom wandered over to hang with me two or three times a day. Usually, Mom held court on my porch, where we solved the problems of the world. We were laughing so hard about something one summer day on the porch that Mrs. Rowlette—who just happened to be driving by—pulled into my driveway and asked what was so funny. We invited her onto the sacred porch, where she laughed with us for the next hour. Mrs. Rowlette was not the first, nor was she the last, to find out what happened on the porch, stayed on the porch.
When the weather and temperature didn’t cooperate, this bigly chair by the bigly picture window at my place was Mom’s throne. Mom’s style needs no neckwear, although I’d give her the bowtie off my neck if she wanted it. And you can see where I got my basic fashion sensibilities, right?
1974. I doubt any Bow Tie o’ the Day could redeem me from my own personal 4th Grade dorkiness. I mean, check out my developing unibrow. I’ve also got my first crop of zits beginning to pop out on my chin. Bad hair, bad teeth. Yup, ’tis I. I think Mom had made my shirt, so that wasn’t dorky.
The class photo shows that even my eyes are dorky at this age. Are my eyes mostly closed? Mostly open? Let’s split the difference and call my eyes “clospen” in the class pic. Have fun trying to name each of these souls in Mrs. Knight’s class. List ’em in the comments. Correct each other’s wrong guesses. This identification can be tricky because, although this is a Class of ’82, 4th Grade photo, we housed a number of Class of ’83, 3rd Graders in our class all year. Good luck recognizing our dorky selves.
Converse-style shoes Bow Tie o’ the Day is here with me as I make my confession. These were Mom’s reading glasses about a decade ago, and they and the CHRONICLE made me into a thief. I literally stole them from Mom. I didn’t steal them because I needed them. I stole them because she needed to NOT own them anymore.
Mom and I were drinkin’ on my Delta porch, and you know how that gets raucous. A little caffeine in our systems, and we are out of control with the laughter. Suddenly, Mom squealed, “It’s CHRONICLE day!” That was my cue to head to Jubilee to retrieve a copy of that weekly treasure. When I got back to the porch, I handed the paper to Mom. She immediately reached into her duster pocket, where– amid the tissues, rollers, and Tums– she found her reading glasses. To be more precise, she found these wounded, glasses-like spectacles. One lens missing, one arm missing. The remaining lens was as smudged as could be. I was upset at the sight of them, and I demanded Mom ride uptown with me to pick out some new readers for her. She very calmly told me to settle down because “These work just fine.” She opened up the CHRONICLE and started to devour her weekly news feast.
Off, I drove in my red jalopy of a truck. When I returned to the porch, I had two pairs of reading glasses for her. She said, “Oh, thank you. I’m almost done.” And on and on she read without taking the time to switch to the new readers. Finally, she folded up the CHRONICLE, after her first of that week’s many perusals through the issue. She was glad to have the new glasses, but she was unwilling to give up this battered pair. I was unwilling to let her keep them, knowing that if she had them anywhere around her, she would certainly use them if they were handy. Mom deserved better.
So I was bad. Later that day, I stealthily stole these broken glasses from my mother’s duster pocket. It was for her own good though. I thought the glasses had the potential to be downright dangerous to Mom. Of course, I still have the pair, as you can see. Holding onto them helps me feel better about having stolen them from her, because if she really, really, really needed/wanted this exact pair, I could and would certainly give them back to her. She never mentioned this pair of readers ever again. And I did give her two new pairs. But I feel guilty about being a thug. I’m still, technically, a thief. And I still blame the CHRONICLE.
I need to rant. I’m having a USANA Ampitheatre hangover. Last night was my first time attending a concert at the West Valley City venue, and Suzanne and I both declare it will be our last visit to the place. I was so disappointed in the venue that I went on strike while there, refusing to click any photographs for TIE O’ THE DAY posts. That’s right, I put my phone in my Saddle Purse for the duration of the concert. But here’s a photo of what I wore, in case you want to know. And I know you do.
First, I want to make clear that the band we went to hear, Mumford & Sons, was in fine form. My list o’ complaints has nothing to do with them. Fabulous musicianship. Intelligent lyrics. Point-on showmanship. Yes, Mumford & Sons delivered. USANA? Not so much.
Of course, the standard concert complaint issues were there too. I’m talking about the things that happen at nearly every concert. For example, concerts never begin on time. I wanna tell ’em, “Hey, Performer, this is your job. You chose the time, and I signed up to be here at the designated time. Hold up your end of the performance time commitment.”
Also, to my fellow concertgoers, I wish to say these things about what happens at almost all concerts: “I did not pay 8 billion bucks for a ticket to Mumford & Sons to listen to you sing the wrong lyrics off-key right outside my eardrum.” And “Hey, you in the seat in front of me– thanks for standing up the whole concert, blocking my view of the stage and one of the bigly screens. Why did you pay for a reserved seat, if you were only going to stand in front of it the entire concert?” And to those of you who dance while tipsy, “Stumble over your own feet and your own purse if you really must. Stay away from me and my Saddle Purse.” In summary, I want to yell it out: “I’m no stern sourpuss, but YOU ARE NOT THE BAND I PAID TO SEE. Go ahead, sing ALONG, but don’t sing OVER the band. Stand if you must, but remember there are old folks like me sitting behind you, and we can’t see through you. Do your dance, but not on my toes.”
My specific complaints about USANA begin with the traffic and parking. Let me be brief: At USANA, there is too much traffic, and not enough parking. We thought of offering a WVC resident cash to let us park in their driveway for the evening. By the time we had snaked our way through what seemed like every neighborhood in WVC, and finally got into a USANA parking lot for $20, we had missed the opening band entirely. (Did I say I had paid 8 billion bucks for our tickets?)
And I’m sorry, but the slope of the floor to which USANA’s seats were attached was close-but-no-cigar. It was impossible to see the stage while sitting in the seats, when even a very short person sat properly in their seat directly in front of me in the row ahead. Suzanne and I watched the bigly monitors most of the performance. We also moved to various empty seats twice before finding a “meh” view of the stage.
And then there was the mosquito factor! I’m itching and scratching as I type. No further comment about that topic is needed.
But the worst, most egregious irritant I found on my first and last outing to USANA was the stage design itself. Of course, it’s an outdoor stage. It’s like a cavernous black box, pushed back and up against the night sky. Bigly sky + cavernous black box has the effect of making performers look like HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS characters. The performers appear to be oh-so tiny. I had the sensation of looking through the “wrong” end of the binoculars while trying to spy coyotes from atop the Delta water tower. (Yes, I have been up there. Back in the day.)
Thanks for listening, tbloglodytes. I’m feeling much better now.
Please, excuse our recent absences. Sometimes we layabouts actually engage in endeavors which require our single-minded, serious attention. Everything this week has been all about Mom, who suffered a health setback a few days ago. She seems to finally be “getting her rally on,” so we are cautiously contemplating the old dame sticking around for another 88 years. At least. Mom’s tough and spunky, and still loving the party atmosphere at Millard Care and Rehab. But we also know even the toughest Energizer Delta Rabbit Oak City-bred Gal has a finite amount of “rally.” Apparently, Mom’s still got some in her reserve tank. Yahoo! You, go, girl!
When we visited Mom yesterday, Skitter wore her new patriotic Tie o’ the Day. I sported my lavender, floppy Bow Tie o’ the Day. As Skitter and I were winding down our visit with Helen Sr., Gracie waltzed in for her turn to be the center of Mom’s attention. As you can see, Grace Anne wore her own Bow Tie o’ the Day for the occasion.
Gracie happily brought Bishop Travis (in his Tie o’ the Day) and Bishopette Collette all the way from BYU-ville to visit Mom. I thought Gracie’s allowing them to come with her to MCR was an incredibly thoughtful gesture for such a young bambino to display. You know how selfish some babies can be, especially about driving! Clearly, Gracie is not all about Gracie, Gracie, Gracie. See, she’s learned one of Mom’s Top 10 lessons already in her teeny life: Be generous.
BTW When I tried to exit Mom’s room yesterday, Skitter refused to leave her. She was determined to lie on the bed at Mom’s side. At least three times, she fought the leash as I tried to drag her from the bed. I finally had to lift her down to the floor and skedaddle with her. She and Mom are sooooo connected to each other.
I present no neckwear on this afternoon’s TIE O’ THE DAY post. On what is the 71st anniversary of Mom and Dad getting hitched, I give y’all three more pix of these wonderful human beings– the Lovebirds o’ the Day.
I snapped the color photo a few weeks before Dad passed away in December 2007. His eyes aren’t playful like they always were before then. In his gorgeous blue eyes, his pain is visible. He managed to stay as long as he did because he loved Mom. She loved him enough to tell him she’d be okay if he needed to go.
From the very minute Suzanne and I got back home from our trip to the Ozarks, Skitter has been bugging me about how long it’s been since we have driven to Delta to spend the day with Mom. We all miss seeing Mom, but Skitter is downright annoying about it. Even Bow Tie o’ the Day feels annoyed at her. Skitter can fit her wish to see Mom into any sentence that flows from her stinky canine mouth.
For example, she’ll come inside from pottying first thing in the morning, and she’ll say something like, “Grandma would love to sit with me on the patio right now to watch the sun come up over the hills behind our house.” And then, after Skitter finishes her dog chow breakfast, she’ll say, “Grandma’s mush was the best. I’m glad she always saved a little to give me. I need to check on her to make sure she’s eating her breakfast.” And then, mid-morning, Skitter will say to me, “Isn’t this about the time we used to drive Peggy and Grandma to Cardwell’s every day for a drink? Do you think Grandma needs us to take her a drink?” When I fill the gas tank at 7-11, Skitter says, “I bet there’s enough gas in the car now to drive to see Grandma.” And on and on, throughout the day. You know how it is. I’m sure your kids did the same thing to you. If there was something they wanted you to do or buy, they managed to constantly insert the topic into every situation.
I miss Mom every minute of every day, too. But Skitter needs to quit pestering me about it. I go as often as I can. It’s not like I’m going to forget about spending time with Helen Sr. if Skitter doesn’t nag me about visiting her. I’ve started to wear earplugs around the house when it’s just me and The Skit, so I don’t have to hear her talk about it anymore.
And so… this morning, I put on my cowboy boots and a flip flop Bow Tie o’ the Day, and Skitter and I drove 2 1/2 hours to Delta, to Millard Care and Rehab– to spend a chunk of the day with Mom. But the old girl wasn’t there! Nope. The story I got was that Mom and two of her MCR caregivers escaped to an LDS Temple a few minutes before I showed up. You, go, girls!!!
Skitter was so traumatized and sad about not finding Mom at MCR that I had to nearly drag her off Mom’s bed so we could drive right back home. I left a MUNCH candy bar and a bag of chewy ginger cookies on Mom’s pillow so she’ll know I really was there to visit her.
BTW Notice how Mom was so excited to get to the Temple that she didn’t even straighten up her bed before she headed up north.
And another BTW Thank you again, folks of MCR, for treating Mom like the glorious damsel she is.
Bow Tie o’ the Day shines right along with my Hat o’ the Day, which I found in the AR store where I bought my cowboy boots. They were both good travel companions on that particular day trip.
The itineraries for my vacations have consistently morphed into shorter and shorter “must do” lists, no matter where I visit. Oddly, we travel more often now, but we find ourselves seeking out fewer of the “sights” the guide books tell us we must see.
To gander at a place’s churches is always on my travel “must do” list. I can say without a doubt that the Arkansas landscape is replete with churches– mostly Baptist, but it’s well-peppered with plenty of Methodist churches hither and yon too. The churches are in shopping malls, deserted convenience stores, empty farm machinery buildings, etc., as well as their own buildings. From the speeding car, I even saw a storage unit which was being used as a church. The motto on this Conway, AR church wall in the photo is both bigly and true. Ya gotta have good roots if you wanna yield a good crop. Simple as that.
I am a fan of church buildings. I make it a point to appreciate the skillful architecture of church buildings of all denominations. Because I was born into Mormondom, I especially have watched the development of modern LDS churches over time and places. I mean no disrespect, but LDS ward buildings are not breathtaking. They are functional. Their beauty lies almost solely in their functionality. If you have seen only a few LDS ward building designs, you have sort of seen them all. In central Arkansas, it wasn’t difficult for me to easily identify Mormon churches from the proverbial mile away. They are iconic sights, with a mostly singular artistic gist.
Seeing so many churches everywhere we went in AR got me thinking about my kidhood church. Permit me to say I miss my old, long-demolished, not-up-to-code Delta Second Ward church building, which had been built by the ward members’ themselves– not just with their money, but also with their very hands. It was an original, one-of-a-kind ward building, which reflected its people.
The chapel had an entire wall of tall windows, through which you could watch the beauty of the farming community– while you learned about the beauty of the spiritual world within it. Some basement classrooms had exposed pipes a kid could climb on and swing from until your teacher wrangled you down and got you in bigly trouble with your parents. There were nooks and crannies and dead ends for playing Primary hide-and-seek in winter. And the long, dark basement hall was perfect for a kid’s illegal running. Even a toddler-age Bishop Travis donned his Batman/Superman reversible cape and flew through the basement halls of the Delta Second Ward church to save the world from the bad guys.
Heck, I can remember when the Delta Second Ward building still had tiny spittoons and ash trays attached to the backs of a couple of pews. On those same pew backs, next to them and the hymn books, you could plug in your hearing aid to listen to the speakers give their edifying lessons. Somehow, of course, my kid-logic brain connected losing your hearing to the use of tobacco.
For the record, I’ve had to wear a hearing aid for just over a year now, but I have never been a user o’ the tobacky leaf. My kid-logic brain would be so confused.
Skitter tolerates the neckwear stick props, but she does not like them. When she sees me pick one up, she stiffens. She probably thinks it’s my flyswatter. And where there’s a flyswatter, there is the potential for sudden noise. And where there is noise, there is the potential for all kinds of things that might not end well for Skitter. That’s what her pre-rescue life taught her about noise. She knows she’s safe with us, but it’s difficult for her to forget bigly bad stuff when you’ve had Skitter’s early life. Needless to say, I use stick props sparingly, and now that we don’t have a residence in Delta, I rarely have to use the flyswatter.
What I have no control over, however, is The Lightin’ O’ The Fireworks on the 4th of July, by organizations and municipalities, as well as by the rank-and-file U.S. citizenry. Skitter’s expression in her photo here sorta reflects what she told me as I held her stick prop Tie o’ the Day to her chest: “I’m proud to be ‘Merican, but I don’t like the fireworks.” And then she asked me to help her settle her nerves by shaking her a martini or six. She prefers an olive with hers, not a cocktail onion.
I decided I wanted to show y’all an icon three-fer in my July 4th selfie. I believe that, along with the obvious Bow Tie o’ the Day, nothing says ‘Merica like a bejeweled vinyl mustache and a Bat Sign. Freedom, my pals, isn’t just some stuffy ideal. It isn’t just about the freedom to do serious things. We have the freedom to have mindless fun. We can still love our country even as we laugh so hard we and our friends snort our Diet Coke through our noses. Been there, done that.
