I wasn’t a bit hungry this afternoon, but Suzanne had a hankering to eat bacon. Unfortunately, the only bacon we had in the house at the time was my bacon Tie o’ the Day. So, I changed out of my pajamas I planned to wear all day after having declared a Pajama Day for myself the minute I woke up this morning, with no intention to leave the house even to get the mail. I then spent a significant chunk of time and effort digging around in the Tie Room, in order to find the exact right piece of neckwear to wear in public while doing this errand. So then, I searched for, and found, my stray keys in a place where I have never, ever put them before. After 20 minutes of looking for my wallet, I finally located it in the back pocket of a pair of jeans which I had unintentionally kicked completely under the bed, so that the jeans were not even visible to the human eye. And finally, I trudged to the store—for the sole purpose of buying one, single, solitary package of bacon for Suzanne. After Suzanne cooked and ate the bacon I brought home, she said my single-item grocery trip was well worth it to her.🥓 Of course it was. To her. I aim to please.
I am not a loser of material things. I know the location of almost everything I own. Always have, always will. I also know where Suzanne’s things are. I don’t particularly try to know where her earthly goods are. I just seem to notice where she puts things down. When Rowan was growing up, we had a household mantra: “If you can’t find something, what’s the prudent thing to do? Ask Helen.” It was always amusing for me to watch Suzanne and Rowan try to hunt down their own possessions without giving in to the advice of our family mantra. The longer they searched for something on their own, the more their pride tightened around them. They were doggedly determined to not ask me where some sought-after object was to be found: they were dang well going to find whatever it was on their own, without my assistance. I observed it, every time it happened, with a quiet smirk on my face. I went about my business and waited. And then it would happen: I would hear a loud sigh, then a frustrated swear word would fill the house. Suzanne or Rowan would call my name in woeful desperation. “Helen, do you know where my whatever-was-lost is?” I would turn to see a needlessly shattered and defeated puddle of a human being I loved, finally humanly humbled enough to ask little old me for help in locating what usually turned out to be simple things around our house: items like a certain watch, a pair of pliers, a backpack, a set of keys, the 2012 tax records, a can opener, the stepladder, a shoe horn, etc.
I am not generally one who loses stuff. However, I am in fact a dropper of stuff. Although I have been a well coordinated and physically fit woman for most of my life, in the past few years I have gradually become a full-fledged dropper of small (mostly) things. And drop things, I do. I have developed slight tremors in my hands, and I have lost some feeling in my hands’ nerves. I can’t always feel if my grip on something is tight enough to hold it securely. So with hands that shake and may or may not be holding an object securely, I am a routine dropper o’ stuff like my keys, my fork, my pen, my meds, my drink, my bow tie. As an added bonus, sometimes the problem goes beyond merely dropping the object and moves into the realm of actually tossing it. I don’t knowingly throw anything that happens to escape my intended grasp. I’ll be hit by a spasm which will kind of swiftly, but unintentionally, toss the object a few feet away from my body. When this involuntary tossing happens, it is as if I’m being nice to the object and helping it in its sudden journey to the floor. It feels very strange to me, and I have no doubt it’s just another mostly harmless side effect that comes with aging. There’s a med for my wayward hands, which I take daily. It has significantly decreased my droppin’-‘n’-tossin’ the myriad of tiny objects I attempt to grasp.
The above should help explain the Tie o’ the Day I’m wearing in my selfie. Unlike my parents, who lost their television remotes on a near-daily basis in their old age, I regularly drop/toss my media remotes—so much so that our primary remote is now held together with a series of strategically placed rubber bands. Caught in my own pride trap, I refuse to buy a new remote. I and my numb hand tremors will not be defeated by a chunk of buttons and plastic. I will keep on inadvertently dropping my remote, and I will continue to patch it back together with rubber bands. I will not ask anyone for help. I can do it myself. That’ll show ’em!
I mentioned in a post a few months ago that the first poem I ever sold was to a magazine called The New Era, in the late 70’s. I was in 9th Grade at the time, and I blame my entire life of writing on the fact that I was paid for this poem. True, the check was for the measly sum of $7. But it gave me the far-fetched idea that I could make my writing pay off: I was convinced I wouldn’t have to starve for my art. Onward, I write. I’m still convinced I will one day write a million-dollar poem—even though there has never yet been a million-dollar poem written so far, in all of history. When I do finally do that impossible thing, I will buy drinks for y’all at the watering holes of your choice.
Anyhoo… While cleaning out a saggy, yellowed box today, I found the proof I sold that first poem in 1979. Here, you can see photos of the letter and envelope in which it came to me. The sold poem is here, as well. The postage on the envelope cost 15 cents. I had no idea I still had this evidence of a not-so-great-but-bought poem still kicking around in my life somewhere. I figured I needed to share it on TIE O’ THE DAY, so I can then throw it in the recycling and be done with it. The poem is flitty and light and forgettable, and that’s okay. I was too young a writer to know better. I’ve known better for decades now. Oh, FYI: “Asleep Down Under” never was published in the magazine. And I think I spent the $7 on a new cloth typewriter ribbon for the old Underwood typewriter my Grandma Wright let me borrow.
The poem also bothers me on a punctuation level because it has a semi-colon (;) in it. I abhor semi-colons and try to use them as little as possible when I write. I’m in love with dashes and hyphens, however. (I could write a series of posts about why I don’t like semi-colons, but I genuinely like y’all—so I won’t even threaten to do such an esoteric thing. Ain’t nobody wanna read about that.)As for the tie I’m wearing, I chose it because I thought the hula dancers Tie o’ the Day went well with the warm and casual outdoors-iness of the poem. They kind of match, so to speak.
Grandma Anderson made the tastiest cinnamon rolls I have ever eaten.Young and in love.I’m the gloved Munchkin in this photo.BT/Mercedes and Nuk met in an English class at Weber State—when it was just a college.
This hand-made Christmas stocking honoring Mom’s mom—Martha Lovell Anderson— was the last bit of holiday decor to be put away this year. Before I put it in a decoration bin, I easily turned it into Tie o’ the Day for a selfie by attaching it to my shirt with nothing more than a handy purple paperclip. The stocking, of course, has a December-y story.
When my oldest sister, BT/Mercedes, got hitched to Kent/Nuk in mid-December of 1967, Grandma Martha gifted the young couple two of her always-coveted, Martha-made quilts. One quilt was made using a log cabin pattern, and the other one used a double wedding ring pattern. Grandma also gave BT the direct order to use the quilts, not just keep them pristine on a shelf—to only be admired or used sparingly throughout their marriage. Use the quilts, BT and Nuk did for decades—until the blankets could no longer safely be washed without disintegrating. BT’s a creative gal, so she repurposed what was left of the two quilts by turning them into mantel-ready Christmas stockings which honored Grandma after her death. BT/Mercedes managed to make 15 of these socks out of the quilts’ remains—enough to give Mom and each of her sisters one; one for each of BT’s kids; as well as one for BT/Mercedes, me and the rest of our siblings. Amazing, isn’t it? By the way, three weeks ago, Betty and Kent celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary. That’s amazing, too. 👏🏻🙌👰🤵
But wait! There’s more! New Year’s Eve is always a double celebration in our family because it is also Nuk’s birthday. The Birthday Boy—who still wears his original Birthday Suit—turned 77 last week. But who’s counting?! 🎂🍾🎉
Here are a few old “photos” of my face in various X-mas guises; a couple of past holiday TIE O’ THE DAY selfies; and a wee collection of Christmas-related memes I enjoyed when they showed up on my computer screen this year. Enjoy!
I am Helen Skellington, with a bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day. (Say that name 3 times, really fast.)The suit suits me—but it needs a tie.My true self, right down to the toothache.Proud o’ my redneck heritage, always.My holidogs Tie o’ the Day.Just sayin.’I wish the creators of memes would double-check their spelling before they post them.Another point of view.A Coke nativity.For all of you last-minute gift shoppers.
I’ve been putting away some of my holiday baubles this afternoon. The famed Muppets character, Beaker—seen here on his very own Christmas tree ornament—wears today’s Tie o’ the Day for us. When I press the ornament’s button, Beaker unintelligibly beep-sings his version of “Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring.” I wish you could hear his unique rendition of the triumphant song. Bach would be proud. Bach would also snort-laugh.
You’ve probably seen my “Old Man” and “Ralphie” bobble heads in previous years’ TIE O’ THE DAY posts. They never cease to amuse, and I’m not sure I’ll even box them up for storage this year. Heavens, we already keep the 2 leg lamps, 3 Chuck Brown trees, and our Day of the Dead nativity scene on display all year long anyway: I see no harm in showing off the bobble heads 24/7, 365.
Y’all may not have noticed my precious snow globe previously. It’s been part of my yuletide decor for decades. I honestly can’t believe it’s still with my stuff after all this time. It is one of my treasured-est treasures. I bought it at a 1987 Salt Lake Acting Company performance of SATURDAY’S VOYEUR, back when the production was an annual holiday offering in SLC. After 34 years, not only does the snow still fall on the globe’s scene when it is shaken, but the globe’s blue sky literally falls with it. Elthora, the undisputed star of the long-running stage production, remains sturdy in her rightful position. Elthora is still front-and-center in the globe’s scene, sporting the beehivest beehive hairdo, which itself is topped off with her Temple-Square-at-Christmas crown—complete with Santa and his sleigh, continuously circling the model temple’s spires. I’m still speechless to see it!
You know, when I take a detailed look around our house at the miscellany I’ve accumulated over the course of my life, it is plain to see: I live in what amounts to a museum of books, my ties and bow ties, Suzanne’s fabric, and sundry oddities for all occasions—which we’ve joyously curated and pack-ratted. Our inventory is priceless in our personal economy. On the free market, the whole of our lives’ material haul is probably not worth much. We don’t care. We are not just rich: we are filthy wealthy with what matters most.
Yes, I am aware this is one of the selfies I already posted in Part 1, which was about our quest for a marriage license in December of 2013. I tried the last couple of days to find our photos from the hasty ceremony that day, but I couldn’t locate them. I’m sure the pictures are safe on a memory card in a phone about 4 phones ago—in a storage bin somewhere in the garage. It’s tangled in a ball of useless old phones and old phone chargers we don’t dare get rid of. It’s where obsolete phones and their accessories go to die. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a few elephants have wandered off to die there, as well. Seriously, we have a little bit of everything in our garage—except my new truck. No room at the truck inn.
Part 1 of this tale took us all the way from Millard County, through Juab County, and eventually to the office of the county clerk in Utah county—where we were given paperwork to fill out to get a marriage license, and after we had filled out the application, we were then told the Utah County Clerk would not be issuing licenses to same-sex couples, despite the law demanding he do so. Maybe it’s just me, but I think we should have been told the county wouldn’t issue us a marriage license BEFORE we were given the paperwork to complete. In addition to the simple illegality and rudeness of the office, we were also in a hurry to get married before a hearing that morning could possibly end in a stay of the marriages. Time was of the essence.
We headed off again on I-15, to try to obtain a license in another county ASAP. Suzanne drove, and I regularly posted updates on Facebook for friends and family—about where we were on our journey and what was going on. If I didn’t update our status in a timely manner, I got texts asking me to. We had a little posse of support behind us, cheering us on. It was pleasantly unexpected. We had no idea how many folks were hoping for us to succeed in our mission. We strategically decided to not even try our luck in Salt Lake City, because we knew the lines of people doing the same thing we were doing were long, long, long. Ain’t nobody got time for that! I mean—we were racing the clock.
We decided to keep going north, into Davis County—which happened to be our home county anyway. We were not particularly hopeful this would end well for us. We showed up at the Davis County Clerk’s office in Farmington with fingers and toes crossed. My friends, I still cannot believe how we were welcomed with open arms by everyone in the office. There were a lot of couples there, and the county staff knew we were all trying to beat the possible stay which could be the outcome of the hearing—in effect, shutting down the issuance of marriage licenses to same-sex couples. I’m sure there were extra workers there, anticipating the crowd. Watching the office workers’ well organized assembly line of various legal forms was like watching one of those Rube Goldberg chain reactions where you push one marble which rolls through tubes, across tiny bridges, under a toy train car, down a miniature water tower, and so on, you finally end up with a contraption-made slice of bread on a plate. The office workers happily helped expedite us through the entire bureaucratic process. They weren’t stuffy or standoffish. They shared in the excitement around them. At the end of the paperwork, out of nowhere, a minister approached us and asked if we wanted her to perform our ceremony. After decades of no-you-can’t-marry-the-person-you-love, a perfect stranger asked if we wanted to get married. Two other strangers near us asked if we needed witnesses to the ceremony, which we did. They were our witnesses and we, in turn, were theirs. Yes, we had made it in time. We were triumphant. Plus, the hearing ended up with a decision in our favor anyway. There was no stay that day.
Y’all are, of course, welcome to your personal beliefs about gay marriage, which might differ from mine. So be it. I certainly would never presume I have the right to tell you what adult you can/cannot marry. But I will say that the support we had from good ol’, church-going Utah folks was incalculable—before and after we got hitched. It is still. Almost to a person, our friends and family members—and the strangers we met that day—were joyous about our ability to finally legally marry. They want our marriage to succeed. I can also report to you that in my nearly 60 years on the planet, the near-palpable glimpses of eternity I have experienced have shown themselves only at rare moments when I have been in Suzanne’s presence. I have never experienced such transcendence without her by my side. If there is a forever, I do not doubt we will be together in it. 💍🎩💝
I regret only one kindness we missed-out on the day we got married. It’s something we read about in the newspaper the next day. Apparently, after we were married and well on our way back to Delta for the holidays, an older Mormon married couple showed up at Farmington where the marriage ceremonies were still going on. The straight couple showed up with hundreds of cupcakes to give to the newlyweds. They said they felt compelled to do it, because everybody should have a piece of cake on their wedding day. I cannot argue with that sentiment. Kindness wins again. ,😉
My tie collection never lets me down. When I walk through the door of the Tie Room upstairs, I can find a bow tie or necktie to suit any and all occasions. Yesterday, I chose my bigger-than-life bandage Tie o’ the Day to wear for my trip down I-15 to Utah Valley Hospital, for the sole purpose of visiting my grandnephew, Cael, who had somehow found himself in a car-totaling, hair-raising, scalp-lifting mishap in Delta the night before. Cael even managed to snag a ride from Delta to Provo on a Life Flight helicopter. Yup.
Although Cael’s bloody wound was gruesome, you can see he’s already doing well and is as charming as ever. The doctors gave him the gift of stitches and staples, and some bald spots on his head to display them. He seems to have figured out how to hide most of the closed gash with the remaining locks of his handsome head hairs. I tried to nudge him toward shaving his head completely. Picture it: Cael’s dreamy eyes AND his winding, rebel scar atop his bald noggin. Dreamy eyes + mysterious head scar = chick magnet. Just sayin’, Cael! 😎
On our way out of Log Haven, after a glorious meal of celebration and gratitude for each other.We took a selfie by the coats. Nobody else does that.Isn’t Suzanne dreamy?Suzanne opted for the salmon.I chose the tenderloin with asparagus and mashed potatoes.A little bit o’ blur doesn’t matter when you are having a splendid time.Even through the blur, you can see our happiness seeping through.
Log Haven is quickly becoming our go-to restaurant for our anniversary dinner. I sense it’s a tradition in the making. Because we got married so close to Christmas, we think of our Log Haven dinner as sort of a combination Anniversary/Christmas evening in the snowy mountains.
We never intended to get hitched so near Christmas. We never knew when, or if it, would be legal for us to marry at all in our lifetime. And then suddenly, it was legal in Utah. Maybe. On Friday, December 20, 2013, the state of Utah began issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples, based on a U. S. District court’s ruling that day which found barring same-sex couples from legally marrying violates the U. S. Constitution. However, there was to be another court hearing on Monday, December 23rd that could possibly stay or even throw out the ruling. We had to get a marriage license ASAP, just in case the whole possibility to marry went kaput.
The problem was that we were already decking the halls in Delta for the holidays, and it was late on Friday afternoon when we got the news. All the County Clerk’s offices in Utah were closed for the weekend. We knew we had to get a license and get married as early as possible on Monday morning—before the hearing that might possibly shatter our nuptial dreams. But where would we be able to get married? We stayed stuck to the news on tv and on our phones all throughout the weekend. Some County Clerks around Utah had been wishy-washy about issuing marriage licenses to people like us, even if they had been told they had to follow the law.
By Sunday night, we had decided we had a better chance of being able to get a marriage license if we just skipped over the iffy rural counties around us and drove north. That night, we told Mom we wouldn’t be around the next day because we were running off to get married. She was happy for us and would have come with us, but she wasn’t feeling all that well. I told her not to worry about missing out on the momentous event. I told her we thought it be fun to elope anyway. Early Monday morning, we drove out of Millard County, through Juab County, and into Utah County—where we stopped in Provo at the County Clerk’s office. We walked in and told the woman behind the desk why were there. She handed Suzanne and I papers for us to fill out. We thought: so far, so good. As we filled out our documents, other couples came in and hurriedly got to work on their own license paperwork. We had completed our paperwork, when the woman behind the desk was talking to another person and said, “The County Clerk has decided he’s not going to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples.” Hold on! Back the truck up! I said, “When we first walked into this office, we told you why we came here. You gave us the proper paperwork to fill out. Why didn’t you tell us we couldn’t get a marriage license when we first walked in?” Duh. Crickets.
This was wrong in a million ways. By this time, the legal hearing that could stay or reverse our shot at getting married was underway. We were running out of time. Fortunately, reporters from The Salt Lake Tribune were there when Suzanne and I walked out, and one asked if we wouldn’t mind talking to them. He listened, took my name, and one of my quotes showed up in The Trib the next morning. I’m sure nobody in Delta thought for a minute that the quote from “Helen Wright from Delta” came from Mom, although when she read it, she said she agreed with me completely. Anyhoo…we had to decide where to drive next to secure a marriage license. Stay tuned.
This brightly colored Tie o’ the Day made the newest member of Suzanne’s family oh-so happy on his first Christmas. This is Bracken, and he and Tie bonded mightily at Suzanne’s parents’ annual Christmas afternoon family get-together. I plan on leaving Bracken’s slobber crusted on the tie, then gifting the tie to him some Christmas when he’s a teenager—so he can be properly and simultaneously embarrassed and amused.
