Category: Delta

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Hairspray Is Almost A Requirement In Delta

Delta wind is a force unto itself. If you have never experienced it, but want to feel it for yourself, I recommend you don’t confront it alone. Yes, you need a spotter with you. The Delta wind’s superpower is not necessarily its speed, but its quirkiness. It comes out of nowhere, and it leaves the same way. It might last 10 minutes or 10 days. When dormant, the Delta wind lurks quietly and perpetually in the background, until it finally unfurls itself—wildly, and in uneven gusts—to remind you that you’re merely mortal. And the Delta wind reminds you the material objects human beings think they own are really just on temporary loan from the cosmos until/unless the Delta wind decides it wants to take them back. The Delta wind owns each of us who is familiar with it, right down to our very dust. The Delta wind will surely outlast us all.

The following is a revision of a post from 2018.

THE DELTA WIND MISPLACED MY KITE

Bow Tie o’ the Day begged to head outside to experience the concept of wind. I explained to Bow Tie what it is, and why it exists. I also explained that any wind that shows up in Centerville, UT is not “real” wind.

Dirt devils in the desert are also not real wind. Tornadoes and hurricanes are not real wind. Those breezes are merely a taste of wind. Even the wind in Chicago, which is known as The Windy City, is not real wind. If you want to experience real wind, you have to spend time in Delta, UT. It’s not even a contest. Delta wins.

I’ve observed the Delta wind blow cats out of trees. On many occasions, I have seen the wind there blow bigly dogs over while they tried to potty. I have regularly seen the Delta wind move sheds, lawnmowers, trampolines, and even bags o’ golf clubs. And, I kid you not, I once saw the Delta wind blow a chainsaw off a picnic table. Where it ended up, I can only imagine.

I myself was once blown over onto a washboard road while riding my bike in a Delta wind, and my bike was nowhere to be found after I uprighted myself and managed to dust myself off. I have seen Delta wind blow herds of humongous tumbleweeds against fences, covering the fences so thoroughly—and artfully—that the fences themselves were not visible. In fact, I once saw the wind in Delta blow so ferociously that it threw a bazillion acres of tumbleweeds so high into the air that they actually disappeared. And when gravity was finally able to pull them back down to earth, it appeared as if the heavens had opened wide and were raining tumbleweeds down upon the whole of Millard County. That, my friends, is wind. And trust me, there is no umbrella for tumbleweed rain. 🌪️☂️🤡

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Bow Tie o’ My Tender Heart

I named this jumbo Bow Tie o’ the Day Luau Labrador. It reminds me of the dog o’ my life, my yellow lab, Araby. She’s been in the bigly dog park in the sky for almost nine years now. From the moment she became mine, she and I were in sync in a way that cannot be duplicated with any other mutt. Some days, I swear, Araby acted more like me than I did myself. She would have completely enjoyed dressing up in a grass skirt an coconut shells like the Luau Labrador and showing off to the neighborhood. Araby was up for any adventure, especially if it involved a bright yellow tennis ball or riding in the back of my truck.

You should know that the late Araby once flew right before my blue eyes. I kid you not. When she was still a puppy, I had Araby and Dad’s old dog, Bert, in the back of my truck, as I was driving to Oak City to drop off a quilt for binding. A light drizzle came down from the clouds, and as I slowed a bit on the last curve before arriving in Oak City, Araby must have slipped and lost her balance on the wet truck bed. In my rear view mirror, I saw Araby fly to the side of the road and pick herself right back up. Bert— who was still in the truck— was looking at me, as if saying, “I told Araby not to do that, but she wouldn’t listen! You know how stoopid puppies are!” I immediately put the truck in reverse and backed up to where Araby was dutifully waiting for me—but on only three good legs. One of her hind legs had been broken when she landed. I lifted her into the truck bed by Bert, and off to the vet I drove, hoping she didn’t like flying enough to try it again on our return trip. The quilt was still on the front seat and I cursed its existence all the way back to Delta.

In the end, it required a 7-inch metal rod to fix Araby’s leg. The vet bill was almost $800. After weeks of Araby healing, the rod was removed and I asked to keep it. Her leg healed perfectly and served her well for the rest of her life. I framed the vetbill and the rod in a shadowbox and hung it just inside my front door for visitors to see. I told anyone who asked about it that it was the most expensive piece of art I owned at the time, so I wanted it on display.

And nope, Araby never flew again. Once was more than enough for all of us.

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The Dame

I often mention that I have had a lifelong love affair with words. They fascinate me. One-syllable words have no less charm than lengthier five-syllable words. They all matter. As I began to compose this post, the word “delightful” came to mind. It’s not a word I regularly use, although nothing is wrong with it. I simply don’t inhabit the world of feelings I would describe as “delightful.” But I can only describe yesterday as utterly delightful. Suzanne and Skitter and I trekked to Delta to spend some time with Big Helen, who seems to have shrunk just a bit more each time I hug her.

I wore my new honeycomb golf shirt, and Mom recognized what it was immediately. Dad was the beekeeper in the family, but Mom lived the bee life right beside him every step of the way. She knew a full comb of honey was not only delicious, but it bought school clothes and made car payments. We wished Mom a happy 74th Anniversary, and she wondered why Dad had to leave her. I reminded her he’s waiting, probably impatiently, for her to meet up with him when she decides she’s ready.

Mom wore her royal purple housecoat, and kept showing us how her ring matched it. She was so surprised at the fact that she matched. She knows it’s a rare thing. She and I share a penchant for mismatching in ways that make sense only to us. To match is nothing short of a miraculous oversight. For me, matching is also somewhat painful to my sensibilities. Mom can blithely relish it when it happens. I mentioned to Mom how the royal appearance of her purple housecoat and purple ring stone would surely capture the attention of every person who sees them, she said, “Well, I’ll just start to bow to them all.” And then she thought a minute, and said, “No. I’ll make the people bow to me.” That’s my mother, in a nutshell.

I took the pictures of Mom’s hands because her hands are amazing. Think about how many pints of peaches and pears those hands have bottled. I can’t begin to count the quilts her hands made over the decades. Potato salads, batches of toffee, pans of candied popcorn. And batches of cookies as far as the mind’s taste buds can remember. As I examined her hands yesterday, Mom said they looked “curdled.” It was an elegant and poetic description. Mom has a gift for language too.

As we escorted Mom to lunch, Terry—one of Mom’s fave nurses—passed us in the hall. We chatted briefly. And suddenly, Terry started dancing, and then she got Mom dancing along. I can’t explain how it happened, but it did. Terry then went on her way, and Suzanne and Skitter and I continued walking Mom to her lunch table. As we left Mom, I couldn’t get her happy dancing out of my mind. Mom not only dances at Millard Care and Rehab, but she never dances alone.

BTW I wore my Wonder Woman socks to visit Mom, my own personal Wonder Woman. The Minions Bow Tie o’ the Day is a trip.

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Two More Plumbing Anecdotes

[This is another repeat about plumbing from July 2020. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m still tinkering with the troublesome garbage disposal.]

I’ve got a bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day for y’all this morning. I will definitely remove my Face Mask o’ the Day before drinking from my infamous potty cup. I just had to fit this toilet cup in my selfie, since the post’s topic is plumbing.

In my last post, I mentioned the plumber had been to the house last week to conquer a few issues. But I forgot to tell you about two groovy things that happened during the plumber’s time here. At some point the plumber said to me, “My hearing aid battery is about out of juice, so if you need to get my attention, you’ll need to yell.” Of course, I am a wearer o’ hearing aids myself, so I yelled, “312 batteries?” And he said in astonishment, “Yes!” So I handed him a 312 hearing aid battery from my stash. Hearing accomplished. I did not present him with a bill for my services.

My favorite moment was when he came downstairs to do his paperwork—tablet work, really. He promptly said, “With all the ties and sewing machines I’m seeing around the house, I’m betting you make ties for a living.” I explained to him that the sewing machines belonged to the crafty, sew-y Suzanne and had nothing whatsoever to do with me. And by the time I finished regaling the man with my quirky love for ties and bow ties, and how I have a tblog so I can show off my neckwear and tell stories—well, the plumber was shell-shocked, to say the least. He stood all amazed. But I enjoyed it. I always love instances when I can go into my what-do-you-know-about-bow-ties-and-would-you-like-to -know-more pitch.

My all-time fave experience with a plumbing problem and the plumber who fixed it occurred a decade ago. We still lived in Ogden at the time, but also had the Delta house. I was at my desk in Ogden when I got a call from someone at the Delta City office. Apparently, the outside water at my Delta house had sprung a very leaky leak underground, and my water meter was racking up the gallons at full speed—lickety-split enough that my water usage had caught the attention of an astute water-watcher in the city office. I was 175 miles away from Delta at the time. What to do?

I herded the dogs into my car, and off we hauled to Delta. In the car, I immediately called a Delta plumber, of course. I had his number already in my phone, because the Delta house was an old house, and plumbing problems had occurred previously. I got his voicemail. I left a message: “Hey, Kelly. I know you’re busy, but Delta City called me and said I have a major outside leak at my place—possibly inside,too—but I’m not in town right now. Could you please go over to my place and check it out ASAP? I’ll be there in 3 hours. Mom has a key to my house, so I’ll call her now and have her unlock my doors. Feel free to go in and out as you need to. Go ahead and do whatever you think needs to be done.” I was only slightly worried on my drive from Ogden to Delta. I was confident the problem would be properly dealt with. When I finally pulled up to the Delta house that day, my yard was torn up and gutted where the pipes were. The plumbing crew was already hard at work fixing my water problem. The leaky water situation was under control.

Mom was at my waterlogged-grass house, too. She was sitting like usual—like a queen—on my front porch in her wild socks, supervising the plumbing crew’s work and promising them a batch of her homemade cookies for their help. I immediately noticed she also had her usual huge, fountain Pepsi-with-mostly-ice from Cardwell clutched in her arthritic right hand. Mom clasped her drink so tightly it looked like a prosthetic that would forever be attached to her real hand. And wouldn’t she love to have a Pepsi-with-mostly-ice permanently attached to her paw, if it could be made a reality! Mom is so cool. Cool learns its cool-osity from Mom. I love her, and I love my small town.

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Me? Climb The Delta Water Tower When I Was A Kid? No Comment.

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[This is a repeat of a post from July 2020. The garbage disposal has been colicky since Sunday, so my day is about to be all plumber-y. It reminded me of this post. ]

Red and white Tie o’ the Day dresses up as the Delta Water Tower, with the aid of our water heater. The red “D” reigns, no matter what town I take off my cowboy boots in.

We’ve lived in our Centerville house eight years. It was new when we moved in. Guess what time it is? Time for the house and whatever came with it to need some little tweaks. Last week, the ice maker in the fridge simply stopped making ice. No smoke, no sputtering, no subtle dying creaks. It made ice, then it didn’t. Enter, the refrigerator repairman. He tinkered around in the guts of the freezer door, but he could find nothing wrong. Exit, the repairman and his fee. He must have done something though, because the ice maker is making ice now. It must have just wanted some attention from someone who understood it. Go figure.

And then there’s the plumbing. When the master bath shower is first turned on, there is a growing rumbling o’ the pipes throughout the house. I was outside on the morning of the 4th of July, and I could hear the pipes grumble when Suzanne got in the shower. The outside world should not have to hear our pipes. Also, the water pressure in the shower is almost zero. Lately when I shower, I feel like I’m standing under a rain cloud that drops rain one raindrop at a time. Dribble, dribble.

So I spent most of Wednesday watching the plumber do whatever he needed to do. A bigly bill later, and the pipes haven’t grumbled again. The water pressure in the shower is now restored. Victory! Almost. There are still a couple of water issues Suzanne’s not satisfied with, so I’ll be hosting the plumber again soon. I am a writer by trade. But I know my real job is to keep Suzanne happy—even with the plumbing.

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Oh, Just Playing With My Face

My wood ‘Merican flag Bow Tie o’ the Day and I gathered up a bunch o’ stuff I don’t need anymore, boxed it up, and put it in the pile I’m going to drop off at Deseret Industries later this week. I had four televisions turned-on throughout our house, so I could watch the January 6 hearing without having to miss a minute of it—while I slaved away at a miscellany of tedious-but-necessary household chores. Up and down the stairs, I trod all day. Poor Skitter followed me up and down religiously at first, but she soon figured out I wasn’t going to light in any single place for an extended period of time, for a while anyway. She split the difference and finally stretched out on the bottom stair, so she was on my mind no matter where I was, because I had to work very hard not to step on her as I made my ascents and descents on the stairs. She looked comfy there, so I didn’t want to bother her by shooing her somewhere else. Yes, Skitter is spoiled. And yes, I’m responsible for it. But it didn’t hurt me one bit to simply step over her doggie body on the stair. Stepping over her even seemed to work out a leg muscle or three that I don’t normally use, so that’s a plus.

I mention the 1/6 hearings only to say that they have reminded me of how weird I have always been. I was a political junkie long before I studied political science. One of my first memories of anything political has to do with the Watergate hearings in 1973, beginning near the end of my 3rd Grade school year. I begged to stay home from school to watch the hearings. But my 10-year-old self wasn’t allowed to do that. I had to settle for watching the missed hearings’ highlights on the evening news, from the mouth of Walter Cronkite himself. (That was kinda cool too, actually, now that I think of it.)

To my young political wonk delight, the hearings were still going on after school let out that year. I don’t remember how often they were held, or when exactly they ended. It felt like they proceeded through the whole summer. When the Watergate hearings were being broadcast, they were on the 3 major tv channels we all received. Yup, only 3. If the hearings were being televised, I was in front of the tv watching and taking notes on the living room floor. It did no good for anyone to make me turn the channel, cuz the hearings were on all of them. (I never counted PBS and BYU as real channels, because I don’t remember us watching anything on either one, except BYU football and BYU basketball.)

Every day, Mom would say to me, “It’s summer. It’s a beautiful day. Why aren’t you out on your bike?” I had no answer except to tell her that I was having fun doing what I was doing. And I really was enjoying myself. Kids continually came to the door, asking if I wanted to play. My answer, if a Watergate hearing was on the tube, was always NOPE. What kid watches the Watergate hearings when she could be riding her bike out to the reservoir to bum boat rides? See what a weird child I was? See why my parents could never quite figure me out? Or figure out quite what to do with me? All I knew about my politics habit was that I was fascinated by the dramatics, rituals, and legalities of this thing called politics.

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Have I Ever Mentioned How Much I Love My Mother?

Mom and Skitter entertain the troops.
Mom’s loves to wear earrings and eat KFC coleslaw.
Mom was full of stories and political opinions Saturday.
Mom just had to show Skitter her box of jewelry.
Skitter sits all amazed.
Mom’s got Skitter, a bag of Swedish Fish, and a new phone. Yay!

Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day joined us for a Saturday jaunt to visit Queen Helen of Delta. We loaded up the car with Swedish Fish and KFC coleslaw, two of Mom’s fave edibles. Our mission was to deliver Mom a new-fangled flip phone to replace her old-fangled flip phone which had ceased to do its one job, which is to keep Mom connected to her begats and her pals. She seemed pleased with the new phone because it functions exactly like the one it’s replacing. Mom has made it very clear to me that she does not want a smarter phone because, at nearly 92, she does not want to have to learn one more damn thing (her swear word, not mine). Mom fell in love with the goldfish-in-a-bag earrings I was wearing, and I fell in love with her blue crystal earrings. I don’t recall seeing them before, but they are the color of her dreamy blue eyes. Note to self: Steal Mom’s ice-blue earrings on next visit.

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A Blast From My DHS Past

Tie o’ the Day comes to you from the pages of my 1980 Delta High School yearbook—interestingly enough, called The Triangle. Suzanne went off to see a play without me last night, and I must have been feeling lonely (not) and nostalgic (not) because I found myself leafing through old yearbooks. I’m so glad that’s what I did, because I found bigly treasure. It’s a yearbook message from my English teacher, Bill Ronnow, a non-Deltan who taught at DHS for only my Sophomore year before he gathered up his family and headed off to law school. Although he taught at DHS for only a short time, he made a bigly impression on me. You know how sometimes—and I mean very rarely—you meet someone and you just know that they “get” you? Mr. Ronnow and I simply understood each other from the get-go. He was of the hippie variety—always a plus for me. Our mutual respect for the infinite fun and complexity of sentences and the literature they created was a key element in both of our lives. I lived for words and ideas, as did he. And I liked his clothing choices, the snazziness of which this photo doesn’t really convey. He often wore dapper button-down sweater vests, and I began to follow in his sweater-vest footsteps as soon as I could arrange a trip to the University Mall in Orem. 👔 📖

The yearbook note he jotted to me is a fine example of how we bantered with each other daily. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.” is a quote right out of the book, Catcher in the Rye, which we must have gabbed about together. The order to “Sling that mud, Ms. Hoddie.” is a reference to the times he had seen me hod-carrying “mud” and bricks on construction projects with my brother, Ron. The note makes me laugh for so many reasons, one of which is that if a current teacher wrote some of what it says to a student, that teacher likely would be canceled. 📚🗒

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Two Bigly Topics

Topic #1: Lent. Lent ends today. I failed in my efforts to abstain from junky food—particularly sweets. More than once, I failed. In an effort to be transparent, I’ll repent and write about my indiscretions later.

Topic #2: Mom. My bees-and-honeycomb Tie o’ the Day is pleased to inform y’all that Mom—the Mistress of Dad’s Bee yards for decades—can breathe more easily again, and she’s back safely in her pad at Millard Care and Rehab. She’s glad to be home finally, and hopes she won’t be making a return to the hospital, ever. She says it’s a nice hospital, but she also says NO THANKS to being a patient there again. She prefers her own room at the care center. I vote for that, too.

So Mom is once again where she belongs, and we siblings can again contend with Mom’s stealthy and regular routine of accidentally touching buttons on her phone that shut it off, and then we can’t get in touch with her. That causes us to get on our group text to ask who talked to Mom last and how was she, and which one of us is gonna call the care center to ask some kindly employee to hunt down Mom and turn on her phone, so we can all try to call her at once to make sure she’s in good shape and good spirits, and then we’ll jump back on the group text to update each other about how she is and what she said. We’ll report to each other that Mom’s hanging in there. (It’s 10 o’ clock, do you know where your mother is?)

Mercedes/BT and Ron and I occasionally report and compare the length of our phone conversations with Mom. If she chats with one of us for less than 2 minutes, that means she’s on her way to BINGO or crafts or a musical program some community group has brought into the care center. We’re always happy she’s got new things to see and outside townspeople to converse with. I don’t call Mom as often as Mercedes/BT and Ron check-in with her, because my conversations with Mom tend to be lengthy, no matter what time of the day or night I dial her number. Our conversations go on and on, and on some more. I think Mercedes/BT holds the top ten records for shortest calls with Mom, with some clocking in at around 30 seconds. It’s just one example of how we siblings have our individual styles when we’re each doing the very same thing: calling Mom to check on her. 📞

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Buh-Bye, My Beloved Pub

I considered my “Pub time” mostly my “SWWTRN time.” Here I am when I drank beer. I was at my drinkin’ weight, of course.
I teased the late Lee Jorgensen (far left) by re-naming him “Brokeback.” He was such a cowboy. I’m the one wearing the bow tie. My SWWTRN is always in the middle. And Gary, every woman’s hubby, is always on the far right 😉.
Here, Mom and my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless, are watching the news on our private TV at our private table by our private window—which we decorated seasonally throughout the year. This window display includes our mini tank of goldfish and frogs. Clearly, it was summer.
Gary, Darrell, and Mike. The Three Wise Men? The Three Stooges? The Unholy Trinity? Take your pick, and you’d be right.

Word has reached TIE O’ THE DAY that the Pub in Delta has closed its beer-and-pool-and-pizza doors. The Pub was my fave Delta place to hang out after I returned to Utah in 2000, until we sold the Delta house in 2017 and I was no longer a Millard County resident. I was a regular at the Pub back when I drank their beer, and I was still a regular when I got sober and drank only their Diet Coke. The bartenders let me keep my own cup in the cupboard, and they let me fill it up myself at the soda machine whenever I was ready for another round of caffeine. I was allowed to be my own soda bartender. Oddly enough, my bar pals were a bigly part of my getting and staying sober. Any one of them would have jumped between me and an incoming beer, in order to save me from it.

When I walked into the Pub in 2000, after I had returned from living away from Delta for nearly 20 years, I found myself somewhat of a stranger in my own hometown—at least with those who were much younger than me. When I entered the Pub for that “first” time, I walked in alone. I sat down at a table that looked like it probably didn’t belong to any of the regulars, which meant it was smack dab in the middle of the room. I was literally the center of attention. Everyone seemed to be holding a bottle of Bud Light, so I ordered a Bud Light. And then I made my move: I opened my messenger bag and pulled out a book and a notebook and a pen. I set up my little desk on the table, opened my notebook, and began writing. A Bud Light arrived at my table. I thanked the bartender, paid up, took a swig, and went right back to writing. Slowly but surely, I could hear the whispers build amidst a table full of cowboys I hadn’t yet made eye contact with. They were Pub regulars, clearly, and I was a newcomer to them. I was certainly an irregular on the scene, as I have always been. Things seemed to be getting a bit tense.

And then it happened. One of the guys stood up and walked straight over to me at my table. I looked up at the man’s face, prepared for whatever remark—friendly or foe-ly—was coming. I immediately recognized what Delta family his face belonged to, but I couldn’t place him exactly. In my peripheral vision, I could see every eye in the place was on us, and nobody was making a sound. I swear, even the jukebox shut off so everyone could hear what was to come. The young man said to me, “Hey, aren’t you related to Travis and Kyle? They lived across the street from me and we played basketball all the time when we were kids.” I said, “Yup. Their mom is my sister. And you are a Roper.” Tension gone. Those burly cowboys had sent Ricky Roper to investigate me. Ricky Roper bought me my next beer, and I was a stranger at the Pub no more. My book and notebook and pen were not a threat, nor were the burly cowboys.

I love that story.