Category: Delta

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Classical Cuts Follow Us

As I was uploading my hairs pix for this morning’s post, something kept nagging at me. Suddenly, I remembered: My 1st Grade sideburns. They resemble my new ones, although they were probably pretty even with each other in length. Everything old is new again, and I figure I’m just a sideburn gal. Sideburns will find me. (That thing in my hair is some unidentifiable goober that globbed onto the picture decades ago. Not a hairs accessory.) Note: Check out the unibrow I’m working on. That takes skill!

Mom made the dress I’m wearing in the pic, but I don’t remember any specifics about it. I can pretty much guarantee the dress has pockets though. Mom had to make dresses for me cuz I had an important reason I wouldn’t wear store-bought dresses: I liked pockets! Most girls’ and women’s store-bought dresses don’t have pockets, and I’m writing about a time when girls couldn’t wear pants to school. It was all dresses, my friends. I was in HELL! Mom deserves an award for sewing me dresses with pockets. Where the heck is a little girl supposed to put the Lemonheads she wants to eat after school in Primary? I had to have a place to carry my Chapstick, pencil, treat money, cereal prizes, gum, that trilobite I found, etc. A girl has important pocket belongings.

Don’t talk to me about how a purse would’ve come in handy. As a 1st Grader, a girl should not have to carry and be in charge of a purse. Don’t talk to me about a mini backpack. They weren’t invented yet.

You certainly didn’t want to play at recess while holding your treasures in your hands. If you were a Delta Elementary school girl back in the day, you had to leave your “pocket” possessions in your desk. This meant there was a bigly possibility that if you had a really groovy treasure, it would be stolen by the time you got back to your desk after lunch or recess. I needed pockets!!!!

All I wanted was to wear my Levi’s everywhere. I do it now and the sky hasn’t fallen. As a kid, I wore them every minute I wasn’t in school for church. What was the harm adults were afraid jeans/pants would cause to girls? Were the adults afraid if we wore pants our knees would be safe from bloody sidewalk rash if we fell while roller skating at recess? Were the adults afraid if we girls wore Levi’s no one would be able to see our underwear while we hung on the monkey bars? Yup, Levi’s could have prevented those things. Levi’s were evil, however. But only for girls somehow.

Somewhere around 4th Grade, girls were finally allowed to wear “nice pants” to school. As I recall, “nice pants” mostly translated into “polyester pants.” Levi’s were still on the Axis of Evil o’ Girl School Clothes, but I was excited to buy nice pants from stores, for school. It was one step closer to legalizing Levi’s for girls. However, it had not occurred to me that girls’ store-bought nice pants didn’t have pockets in them either. Poor me. Poor Mom. My need for pockets in my clothing led her to a decade of sewing me dresses, pant suits, pants, and even a pair of golf knickers with a matching vest– all with pockets, of course. Sewing is a skill Mom has never enjoyed, but she was not about to make me go through life pocketless, if a pocket is what I needed. Who here is spoiled? I am.

I appreciate Mom’s efforts to always help me indulge my various whims. I’ve always loved Mom more than I’ve ever loved my pockets. And I truly love pockets. But Mom wins.

BTW I wish I had owned wood filigree Bow Tie o’ the Day when this photo was snapped in 1st Grade. Bow Tie is a winner with the dress fabric, as well as the sideburns.

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A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Bow Ties

Here’s a perfect photo, despite no Bow Ties o’ the Day to be seen on anyone. Queen Helen reigns, while Bishop Travis and Bishopette Collette sit to her left. My Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless sits on Mom’s right, and she yet again hogs her grandbaby, Grace Anne Blackwelder. And Grandpa Gary is one happy, happy man.

Today is Gary’s birthday, and I am giving him the gift of letting him star on TIE O’ THE DAY. If you have the good fortune to know Gary, you know he is generous and a jokester and a reader. I am also giving him the gift of finally revealing to the world the truth about one of his secret identities: Gary is My Hubby. Years ago, I even printed me a t-shirt to wear around Delta, which said, “GARY’S OTHER WIFE.”

If I needed some “hubby-help” when in Delta, Gary was my guy. Truck won’t start? Call My Hubby. Time to shut-off the outside water for the winter? Call My Hubby. Did the Delta wind rip the front porch screen door off its hinges and toss it into the canal? Have no fear– My Hubby is here! Did the hall light fixture suddenly fall out of the ceiling? That’s a job for My Hubby. I could go on and on.

Be warned: If I’m not in Delta and you mess with Mom, it’ll be My Hubby who gets in your face to handle your misbehavior. I just love that man. He’s My Hubby.

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A Stinkin’ Weather Tease!

You know the sunny day of which I wrote this morning? You know the stunning sunniness of this morning when I put on my big, fat, ugly shorts– in which I planned to skip and hokey pokey under the blue sky all the live-long day? Today began innocently and blue-sky enough. And then the afternoon showed up, complete with black clouds, bigly wind, and bigly raindrops. The freshly-emptied garbage and recycling cans at the curb even blew over into the middle of the road. Skitter wouldn’t go for her walkie. For a brief moment, I thought I was living in always-windy Delta again.

Anyhoo… As far as I’m concerned, the bulk of this stinkin’ day’s stinkin’ weather stunk. This is Stinkin’ Tie o’ the Stinkin’ Afternoon, and I’m the stinkin’ skunk in the stinkin’ fluorescent green gas mask, trying to avoid the rest of today’s stinkin’ weather.

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Mother’s Day Eve

Flowery Bow Tie o’ the Day and Suzanne and Skitter and I made a quick trek to Delta, to visit this old dame– the original Helen Wright– at Millard Care and Rehab for a few hours. Mom was in the highest of spirits, as is her usual demeanor. She has a zest for life which makes me tired sometimes. She goes and goes, and goes some more. She makes me need a nap. I love her!

Did I mention Mom loves Skitter? Did I mention Mom adores Suzanne? Did I mention Mom has finally learned to tolerate me? I’m an acquired taste.

Actually, Mom has always loved me far more than I deserve. But I’ll take it.

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Visiting Mom In Deltassippi A Couple Of Weeks Ago

M & M’s Bow Tie o’ the Day knows as well as anyone that a trip to see Mom at Millard Care and Rehab is a trip for Suzanne to see the other Mom also, as in MOM’S CRAFTS. Yup, Deltatucky is a two-mom town for Suzanne. I hang with Mom. Suzanne hangs with Mom AND the Mother of All Fabric Stores.

M & M’s Bow Tie also reminded me to deliver a very important gift for Mom. You see, every Easter season, when all the malted milk ball eggs show up in the stores, and the Peeps take their place alongside them in the Easter candy aisle, I buy Mom a bag of spiced jelly bean eggs. This year, when I thought about getting them for her, I figured I should skip it– since her blood sugar has been fiendishly high. I hoped she wouldn’t think about them this year. When I went to visit Mom a month ago, all she could talk about was the bag of spiced jelly beans I didn’t show up with. I wasn’t going to let that happen again, so on my last visit– a couple of weeks ago– I made triple-sure I delivered a bag o’ spiced jelly beans to her bedside.

Should I have given her such a sugary treat? Not really. But Mom is 88. She knows all about her high blood sugar. If she wants to risk eating a bag of Brach’s Spiced Jelly Beans so badly, she’s going to get ’em from me. I might be 55, but I am still Mom’s baby– and I do not say NO to my mother. Never have. Never will. My job is to spoil Mom. And I’m telling you right now: If Mom wants a six-pack of Budweiser to drink, a pipe to smoke, and a tin of Copenhagen to chew ‘n’ spit, I will get them for her. I will even barricade her door at MCR while she partakes of her vices, so she won’t get caught by her “guards” while she’s being bad.

BTW   When I was at MCR last time, I left Skitter with Mom in her room while I talked with a couple of family members in the hall near the facility’s entrance. Well, out of nowhere, here comes my pal, Katie, who takes such good care of Mom at MCR. Katie took one look at me and immediately said, “Oh, didn’t Skitter come down with you today?” I told her Skitter was in with Mom. And, without one more word to me, off Katie went to check it out I guess. Apparently, Katie was done with me. So I went back to the conversation I had been having with my people. Later, I looked for Katie throughout the day, but I couldn’t find her again before Suzanne and Skitter and I had to head back to the bigly city. I have always joked that it’s Skitter who MCR really likes to see show up, not me at all. Now– thanks to Katie– I know it’s not a joke. It’s true. Skitter is my ticket in. As long as I have her, I’ll be welcome at MCR. I hope.

[Note to Katie: I’m exaggerating that tiny story bigly, for the purpose of increasing chuckles. But I really did try to find you, and couldn’t.]

FYI   Yes, that’s Suzanne in one of the photos, showing Mom my purse. My purse gets around. I wonder if it “sleeps around,” as well.

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Dog Paws Smell Like Corn Chips

A canine miracle happened on this date, nineteen years ago. My pup, Araby, was born. Tie o’ the Day is sooo Araby. Tennis balls filled her mind. Sleep was also important to her. She liked to sleep almost as much as Suzanne does. In these photos, Araby strikes three of her greatest sleep-pose hits.

Araby was not “planned.” When I moved back to Utah from Maryland, I left my ex there. I brought three suitcases with me on the plane. That’s it. I brought what I could carry. I didn’t want anything else. My ex’s sister picked me up from the SLC airport and took me to her house to visit her kids before I hitched a ride to Delta. The minute I walked into my ex’s sister’s house, the kids pelted me with hugs. And the most extraordinary yellow lab puppy ran to me too. It didn’t belong to the kids. Apparently, my ex had called her sister and  arranged for a puppy to be waiting there for me. I knew exactly why my ex had done it. She knew I was in a dangerous place on my bipolar pendulum. I had walked away from everything I had in Maryland, and I’d had a lot. My ex knew that if I had a puppy who needed me, I would most likely be safe from suicide. It was the most loving thing my ex had ever done for me, and I will bless her forever for that caring act.

I adore every dog who has ever been a pal to me, but Araby was The One. Araby was the Dog o’ My Life. She seemed to understand my bipolar head from the second we met. From the beginning, her forehead even had the same worry furrows I was born with. I don’t think she was bipolar, but she knew things about my moods even I didn’t know. She could see things coming. She had my number, as they say. She pushed my buttons in positive ways. If I was lost in my precarious depths, Araby rescued me: She had a habit of coming to where I sat and putting her paw on my knee, to bring my crazy head back to a better realm. Araby was also a willing audience for my writing. I would read a draft of a poem out loud, and Araby sat up and seemed to listen seriously, as if it was her job to critique my work. She was a terrific editor.

Araby had been with me about seven years by the time I decided beer was no longer my friend. She was wary of me for the first few days after I quit drinking. She kept her distance. I guess I didn’t smell or act like the me she knew. When that happened, I was afraid I’d lost her love. For the briefest of moments, I thought I would have to start drinking again– to win back her affection. But she warmed up to me all over again, and she decided she loved me sober. Smart dog.

FYI   I came up with Araby’s name immediately when I laid eyes on her. Her face resembled that of an Arabian horse. (Dad just called her Arby.)

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I’m A Home Potato

It’s not an issue of codependence. It’s not that I can’t handle being in my own company. It is not that I can’t fill up my time with my own whims o’ plenty. But when Suzanne is out of town, I’m not quite totally “home”– even in my own house. Even while wearing Tie o’ the Day, I feel a kind of homesickness when I’m a bachelorette for a day or so. I walk around the entire time checking my pockets, looking through my notes, and generally feeling like I’m forgetting something significant. It happens every damn time Suzanne ventures off. The feeling is slightly irritating. It’s like a ghost pain. But I sort of like it. I know it will go away. I’ll find what I’m missing, as soon as Suzanne flies back to SLC International Airport Wednesday afternoon.

The last two years before Suzanne and I sold the Delta house, I spent most of my time alone there in Delta hanging with Mom. Suzanne spent time there when she could. At times when I was there alone, I felt like I wasn’t even wearing my own skin. I didn’t feel like my authentic self without Suzanne around to participate in my antics, or call me on my whatever-I-need-to-be-called-on. That was in my hometown, on my “home block,” in the midst of my family– next door to my mother. With all that homey-ness, I still wasn’t exactly ME. Not without my superior half.

Oh, I know who I am and how I am. I can more than competently take care of myself. I’m perfectly content with my own thoughts and games. I’m an independent gal. I don’t pout, or weep, or wail, or moan, or gnash my teeth. In fact, I don’t have a clue what it means to gnash one’s teeth. How exactly does one do that? It’s just that my inner GPS is a bit skiwampus when I’m on my own. I don’t really worry about it though. That little off-kilter feeling I feel when I’m on my own is what lets me know I’m creating a life and home with the right person. I’ll feel at home and on-kilter again when I pick up Suzanne and her bags at the airport Wednesday.

And then, that evening we will be feeling at home together at the P!NK concert in SLC. I’ve already packed my earplugs in my saddle purse for the bigly event.

BTW In keeping with the “home” theme of this post, I wanted my selfie to show me wearing a tie or bow tie showcasing a “home.” I discovered I don’t own a piece of “home” neckwear, so I’m wearing a “gnome” tie. At least the words rhyme.

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The Wheels On The Car Go ‘Round And ‘Round

Skitter and I– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– jumped out of our beds this morning and said to each other, “Hey! Let’s get ourselves into the car and go visit Helen, Sr.!” And so we did.

I always enjoy my visits to Millard Care And Rehabilitation. I get to see my former bishops, school teachers, church teachers, bosses, neighbors, coaches, etc. It is somewhat strange to see them “old.” They resemble their young selves enough that I know who they are. In fact, I know most of the MCR residents. That’s an effect of being from a town small enough that you know everybody. I knew these folks as I grew up, and I know them now as we all grow older. MCR is like a rickety, hard-of-hearing, cane-and-walker version of the “real” Millard County.

I’m always amazed by how much laughter I hear wherever I go in MCR. Staff and residents share a genuinely playful banter with each other. I know it sounds cliche, but it really does feel like family there. The staff is always trying to feed me like I’m family, too.

Like in any family, there are a few “problem children” who live at MCR. In fact, I have seen a sourpuss or two among the residents. Oh, well. I remember those fuddy-duddies when they were a heckuva lot younger, and they were sourpusses even way back then. People gonna be who people gonna be, I guess.

I met someone today at MCR who Mom has raved about since she was in MCR with her broken hip almost two years ago– Tess Greathouse. I have always known Tess’ family, but I had never actually met her before, since she is decades younger than me. As Skitter and I were walking to Mom’s room, Tess stopped me and asked if I was Mom’s daughter, and almost before I could answer, Tess’s hand shot out to shake mine. I don’t think I have ever visited Mom at MCR without her telling me how much she enjoys Tess reading stories to her. She loves Tess. Tess is one of Mom’s blessings, that’s for sure.

Jeez, Mom has more blessings than anyone else I know. I might need to borrow some one day.

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The Mad Hattery O’ My Afternoon Hairs

Colonel Sanders Tie o’ the Day helped me re-think my baseball caps. Do I really need them, or can I get by with this glued-up visor hairdo? I dunno. My hairs visor seems to be keeping the sun out of my eyes so far today. If I got rid of my hats, I could free up their space in The Tie Room, where I could house more bow ties. But alas! I love my hat collection too, so that’s not gonna happen. There’s room in The Tie Room Resort for all things that wander in.

Small towns are like that, even though we tend to think of them as narrow-minded. A small town will generally set a place for you at its table. Trust me, you will find narrow-minded people anywhere you go. You will find jerks everywhere you go, as well. And if you act like a jerk in a small town, be prepared to lose that place at the table you were so kindly given– as you would deserve to. But most people realize nobody’s perfect, and they’ve got plenty of their own issues to work on. A lot of “mind your own biscuits” combined with even more of “love your neighbor” goes a long way toward allowing you to live like a mature human being among other grown-ups. [Note: The meanings of the aforementioned two sayings are more alike than they seem.]

For example, I’m reminded of a Delta-area woman I knew in my kidhood, who suddenly– out of nowhere, out of character– began to steal. She stole insignificant things from stores, and she didn’t seem to hide what she was doing. A lot of the town knew.

Some people wanted to see her put in jail. Some people wanted to see her face plastered across the front page of the newspaper. She was a wonderful, law-abiding wife, mother, citizen, and church member in all other ways. She wasn’t stealing because she couldn’t afford what she took. And the things she stole were random and unnecessary. It was clear she was suffering from a mental issue. The cops, store owners, and her family had a pow-wow and decided legal action was probably not going to help her. They decided shaming her in THE CHRONICLE wasn’t going to help her or her family. But she couldn’t keep getting away with stealing, without consequences. That this woman was not going to jail bothered a few busybodies who neither minded their own biscuits, nor did they try to help.

Working together to love their neighbor, the group of cops, store owners, and family– including the woman herself– created a plan to get everybody who was involved in the immediate problem what they all needed/wanted. The woman agreed to receive mental health services. The store managers wouldn’t call the cops when they saw her steal, which would free up the cops to deal with more pressing issues. The stores would keep track of what the woman stole, and the husband would pay the bills each month until she got her mental issue taken care of. After months of mending her psyche in therapy, she became well. Nothing “official” was done. A small town of neighbors loved one neighbor enough to solve a strange problem together. A narrow-minded town would not even try to accomplish that.

As with most things in life, you need to find the balance. You need to keep the balance between your biscuits and your neighbors: You have to pay just a smidgen of attention to your neighbors’ biscuits, so you’ll know your neighbors’ struggles. Sometimes that’s the only way you’ll be able to know how to love your neighbors in specific ways that will help sustain them.

End o’ sermon. Again.

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Hairs Thursday #5


As I considered what to make my hairdo do today, I started to think about how snazzy mustaches can be. I decided I’d try to create a couple with my hairs. Here’s my stab at a Fu Manchu. You can see my mustache-styling skills are quite limited. I can’t even do a Fu Manchu that looks right. The important thing is that I tried. Just for y’all, I tried.

My ‘stache makes as much sense as my Prince-Albert-in-a-Can Bow Tie o’ the Day. I mean, these young whippersnappers nowadays have no clue about the old routine of prank-calling a store that sold tobacco and asking: “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And when told YES, saying “Well, you better let him out.” I have to do a lot of explaining when I wear this piece. And the young wonderers still don’t find it amusing. And that gets me to thinking about how much more isolated Delta was when I was a kid. Oh, it was still 140 miles from SLC, but without cell phones, texting, and the internet, your mind was near-completely soaked in the confines of Delta and its offshoots. A phone prank and toilet-papering a house was about the funniest crap you could pull, without causing a town civil war.

Don’t think for a minute that Delta was boring back in the day. There was plenty to do: for example, sliding down the flumes easily morphed into cliff jumping; tubing down the Sevier could end up planting you at the reservoir for a swim and a bonfire; throwing a couch in the back of a truck (Yes, we rode in the back of trucks.) often ended at an Oak City canyon party– complete with a campfire and s’mores.

Like most kids, I was allowed to ride my bike everywhere from the age of zero. (Slight exaggeration.) I was allowed to play on the railroad tracks. They were pretty much our front yard. I was taught the rules, and then set free to explore. Of course, being bored in Delta was your choice. Some people were, and I felt sorry for them.

Delta was also packed with characters who had made their individual lives a little iconic by their bigly actions. For example, there were Bernell and Blanche Ferry (son and mother) whose accidental antics included Blanche falling out of their old truck’s passenger door as Bernell rounded the corner to turn onto Main Street. She rolled like a roly-poly into the gutter, stood up, and waited for Bernell to go around the block and come pick her up again. That’s right: he did not stop for her. He went around the whole block. When he came back around and finally stopped by Blanche, she hopped in the truck, and off they went on their merry way. The scene looked like they were following a script– like they had done this a million times before. I felt privileged to observe the entire event. I’m still I awe of that old woman’s un-breaking bones.