Category: Stories

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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.

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The Art Of The Impulse Buy

Hey! I got my first issue of GARDEN & GUN magazine. I saw a subscription for it somewhere and I just had to have it. I’m curious about everything, and I wondered what a magazine with this title could possibly be about—besides gardens and guns, of course. After thumbing through its pages, I discovered it’s about Southern living: cuisine, hunting, entertainment, homes, etc. And gardens and guns. I’m almost hooked enough on what I’ve seen in the magazine to contemplate retiring to the region. It was an impulse buy, and I’m glad I subscribed.

Toothy Tie o’ the Day was an impulse buy as well, that’s for sure. I am not a dentist or related to a dentist. I am not particularly dental in any way, except that I am an adult human and have a set o’ choppers so I can gnaw on meat and crush goodies (after Lent, which ends later this week). A colorful necktie whose print is decorated with molars is something I didn’t need for any reason I could think of or make up—except I hadn’t owned such a tie before. The tie makes me smile, so I’m pleased I bought it. People seem to enjoy chewing my ear off about the tie (pun intended).

The impulse buy is an awesome sales notion. I give a thumbs-up to occasionally buying something swell for no real purpose. I do, however, recommend that one keep one’s impulse buys to items that are relatively inexpensive. Don’t impulsively contract to buy a ruby-encrusted yacht. You probably won’t find that buy to be prudent. Real caviar scratch-n-sniff stickers? That would be a pricey DON’T. A 99-cent pack o’ chocolates shaped like poop emojis? YES! A good chocolate prank among pals is always worth a measly 99-cents. Just because a product is odd, it doesn’t mean you need it. Unless you do. If a strange object moves you, place it in your shopping cart. You’re the decider. 🛒

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Sleepless In Centerville

I had a rough night. More specifically, I couldn’t sleep. I was in a wee bit o’ annoying pancreas pain, and I was re-writing a poem in my head, and I was worrying about Mom. That’s pretty much what I do every night when I go to bed. But for some reason, last night I also had a bigly bout of insomnia. Fortunately, Bow Tie o’ the Night accompanied me through the dark hours of sleeplessness. I did manage to do some much-needed binge-rewatching of the USA series, IN PLAIN SIGHT, which is a badass, snarky, and wise series that I highly recommend to those of you who wanna be badass, snarky, and wise.

This photo is evidence of the fact that my sleep-free night was a 16-water night. That’s right: I consumed 16 cans of water while I wasn’t sleeping. I didn’t keep count of the trips, but I estimate that drinking that much water resulted in probably 7 or 8 trips to the little girls’ room throughout the night—which likely added to my not being able to sleep. Now that it is day, my insomnia is dissipating. I see a nap in my immediate future. 🛌 😴

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The Tie Room Residents Speak When Required

Having so many pieces o’ neckwear in my bigly collection comes in handy. I can find something helpful to wear around my neck for practically any occasion. This afternoon’s Bow Tie o’ the Day is a shopping list: I’m making salsa for when Lent is over. Peppers are required, and if I’m wearing this “hot” Bow Tie o’ the Day, there’s no way I’ll forget to pick up the peppers. Salsa itself is healthy enough, but there’s no such thing as eating only salsa and nothing else. Ya gotta have unhealthy chips! Nobody ever says, “Come over and watch the BYU football game with us. We’re having salsa-and-salsa.” It’s true that I am already stockpiling non-nutritious “fake food” of all manner in the pantry: sweets, chips, crackers—for when Lent is finally over, and I can once again forage the junky food to my heart’s content. Of course, a tub (or four) of ice cream is patiently waiting for me in the freezer. I touch it for strength every day. From Day 1 of Lent, I’ve felt the sincere need to celebrate my junky food habits at the very first post-Lent chance I get. 🍦 🍪 🍿 🍫

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Meeting My College Pal For The First Time In A Billion Years

Jane deserves for me to don a cape and an ascot.

My old pal, Jane, belongs to a limited circle of people in my life who have been pivotal in my development as a mature human being. These people have helped me in my quest to be a seeker, an empathetic citizen, and a giver-backer—among other things. Jane was the first compatriot I found when I was attending Weber State. She unapologetically read a wide variety of excellent books—and talked about them passionately—which made me feel like it really was a perfectly acceptable calling for an adult to spend way too much time reading and discussing books most people had never heard of. In fact, it was a badge of honor. Jane is the first person outside of my tiny Delta around whom I didn’t feel foreign. Whenever we went to movies, she brought a book to read—just in case. I completely understood this. Jane was in my tribe.

After college, our lives happened and we lost touch for a few decades. We found each other again through TIE O’ THE DAY, not so long ago. Yesterday, I finally visited Jane at her abode. We were in the same room together for the first time in forever—spilling the details of our strikingly different life stories to each other. We talked over each other’s talking, and interrupted each others’ stories to ask questions that sent us on tangents—in the way only solid friends can get away with doing. The hours were punctuated with loud laughter-like-fireworks. Indeed, our conversation was long, but it’s not finished: I still have a portfolio of questions to ask her about her and her family, and more of her life’s adventures. Strategically, I didn’t tell Jane everything about how I’ve spent my post-college existence either, so that I will have to go back for another visit. She’ll have to move and not tell me where she’s going, if she doesn’t want me showing up at her front door occasionally. I refuse to let more years go by before we get together again.

Amazingly, Jane returned two books to me which I forgot I had loaned her in the 80’s. Obviously, she is still in my tribe.

FYI Jane is a cape-worthy and ascot-worthy person, so I wore both.

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Guess What’s Sexy

I remember when I was 5—before I was even a student at the long-gone Delta Elementary School on Main Street—I fell in love with a single word. Mom had been doing some painting around the house, and I overheard her say to somebody, “Blah, blah, blah, TURPENTINE, blah, blah, blah.” And then I overheard her say to someone on the phone, “Yadda, yadda, yadda, TURPENTINE, yadda, yadda, yadda.” I remember saying TURPENTINE myself, over and over until I could pronounce it like a pro. What was this word that skipped so jauntily through my lips? It was downright fun to say. When I asked Mom about the word, she explained what it was and what she used it for. I saw the cupboard where she kept the can of turpentine (and other paint-related stuff), and I would occasionally open the cupboard door and stand there staring at the magic can o’ turpentine. I’d look at the word and try to memorize how it was spelled. Mostly, I repeated the word to myself—well…repeatedly for days and probably weeks. Much to the annoyance of my family and pals. The word itself sounded like a catchy song lyric to me. It felt like singing to say it out loud. To me, TURPENTINE is the first word I have memory of collecting for future use. It was, in a sense, the moment I became a writer. I was hopelessly in love with this word, and I knew I always would be.

Writing is what I do every day. Sometimes slinging words together even keeps me up all night. Words are my most valuable tools. A writer is what I am. Specifically, I am a poet (mostly). I can tell you this: poets are odd. A real poet will gleefully give up eating dinner for a week to save up enough money just to buy a newer, thicker thesaurus. Yes, back in my struggling college/grad school student days, I somewhat regularly skipped meals in order to have the necessary funds to acquire books. And I would not be surprised if I find my literary self skipping meals again—just to prove I still can. The darnedest things tickle a poet’s fancy.

With that in mind, don’t tell anyone about these photos I’m letting you see. The photos show me looking at the literary equivalent of a naughty magazine. Not the content, just the form. This is poetry porn. I bought this book of poetry by C.D. Williams, and when I saw it had a centerfold, I fell in love yet again. Poetry centerfolds are my new obsession. Now that you’ve seen the centerfold, I must hide this poetry porn somewhere Suzanne will not be able to find it. I told you poets were odd, right? 😮🤣😂📓🗒✒️✏️🖍

BTW Tie o’ the Day is covered in fancy bound notebooks and various writing instruments. This tie says, “The writer is in!”

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I’m Irritated, But….

So remember that new Ford Maverick truck I ordered on November 30? It still isn’t here. I did get an email from Ford over the weekend, in which they said they’re sorry for the delay and they haven’t forgotten my order. They said they’re still waiting for some parts they need in order to configure the truck precisely to my specifications. And again, Ford apologized for the delay. Blah, blah, blah.

Listen: I believe a vehicle is for getting people from one place to another. I’d rather spend my money for things other than automobiles. I don’t usually have a specific brand or model of vehicle in mind when I’m shopping for a new ride. My Isuzu Hombre is 24 years old, and my Pontiac Vibe will be 15 in a few months. They both still get me where I need to go. But when I saw the Ford Maverick—a true compact truck, built on a car platform for a smoother ride—I fell in love with it. I could buy a different automobile that’s available immediately, but I want a Maverick. I baby my vehicles, so they last forever. It’s entirely possible that my Maverick will last me long enough to be the last vehicle I ever buy—so I want what I want.

It’s been nearly four months since I custom-ordered my truck, and I find myself getting annoyed it’s not here yet. When I get riled up about it, I try to remind myself that in the scheme of things, this “problem” is not much of a problem at all. And then I feel foolish for getting upset about such a minor inconvenience. My old jalopy vehicles still get the job done. I’m no worse off than I was on the morning of November 30th.

It makes me consider the current gas prices. I don’t want to be paying over $4 for a gallon of gas, but gas prices go up, and down, and back again all the time, for all kinds of stupid reasons that only end up making the rich richer. Everything uses fuel, so then the price of everything goes up, too. G-r-r-r-r-! But think about wonders in the world: the pandemic is getting under control; I’ve got somebody who adores me; my feisty mother is still alive; my kids are making their ways successfully through life; and—most importantly—I’m not pregnant or in jail 🤣. Why should I be a Grumpy Bear?

My life is not perfect, it is blessed from all directions. I have always worked hard, and that has further generated blessings for me. Waiting a long time for a new truck and for criminally high gas prices to fall—heck, those aren’t real problems of eternal consequence. They are annoying irritations that come with standing upright on the planet. I recommend we all check our priorities before we spend our days griping around and blowing hot air at every turn. I certainly want my Maverick, and I want to be able to afford to fill it with gas without selling one of my inner organs on the black market. But what I most want—and I bet you do, too—is to not let things which are out of our control fester inside of us to the point of stealing our very real, very important joy in all things fantastic. 🎢 🎡 🏖 Dude, we’re alive!

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Is This A Dandy Shirt, Or What?!

Howdy! My Bow Tie o’ the Day is the one Collette gave me at brunch on Saturday. It adds a perfectly suave effect here. I call this fashion style “suave rodeo” style. If you ever happen to run across a shirt this incredibly cool, buy it. That’s an order. You won’t regret it. It doesn’t matter that the shirt sellers didn’t have one in my size—I still knew I had to buy it. Perhaps one day I’ll grow into it. It doesn’t really matter to me, though: I am going to wear this shirt way too often, just to see others be jealous of me that I own it and they don’t. I am going to have scads of fun wearing it, no matter how it fits me. This shirt specimen is inexplicably enchanting, in a vintage sort of way. It is Roy Rogers-esque in its aura.

I think I had a lunchbox (w/thermos) in the early 70’s which looked similar to this shirt. I remember carrying it around on my banana-seat, one-speed Schwinn— as I rode in and out of dirt ditches, between alfalfa farms and bee yards, and across the dangerously bustling city streets of Delta, UT in the hippie 70’s. I wish I had saved that lunchbox. It’s a good thing I bought the shirt, so it can remind me of my hokey lunchbox whenever I wear it. I do have my Saddle Purse and cowboy boots that can go with my cowboy-covered shirt. Now, I think I’m goin’ on the hunt for a new cap-gun and holster to wear with it. I’ll also need a new cowboy hat, some spurs, chaps, a stick horse, a wad of chewin’ tabacky, and a sidekick to do all the real work for me. Oh, and I must not forget: I need a leather, string-tied bag, to hold all the gold nuggets I find waiting for me in the closest creek. Yup, I think that’s pretty much everything it takes to be an authentic cowboy. 🤠

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Saturday Brunch With Co

Saturday, I managed to wrangle Travis’ wife, Collette, into meeting me for brunch at a restaurant named Porch, way out in the boonies of Daybreak. I think she showed up for the grits. She was in the South when she was on her LDS mission, so I figured she’d be happy to go where the good grits are in these parts. Plus, the restaurant’s name—Porch—reminded me of hanging with Mom on the porch in Delta. And, indeed, Co and I chatted for more than a couple of hours about topics tiny and bigly. When I snapped the photo of both of us, you can see I was still talking so intently that I just kept jabbering away, picture or no picture. I had a blast. We decided we need to meet up more often, and I hope we make time to do that.

BTW I wore my BYU blue for the occasion, and the bookshelf Tie o’ the Day felt appropriate—because Collette is a champion-caliber reader. Gee, I can relate to that. As an added bonus, Collette presented me with a new bow tie. It’s seersucker, and that’ll be so perfect for spring and summer. It will make me feel cool, temperature-wise and otherwise.