Category: Family

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My Grandma’s Award-winning Ornaments

Here’s a 1-Bow Tie, 5-Tie o’ the Day salute to my dad’s mom, who we’ve always affectionately referred to as Momo. (The Santa-hatted Scottie dog bow tie is one of my all-time faves.) I have continually been in awe of Momo’s unending crafty creativity. She could make anything out of anything.

Here are what I believe to be her two most famous Christmas tree ornaments: milkweed pod renditions of the Nativity scene. The two white critters at the foot of the three-pod ornament are lambs. I particularly like the golden deer/dog at the bottom of the one-pod ornament. (You should see the dog she included in her diorama version of the Garden of Eden!) I do not know exactly when Momo created these ornaments, but I remember them hanging on her Christmas tree annually, in even my earliest memories—so they are at least 50 years old. They are so fragile that I rarely bring them out for public viewing. I cannot dust them for fear the glue that holds everything in its place will break. Occasionally, I find that a component of an ornament has fallen out of its pod place. I do my best to re-glue it to its authentic spot.

Anyhoo…Last week, Suzanne came home from work and said, “We’re having an office contest for Most Interesting Christmas Tree Ornament on our tree. Can I take those ornaments Momo made?” Momo made many X-mas tree ornaments, but few still exist. Of course, I knew precisely which ornaments she meant, and I knew their whereabouts. Despite the fact that I rarely say NO to Suzanne, I seriously ruminated over her request for hours before coming to a decision. Suzanne was allowed to take them to her office only after I issued a Special Dispensation, and made her sign a lengthy contract in which she promised to guard them with her life, as if she was a member of the Secret Service and they were POTUS. Guess which ornaments won the competition, hands-down? I knew they would be victorious in any ornament contest. Why? Because Momo made them. GAME OVER.

Holiday Tie Tally: 148 Neckties. 67 Bow Ties.

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A Man Of Few Bad Words And Many Christmas Balls

I rarely heard my dad use profanity around the family. The swear-y word I recall hearing him say on occasion was “balls.” It always made me laugh. I’ve never heard anyone else use it as a “swear.” These 9 Ties and 4 Bow Ties o’ the Day are for Dad. I’m missing him extra bunches today for some reason, and so I’m wearing my striped overalls—as was daily his custom.

There is a Christmas story that lives in my family lore, which I have heard many times, from many of the actual participants. I have never heard the story told the same way twice, by anyone who was present when it came to pass. I had not yet been born when the event occurred, so I am only figuring as to the “truth” of what happened. I have listened to all the versions of the story, and this is what I have settled on. The gist is true. Some details may or may not be. But this is how the story sits in my as-told-to mind.

Mom wanted a flocked Christmas tree one year, probably sometime in the late-50’s. Dad invoked his belief in the principle of “happy wife, happy life”—and swiftly brought home, not just a Christmas tree, but some flock-goo and a hand-pump flocking gadget. With the bare tree on the sidewalk, just off the front porch, Dad began to spray flock onto its branches.

Mom watched. The kids watched. I’m sure Lyman’s peered out their windows from across the street to watch. Let me just say this: This was back before any real tree-flocking technology had been perfected to even the teensiest degree. The gooey flock kept getting gummed up in the pump. As Dad pumped the gadget, the flocking spit at the tree in streaks and glops and splotches. This was not the pretty tree Mom or Dad had envisioned.

Dad’s patience with the project was thinning. And even as Mom could see it unfolding, she was powerless to stop the inevitable. The frigid air on the entire street was getting prickly, as Dad became—how shall I say it—”vocal” about the clogged flocking gadget. At some point, Momo even emerged from her house next door to ours, to investigate the ensuing holiday hullabaloo in our front yard. As the anticipating crowd grew, so did Dad’s irritability. Dad said some bigly bad words as he tried to complete his flocking mission. I am fairly certain, based on the many retellings of the story, the bigly bad f-word finally flew out of Dad’s mouth at some point. And I don’t mean the word “flock.” I heard that Momo scurried back to her house to find Popo. Mom made sure my siblings made a bee-line into our house.

I am sure Mom and Dad had a brief, tense two-person family meeting out there in the cold, after which Dad likely went coyote hunting for a couple of hours to re-set his blood pressure, and to think of how to make proper apologies to his mother—and to mine.

How did this story end? I have heard that my dad finally managed to passably complete the flocking o’ the tree, and all was made right with the world. (I highly doubt that version.) I have also heard that my parents used the tree in its as-was imperfection. (I don’t think that is believable either.) In the most Ron-and-Helen-Wright-esque version of the story I can imagine, after Dad took off in his truck, Mom dragged the half-flocked pine behind the house and set it on fire—and later, Dad showed up with a freshly cut, naked, better-than-the-first-one X-mas tree. Now, that’s the kind of home I was born into, give or take a fact or two—and I’m proud of it.

Holiday Tie Tally: 128 Neckties. 39 Bow Ties.

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When Shampoo Gets In Your Eyes

I like that TIE O’ THE DAY has been around long enough to have post topics people expect to see annually. My grandma’s early-70’s homemade milkweed pod Christmas ornament is one such holiday topic. It is a crafty artifact worth taking a moment to gaze upon. It’s a clever use for a milkweed pod, and it also shows off my beautiful grandmother, Zola Walker Wright—who our family has always called Momo (pronounced Mom’-o). I usually display the ornament with my “Santa, Baby” Ties o’ the Day, because Momo was a looker.

Momo was an elegant, well-spoken woman of manners and culture. She belonged to book clubs and garden clubs and whatever fine arts clubs existed in town. Despite her grace, she could not spell, and my dad’s lack of spelling ability came directly from her genes, I’m sure. They spelled words wrong, the same way.

Since we lived next door to Momo and Popo, I was the recipient of many Momo confections. She could bake up a storm, and I was a willing guinea pig for new recipes she tried out. But my fondest childhood memory of Momo is of her washing my hair every Sunday morning in her kitchen sink, to help out Mom while she got my siblings ready for church. Momo or Popo would lift me onto the kitchen counter, where I would lie down on a towel, with my head over the sink’s edge. Momo washed my hair with her sink sprayer. It felt exotic to me. She then towel-dried and combed out my hair and sent me off towards home where someone would assist me in getting into my church clothes.

I can still feel the kitchen counter, straight, beneath my stretched out kid’s body. I can feel the strangeness of lying there. And I can still feel the warmth of the water through my hair, the sting of shampoo in my eyes when I got too fidgety. I recall feeling entirely safe and loved and cared for as I lay on my back on the kitchen counter with my head over the sink. I felt wonderful because I knew this was something extra I got from my grandparents, simply because I lived next door and was the baby of my family.Thirty years later, when I bought my grandparents’ home, I repainted the kitchen and had the kitchen flooring replaced. The sink and the kitchen counters needed to be replaced, but I could not bring myself to do it. That was the Sunday morning hair-washing sink of my early childhood. That was “my” kitchen counter. I didn’t want them to be different than they had always been. When I sold the house in 2017, saying goodbye to the beat up sink and counter top was the hardest part of leaving the house for the last time.

Holiday Tie Tally: 108 Neckties. 24 Bow Ties.

#wearthedangmask #whistlewhileyoumask #getyourdangflushot #scienceisyourfriend #evensasquatchknowsthecoronavirusisnotahoax #criticalthinkingsisacriticalsuperpower #hashtagtreeohashtagtree #harmonyandhopearehardtocomebysogeneratesome #iloveyoumomo

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Reindeer For Dad

I decided to honor Dad—master hunter o’ all critters—by displaying six of my reindeer Christmas Ties o’ the Day, but I chose to actually wear the tie showing Santa and a reindeer fishing for Santa-hatted green fish. I got to go deer hunting with Dad on opening day long before I was old enough to do the required trekking. For the first few years I accompanied him and my brothers on opening day, I tuckered out early and ended up riding on Dad’s shoulders for most of the day’s hunt. I can still see the view of various mountain ranges from atop Dad’s shoulders, and I distinctly recall once laying my head on his head and falling asleep on his shoulders while he walked to find a deer he had shot.

As for fishing with Dad, I have vivid memories of packing up the camper he built himself to house us on camping trips. I recall driving with Dad and his dad, Popo, to lakes to fish, always intending to stay overnight. I recall that I always asked Dad or Popo to put the worm on my hook. I recall catching the fish, cooking the fish, and eating the fish that we cooked over the campfire. But I do not recall ever leaving a lake or driving home after a fishing adventure. Magically, I always fell asleep in the camper at the end of a day o’ fishing, and opened the camper door the next morning to find the camper was parked on our own front lawn, right outside the picture window. I recall always fussing at Dad at the breakfast table for not letting us stay overnight at the lake. Dad had to be away so often to work his bees that he really, really, really liked to sleep in his own bed whenever he could. He always said he couldn’t sleep well without his personal mattress and his personal pillow. Honestly, I think it was Mom he couldn’t sleep well without. Miss you, Dad.

Holiday Tie Tally: 99 Neckties. 22 Bow Ties.

Holiday Face Mask Tally: 7.

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No-tie O’ The Day

Today marks 13 years since Dad left us to go to The Painless Place. I still miss kissing his bald head. The coyotes he loved to hunt continue to howl in the raw cold of dawn. The bees are dancing their various jigs in their winter playgrounds. And we’re all still down here just holding up the sky, and missing the old man who taught us how to work with joy, and how to love each other with laughter.

This pic of my beekeeper dad was snapped long before I was born. I’ve titled it, ST. RON OF THE BEES. I don’t remember what I was being punished for as a wee kid once, but Dad kicked my butt with his work boots. He did it so softly that only my pride felt it.

#dadwouldwearthedangmask #dadwouldgripeaboutitbuthewouldwearit #daddidnotseeconspiraciesundereveryrock

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A X-mas Gift For Mom

[Enjoy this repeat of a “Christmas balls” post from 2017.]

Tie o’ the Day is covered in holiday greenery and classic ornaments: Christmas tree balls. I love these classic ornaments most of all. I mean—I like balls, in general. Sports balls, of course. And there’s Cinderella’s ball. And cotton balls. And cheese balls. And disco balls. When Mom reigned over the porch at my Delta house, her favorite balls belonged to our mini-dachsie, Vincent D’OGnofrio (R.I.P., Vin!). They amused her to no end. Whenever Vinnie sped across the lawn, she’d say, “His balls are so cute!” I should have painted them red and green one year for her for Christmas.

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Our Dandy Pandemic Thanksgiving

I meant to post on Thanksgiving Day, but the fooding surprise strategy I chose was biglier than I originally planned. Even though I was feeding only myself and Suzanne for the feast, I had decided to make T-giving dinner last the whole day. Every few hours, I made and served one component of the meal. Our first menu item was—of course—Mom’s famous cheese bread, which we ate with greasy paws until all that was left of it was the foil upon which it had been baked. About three hours later, I waddled over to the crockpot to dish up the T-giving bird, which was not turkey. Instead of roasting the traditional fowl, I marinated and slow-cooked each of us a Cornish game hen. The hens certainly look like Munchkin turkeys. They are so tiny that it takes a long time to eat the meat off the teensy bones. But the birds were yummy. And do you know what? They tasted like chicken! Even Skitter said so.

A couple of hours later, it was time to pillage some stuffing. And in a few hours more, it was time for candied yams. Soon, it was 7:00 PM—time for the Zoom gathering with all the families in Suzanne’s family. It was fab to see everyone, and I thought it was a fun way to handle our little Thanksgiving-during-a-pandemic. I hope we only have to do it once, though. (A friend’s father died from COVID-19 the day before Thanksgiving, which reinforced our decision to stay home and not get together with our loved ones in person. Too many people close to us here have the virus and are so sick right now. #wearthedangmask)

I planned to cook more dishes Thursday evening, but we were too full, so I pledged to cook the rest of our T-giving meal components on Friday, which I did. We began Friday by finishing the stuffing and yam leftovers. We began anew later, with some salty turkey bacon. After a few hours, I broke out a round of pickled beets. And later still, I served up tater tots in lieu of traditional mashed potatoes. We crowned our all-day Friday Thanksgiving dinner with a pumpkin pie stand-in of Pumpkin Spice Cheesecake flavor Red Button ice cream, as well as Red Button’s Cranberry White Chocolate flavor ice cream. No, I did not make green jello or funeral potatoes. Seriously, I don’t know how I ever thought I could cram the cornucopia o’ meal courses into just one official Thanksgiving day.

We still haven’t been hungry enough to open the cranberry sauce yet. We’ll get to that soon, I’m sure, cuz it just ain’t the feast holidays until you hear the suck of the jellied cranberry blob being expelled from the can.

Holiday Tie Tally: 77 Neckties. 15 Bow Ties.

Skitter’s Holiday Tie Tally: 9 Neckties.

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Speaking Of This Morning’s Gingerbread Cookie Post…

Check out my new t-shirt. In case you haven’t already guessed, the cookie’s own Bow Tie o’ the Day was the ultimate selling point. (No, I won’t be counting it in my Holiday Tie Tally though.) I’m being matchy with my own gingerbread man Bow Tie o’ the Day.

Although Mom’s excellent goodies were wide-ranging, I don’t recall Mom ever making gingerbread cookies when I was a kid. I don’t recall ever in my life making a gingerbread house of any kind. And I must admit that on the few occasions when I have sampled gingerbread cookies made by other people, I have not found them to be yummy. Smell tasty? Yes. Look cute? Sometimes. Scrumptious? Never. When I was in my late teens, Mom did start to make a triumphant, chewy gingersnap cookie rolled in sugar. Her gingersnaps did not taste anything like what I have known as gingerbread, thank the heavens.

When I was in Graduate School at the University of Utah in the late-80’s, a box full of Mom’s homemade cookies would occasionally show up in my mailbox. Mom always sent far more cookies than I could safely consume on my own, so I often took them to share with my classes. Once, I took a box of Mom’s homemade gingersnaps to a poetry workshop to share with my colleagues and my professor. After the initial ravenous chewing had calmed down in the classroom, one colleague said to me, “Your mother must really love you.” And another swiftly chimed in, “I wish my mother loved me as much as your mom loves you.” It was meant to be funny, I know, and it was. But I had also already begun to recognize that not all parents actively do things to demonstrate their love for their kids as freely as mine always did. I knew my parents thought of me, always—even when I lived 2,000 miles away from their house in Delta, Utah.

I was born into a tribe of huggers and kissers. And in our family, the three magic words of “I love you” were (and still are) spoken regularly among my parents and siblings, as easily as breathing. As I grew up and ventured hither and yon into the bigly world, I very quickly realized what a rare blessing that kind of familial affection and stability truly is. For being born into this solid gift, I give my thanks.

#givethanks #loveyourneighbor #yourfamilywasandisyourfirstneighbor #imisshuggingmymom #ithasbeeneightmonthssinceihavebeenabletokissmymotherandimnothappyaboutit #wearthedangmask

HolidayTie Tally: 73 Neckties. 15 Bow Ties.

Skitter’s Holiday Tie Tally: 7 Neckties.

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I Ain’t Just A Landlubber

From my earliest days as a beachgoer at Gunnison Bend Reservoir, a.k.a, the Rez, I have loved sand, water, and sun. When I was in my older kidhood, I rode my bike the 6 miles to the western-most shore of the Rez every day of summer when I had time, unless my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless had a day off work. If she did, she drove us out to the water to bake under the desert sun on our bigly beach towels. Ah, the smell of Coppertone coconut oil lotion sizzling on our skin.

On the beach, we listened to static-y AM radio stations broadcasting out of Provo, on a clunky transistor radio fueled by D-size batteries. It weighed as much as a jackhammer. We read magazines and paperbacks we had bought at Service Drug or the Rexall, and we drank Tab and Diet Rite Cola—in glass bottles. We ate Clover Club potato chips with Nalley’s dill pickle dip. I had a one-person blow-up raft I lazily paddled across the Rez. I had a goal of crossing over and around the bend to the Sherwood Shores side of the Rez in my little raft, but I never did for some reason. I’m not crying about it, or anything. It was never a Bucket List kind of goal.

The wind at the Rez—as in Millard County, in general—seemed to breeze up almost every day around 5pm, if it hadn’t already been stirring sand up earlier. When the Rez began to get choppy, it was time to get home for a quick supper. I was always eating summer dinner in a perpetual hurry. I had places to be. I had to head uptown on my bike to Delta’s outdoor swimming pool for the evening swim session—to splash in yet another local body of water, and to walk-don’t-run-by-the-pool under what was left of the sunlight on perfect summer days. Even as a child, deep in my skin, I could feel the burn of vintage moments passing.

Holiday Tie Tally: 60 Neckties. 10 Bow Ties.

#amaskadaykeepsthecovidaway #wearthedangmask

That’s a yellow bow on my hat. There’s one on the other side of my hat too.
That’s not my cool, bigly beach towel, of which I wrote. It’s somewhere around there though, I promise.
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No, She’s Not Mrs. Claus

TIE O’ THE DAY sends a bigly Merry Birthday greeting to Suzanne’s mom, Geraldine. She turned 80 a few days ago. As my family did with Mom’s 90th birthday in September, Suzanne’s family kept it safe: no party. Instead, we all secretly grooved-up our cars and created a surprise birthday parade for the Mrs. Claus look-alike, right in front of her house. Our decorated cars circled the block twice, horns honking, probably annoying the neighborhood with our celebratory exuberance. After our second lap, we halted our parade in front of the house, got out of our cars, and sang “Happy Birthday” to Geri. To be honest, I only whisper-sang. I love Geri far too much to belt out a song at her with my questionable voice, even as part of a chorus—especially on her 80th birthday.

I’ve been trying to remember my first interaction with Suzanne’s mom, and my brain can trace it to 1985, when I couldn’t afford a haircut. Suzanne offered up her mom’s services, and Geri cut my head hairs as I sat on a chair behind their former house.

Mom has always said that she was blessed to have two wonderful mothers in her life: her own, and her mother-in-law. I knew what she meant, but I didn’t fully understand it in my heart until I got Geri.

BTW Please note that Skitter wore her tie for the parade. Look closely, and you’ll see her and her Tie o’ the Day in the car.

FYI A hug-less birthday sucks for everybody.