Monday, December 26, 2011

Red-shouldered Hawk on the Fence and a Bicycle

Day After Christmas Presents
Crane in my driveway enjoying lunch.
Red-shouldered Hawk just a block away.
It has been a very long time since I let myself take time and write about everything. Of course, everything would take a great number of centuries to document, so I will skip all of the weeks that I have missed and just write about today.
It is the day after Christmas. It is Monday. Brent and Nathan went to canoe on Peace River and look for fossils. Brent is, at this moment, on the internet identifying a Pleistocene hind deer leg bone. "Well, that was easy!" (direct quote). Nathan spent much of the day feeling frustrated since there were quite a few other groups also looking for fossils in the same bend of the river. Someone would yell "Hey! I found a megladon tooth!" "Hey! I did, too!" and Nathan would groan "Augh! I'm not finding anything." just loud enough for Brent to hear. They both came home with a large bag of odd-shaped black 'rocks'. Brent had a great time looking for fossils and using his new (used, but new to us) aluminum canoe. Nathan had a good time being with Brent and splashing about in the water and mud. He is 22 and a college Junior, but still, at heart, he is the boy who used to scout around each new house we moved into until he could announce "This is my mud spot! No one else can play in this mud." Actually, I think he is in his room right now, surrounded by tubs full of Legos--which, of course, no one else can play in.
Hibiscus acetosella full bloom that I planted from wild seed.
I worked on my Hibiscus acetosella project. It has been a wonderfully fun hobby this semester. Now, though, I am late in getting a finished project ready to submit to my horticulture professor. It is an independent study--under the guise of auditing one of his Botany classes--so I con't really even have to turn anything in. My pride pricks at me, though, having promised something solid and not yet possessing a finished product to turn in.
Wild Hibiscus acetosella--two blocks away.
After a few hours of that, I had to get outside. I took my bike and pedaled slowly around the neighborhood. I passed a huge bush with glossy, deep green leaves and some really cool coral red flowers. I didn't recognize it--so I will go back later and take pictures of it so that I can do what Brent does--he with dead bones, me with Florida fauna.
The most memorable part of my day was the chance to photograph a Red Shouldered hawk who was sitting on a chain-link fence at the side of the road. He watched me ride by. I watched him as I rode by. Then I rode home and got my camera. By the time that I had cycled back, the hawk was still waiting.
The hawk and I see each other--I am impressed by him; he pretty much ignores me.
At the end of the day, this is what I see before I go back inside for the night.
Of course I put my bike back into the garage, take the camera out of the basket and bring it in to get the photographs off of the memory card and into my computer. Also, the red Jeep is in the driveway as soon as Brent and Nate get home from Peace River. The canoe comes off the Jeep, Brent and Nathan come inside for dinner, and . . . well, I don't know exactly where the crane goes for the night. I know that she'll be back tomorrow. And tomorrow I can begin to work on the huge pile of laundry that Nate and Brent brought back with them from their trip.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Pneumonia


This is a picture of me being sick with pneumonia. After days and days of pills and laying around just hurting, not being able to sleep, I still feel gross. I wanted to write something, since I've done VERY little since I got home from MD.

I spent 5 wonderful days with Megan and her family. All of us but Anton came down with wicked head colds. I got on the plane with a mucky head and the change of pressure must have forced the stuff into the far reaches of my head and chest. "Just a touch of pneumonia in the left lung," the doctor at the drop-in clinic told me. With sprays for my lungs and head and pills for my lungs and head I came home. I am not impressed with my body at this point.

I am impressed with Nathan, however, who has ponied up handsomely. He has fetched and carried for me. I am so glad to have had him here with me. He is good at spoiling sick people.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

September 14 Post is Now Out of Editing and Up to View

The Family That Made My Life Today Possible: My Husband Brent's Family

Brent's family: (top row) Penny, Russ, Brent
(middle row) Dad Dallan, Matt, Kathy
(front row) Mikie, Mom Libby

Everyone now is married--Penny is living in Utah and often spends time with my daughter Lauren. Russ is living outside of Salt Lake City, (renting a huge, gorgeous home that the owner cannot sell) where he has just taken a new job. Brent is the most incredible person--and he is mine--and I am his. Kathy lives in Colorado and is taking care of her grandchild--with the help of her two beautiful and talented daughters--Karissa and Kara. Dallan and Libby are also in Colorado--as is Mike and his family.

I love seeing photographs like this one in geneology family trees. So often all I view are photos taken of mother and fathers and sisters and lovers when they were grown and much used by life. In these tender years, the eyes are clearer and the seed of the lives they will live and will change around them have just begun to take root and begin to reach for sun and rain.


Thursday, October 27, 2011

What I Do When Brent Is Gone


This evening Brent is in DC; Nathan is at the stake center for Institute; I found out this afternoon that I got a 104% on the Trig test I took Tuesday . . . and this is how I celebrate my quiet, victorious evening . . .

Actually, this is not the beginning of my "celebration"--I should have gotten an image of when I first dumped the two boxes of stuff--kind of like "junk drawer" stuff--out all at once on the floor.

Roo and Murphy (one of our two sets of rabbits--each bunny came into our home at a different time, so it was a really tough balancing act to get each in and out of his/her cage so that each got enough exercise. Puting more than one out resulted in (literally) fur flying all over the room and rabbits with great bald patches on sides and faces) were in the kitchen for their "frisking" time. Roo didn't appreciate the plethora of obstacles covering her carpet in the kitchen. Murphy, however, was enchanted. He carefully noted each object--no chewing, no pooping, no pee-ing--just a thorough inventory of all the new, small stuff he'd never seen or smelled before.

I started by deciding that I would "fix" a plastic bin drawer that is filled with extra bunny toys, flea drops, brushes, etc etc. Since it is old (I have a hard time getting "new" for the rabbits--and they don't care either way), the front of the bottom drawer had cracked. I had been working with some zip ties yesterday, so I decided that I'd poke some holes through the plastic on either side of the crack--to put the ties through. I found my small Lithium household drill, but couldn't find my drill bits. Then I decided that I'd just get the tip of a screwdriver really hot in the flame of a candle and melt the holes through. After discovering that it would take me much longer and much much much more trouble to wing it, I got up and went outside to Brent's workshop where I quickly found one of his heavy duty drills and properly sized bits. I brought them into the kitchen where I sat while Nathan finished eating some soup. I had the drawer in my lap, when I began to drill through the plastic on the front of the drawer. Nate jumped up. "What are you doing?"
"I'm fixing this."
"Why? It's broken and really old." (Yes, he is a college student.) "You don't have to do that."
"I know--but I WANT to do it and I WANT to do it this way."
"Oh."
Anyway.


In the process of looking for the drill bit and then a candle and a screwdriver to heat up--I had emptied two of our "household junk" boxes out and all over the kitchen floor.
I drilled my holes and zipped up the neon yellow ties (very attractive mending job--like the cross-stitched scar up the side of Frankenstein's forehead--appropriate for Halloween . . .) so now the drawer holds together beautifully--OK, NOT beautifully, but . . . wonderfully. At this point, Nathan was going out the door on his way to Institute in Stuart (about 30-40 minutes). When he left, the floor was nicely layered with odd bits of stuff we always need and always use, but very seldom return to their original storage place.

In the first photo you'll notice pens, staples, elastic bands, hair pins, two glasses cases, some utility knives, stickers, LOTS of different kinds of tape (medical, electrical, double-sided, packing) and some circlets of craft ribbon. There were pins and one needle, paper clips, a pencil sharpener, computer screen towelettes, papers, 4 light bulbs to my sewing machine, markers, highlighters, safety pins, two pair of pliers, a big and cheap screwdriver and a tiny and expensive screwdriver. There was a black tipped feather--from a gull, I think--and an exquisite stain-glass tree that Lauren made and gave to me a few years ago. This photo is taken about the time that I had gotten all the nails and screws into one pile, the loose coins into another, and amassed a handful of those umbilical cords that connect kids ears to their music.

Usually about this time, I run out of steam--take in the vast mess for the work that it represents (in getting it put away) and then dump all of it back into the boxes from which it came. The Fates were kind this evening.

It has just begun to pour down buckets of rain outside. Sometimes I mistake the AC coming on and the rain outside for each other. The AC kicked on about 15 minutes ago now and the windows behind me are echoing the beats of rain on the patio cement floor.

PS If you look carefully, you can see Oops! our mostly white rabbit, keeping close to the hutch door--he stayed there the whole time that I was moving stuff about. Usually he prefers to keep to the darker, back corner of the double cage that he shares with Peter.

I just noticed it.


Monday, October 3, 2011

Home From Church, and I Learn Who to Ask



A few weeks ago, I asked Brent to take a few pictures of me after we got home from Church. I don't wear anything besides shorts and t-shirts during the week--so I wanted to have a photo of me looking "nice." Brent was not happy about it. I keep forgetting that when he is tired, he has a hard time with sudden change in the regular routine of our home. It was a stressful event for him--and afterwards Nathan quietly told me that taking photographs was something that I shouldn't ask Brent to do. Instead, I should have him do that.

This is one of the many reasons that I will have a hard time when he leaves. Both Brent and I have come to depend upon him to put in movies, record Nova, BBC, the History channel and Sci-Fi channel. He knows (almost instinctually) how the screen, internet tower, three DVD players and the cable hook ups all coordinate. I am trying to learn--but it really is easier to simply ask Nathan to find a recorded show I want to watch, pull a movie off of the Netflix list, or to put in a DVD.

Right now he is reading me a list of Church signs--from the Heavy Duty Bathroom Book. "God shows no favoritism but our sign guy does: Go Cubs!" I also like "Whoever stole our lawnmower--God will get you!" Now he is waiting for me to work on homework with him--so I am done writing for the time being.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Dad, Susan, Martha, Rob, Nate Utah Summer 2011


Wagstaff Family
Nathan Burton, Robert Burton,
Robert K, Martha Elizabeth,
Carolyn Eva, Susan Ellen

July 2011, Orem, Utah
From an email to Rob:

Today has been strange--I forgot to take my meds last night and so didn't sleep and have felt fragile all today. I loved seeing you and your children. I still remember hearing you and M talking about Europe and places that you had both visited. Hearing the two of you discuss things that I had only ever read about made me feel left out at first. Now, though, the memory leaves a sweet peace--that the rest of the world is being seen and cared for by others while I can stay safe and small in my own space. I love you. One of the best parts of my summer was being in Nate's house with you and dad and Susan, and Martha. I have been away from all of you for so long now. Sometimes it is like I have always been married to Brent--everything before that was just a fable or epic poem. For so long I believed that I was a very intelligent, very smart person--then I married Brent and I knew I was brilliant--then I had Meg and La and Nate and I knew that I would never really know anything at all. I love you and I look forward to watching Benjamin and Natasha grow up while you and I grow older.

*******
I actually do look forward to growing older. I have given up on growing up--and I do want to continue to grow.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

OraBrush, My Dad, Singing (Not Necessarily in That Order)

It's me as The OraBrush. Dad's home office is in Provo, UT and while I was there in July, he gave us a tour of the place where they make the OraBrush commercials, take orders and fill them, keep stores stocked, think up new ideas, and I haven't any idea what else.

My whole life, I have been the one on center stage. Every year at Concord Elementary school in Edina, MN, each grade had a different theme for the choral concert. I was (probably) in 4th grade and we sang songs about Indians and how they lived. I got to be an Indian Princess Mother and sang with another girl. The lullaby was first sung in the native language and then in English words. It was a soft, flowing rhythm that rolled off my tongue. I sang it to myself over and over again during the weeks before the concert. That night, I stood by the microphone and sang to the invisible, dark of the audience--and mom and dad where there to hear me do my thing. There were several years when I was part of different schools' music concerts--and mom always made any costumes I needed and mom and dad always came to hear me sing. In High School, I was in several plays. Mom and dad came to each one--whether I was in the chorus or was one of the stars.

Now, I go to YouTube and my dad is there: talking, being interviewed, explaining how OraBrush was first created and how, using YouTube, his creation has become an international feature. I am so proud of my dad. He and Cindy have put tens (if not thousands) of thousands of dollars into research and development and failed attempts over the last few years. Dad has a patent on a special kind of golf putter, and he created a nutrient supplement that makes egg yolks and broiler skin yellower. (That makes it look healthier and so we want to buy it and eat it more . . . that's what market research reported, anyway.) He has more patents that are owned by the companies that he was working for when he created them. Anyway. I think you understand what I'm talking about.

I was always proud of my dad when I was a little kid. Now that I'm a big kid, I think that he is even more wonderful.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The Only Way to Get What You Want . . . Is to Ask


Self-Portrait from the computer I used during the Photography II class at
Palm Beach State, 2009.

I spent a lifetime before I married Brent, watching and learning from my mom. She had MANY talents, but used all of her time and dedicated her life to raising me, my two sisters and two brothers.

She came from a family where the Great Depression was something that they lived with every day of every year. Mom's mother (Grandma Burton) remembers in her youth that you never took a whole piece of bread at dinner because you had to eat everything you put on your plate--and even if you weren't hungry enough to finish that piece of bread you had to eat it anyway. Later on in her life, Grandma went hungry to make it through college. Later on after that, as a mom, she made all the bread her family ate--whole wheat flour she ground and then sesame seeds on the top. When she put the seeds on the top, any that fell to the counter were caught and carefully stored away to be used next time.

In grandma's home, when my mom was growing up, sweets of any kind were very rare. When grandpa would give grandma a box of chocolates as a present, she would hide them. Grandma said--and truly believed--that chocolate was poison. Mom and her brother and sisters would search every nook and cranny of the house to find those sweets, though, and when their search was a success--the chocolates were immediately bolted down. If you didn't get all you could then, there was no hope of having any left to eat later.
By the time we grandchildren arrived, Grandma had mellowed a little, food was in plentiful supply, and there was money for a few extras. For her grandkids, she would bake us one kind of treat: carrot cookies full of walnuts and a lemony glaze drizzled on top. She would make them for us to eat in the car during the long drive home. Grandpa had the only gas station in the valley and sold candy bars that were displayed in a glass case in the small room where people paid for their gas. After hugs good-bye and leaving Grandma's house, we would stop at Grandpa's gas station. We would hug him good-bye--and then he would send us off with a very large box of candy bars. It was one of the ways that Grandpa "got back" at Grandma--very strange relationship.

The biggest honour that you could get from Grandma happened while everyone pitched in to wash the dishes after each meal. There were three "stations": rinse off any food still on the plates, wash the dishes (Glasses first, silverware second, plates next and pots/pans last. The glasses and the silverware were the objects that touched our mouths when we ate--so they had to be the cleanest. Plates held the food. And then the only things left were the pots and pans.) in hot soapy water, rinse them in a tub of scalding hot water (to disinfect them), then wipe them dry and put them away. The greatest honour? Being able to rinse the dishes--this was the most important step to Grandma. In this almost-boiling water, the glasses and silverware, dishes and pots and pans were completely cleaned of any germs or bacteria. If Grandma Burton trusted you to rinse the dishes, you had arrived--almost adult status.

Once a year, before the school year started, Grandma and Grandpa Burton would go into the city and buy new clothes that were on sale. Mom hated that whatever fit you was what you got to wear for that year--even if colours and patterns didn't coordinate. Grandma was so pleased that she was able to provide "store bought" clothes for her family--a luxury she didn't even dream about when she was growing up. Anyway . . . the direction I was going with this was that mom came from a long line of people who were accustomed to asking nothing for themselves. Mom didn't take any classes, take piano lessons (which she would have loved . . . already being an incredible pianist), or a real vacation.
My reflection from the screen of the MacBook Pro Brent bought me--rather, I decided I wanted and then bought.

I have lived life based on a very different, very indulgent, philosophy. From the beginning of our marriage, Brent dedicated his life to giving me everything I asked for. I was welcome to spend as much money as I wanted--as long as we had it. My mania drove me to exceed that generosity--forcing us to the brink of bankruptcy. Depression drove me into dark, cold places where Brent continued to search for a way to rescue me.

It was only a few years ago that Brent began to correct me when I made up facts or exaggerated or lied. These were things that he had held in since we met; he told me that he was afraid that if he had said them, I would have left him.

We have moved often, Brent and me, throughout our married lives. Our children have had to cope with new schools and new peer groups and new homes and new languages and new cultures throughout their lives. Meg, Lauren and Nate have joined Brent in caring for me even as they were forced to adjust to constantly changing situations. They suffered when I was caught up in the tornado winds of mania--and called Brent to come home from work when I curled up in the corner of a depressed, waterless, sunless well. My extremes have been (not only tolerated, but) considered as an external condition that existed outside of who I really was. Brent never lost faith--in me or in the Lord. The storm would pass, I would come back, Brent would be still carrying me in his arms . . . shoes and socks never having been removed during the countless days and years that he nurtured me and kept me safe.

Above the emotional trauma that Brent and my family endured, was added the constant of physical danger I craved: jumping horses. The adrenaline rush supplemented the plethora of meds that worked and then didn't work. How did Brent endure all of this?

Like my parents (and grandparents before them), he denied themselves anything beyond the essentials so that I {first as a daughter and now as a wife} might be tenderly cosseted and spoiled--and protected from the cruelty and hatred of the world.

I sound so offishly over-dramatic. That is my take on things, though.

I have but had to ask, and it was given to me.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

From Babies to Butterflies

I had been watching Kate and Jon while Meg ran errands. When she came home, she burst through the door and immediately went to the balcony/porch and called for me to come with her. When she had stopped for gas, she had found this luna moth. Figuring that it wouldn't last long at the gas station, she looked for a way to bring it home. Someone was kind enough to provide a cleaned and dried out McDonald's cup and cup cover. Between the two of them, they were able to coax the moth into the cup.

Meg held the moth up so that I could take a few photographs before she let it go.
I got this face-on angle and a photo from above the moth. Meg then tried to get the moth to crawl onto a post or on one of the heavy clay pots on the porch. It had other ideas: it flew up and landed on Meg's shirt, began to vibrate and then took off. We thought that it would pick a light-coloured background where it could rest for the day.
It flew over the balcony railing and fluttered down to latch onto the building's side wall: a large, light green, triangular leaf--caught on the brick surface for a time.
After I two weeks of baby and toddler, this moth was a reminder to both Meg and me of the wide world that was still counting time just beyond the apartment doors.

I still can't imaging how they got the moth into a McDonald's cup for the ride home to Megan's.

Today I go to look for another car for us to use. We seem to be drawn to Jeeps and trucks--or at least that is what Brent brings to me in piles of print-outs, neatly stapled at the top left corner. I don't mind the travel to see each vehicle--I just don't trust myself to discover what is/could soon be wrong with the car and need repair. I can tell that I feel the stress because I am intensely tired--my usual reaction to stress.

When I go to to car hunt today, I'll have to bring ice water to drink and some music to sing aloud and perhaps also Nathan so that we can talk.

I got our breadmaker out from under the counter--where it has been stored for the last 6 years. Megan and Anton got me started with this. They grind their own wheat. I am torn between my promise to Brent to never feed him powdered milk or whole wheat bread (He grew up on these and harbors a profound dislike for both of them.) that I made just after we were married.

Which idea to obey: the Lord's admonition that we live off or our food storage so that we can rotate it--and my marriage vow to never offer such basic food stuffs to my companion and sweetheart. If this weren't so silly a situation, I would laugh at myself. This month in Relief Society we are suppose to bring a calendar listing all of the dinners that our families eat. Somehow I don't think that take-out pizza and salad along with take away from Cheesecake Factory will help me improve the list of foods that we store.

Never know 'til I try, though? At least I have the calendar on my fridge door. One step at a time.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

My Magic Place in Maryland



I am sitting outside of Jon’s door, waiting for him to fall asleep for his nap. He only takes one nap a day, and sometimes it is like trying to keep an ice cream cone from dripping once it gets too warm. You know that it is dripping somewhere, you just have to keep checking the back and sides while you are eating the front. Just when I think that he is passed out asleep, his bedroom door slowly begins to open and I see him stick his head out just enough to make sure that I am still here in the hallway—blocking his exit lane. Sometimes it is good that Meg and Anton’s apartment is so small. I don’t think that I could keep up with him were he given more potential escape routes.

My two forms of parenting (bribing the child and/or consistently having the child practice being obedient) are working well. Of course, Megan has already gotten Jon very familiar with the second method. He moves so gracefully that it is hard to perceive the moment when Jon’s actions flip from “No way in the world am I going to do THAT.” to resigned compliance with his mother’s or father’s requests. They have an “I’m going to count to three. If you can’t do/go/come, then when I say 3, I will help you do/go/come.” routine firmly established as part of their parenting routine. They are both so quiet mannered and so grateful for the other, so in love with each other, so dedicated to uplifting the other—that I love being here in their home.

Jon is still napping. I have had a lovely shower and now I am camped out along one wall of the living room, right below the wall-sized picture window. Megan found an orange—kind of a subdued pumpkin colour—fitted sheet to cover the air mattress. It has become a small oasis where I can fold clothes or work with my photos. Anton uses it for study and occasional naps. Meg feeds Kate here and at night she lays here while I massage her lower back with Shea butter cream. Jon sits here while he watches a movie on my laptop and brings me his cars to admire. I quite like the arrangement. It is an inviting kind of set-up that can only exist here and now. It is almost as if I have been given a magic place to stay in while I am here in Maryland.


Tuesday, May 31, 2011

One Week Later

A Week Ago: Just Hatched Robin


This Afternoon: Robin Looking More Like a Robin


The top picture you have seen before. I took it about a week ago. I didn't want to spook the mother bird by going back too soon to check on the progress of the hatchling, but I did peek again today. From a little sack of red skin and hollow-stick legs, the baby now has a full beak, eyes, skin fuzz--even the beginnings of feathers on the wings! It is amazing to me that such transformations happen--and have been happening--before I was even aware of the world around me. Perhaps I got to watch while the process of egg to bird was being organized in the preexistence--no way, though, was I part of that committee.

Singing, yes. Trees, probably. Horses, certainly. Chocolate and whip cream--committee chairperson. Eggs to flabby pink blob to fuzzy red blob to scrawny pin-feathered wisp to gullet-wabbling-down to bad-feather-day plurf to flying and singing marvel--it doesn't feel like I was clued in enough even to begin to imagine such a transformation.

A week ago, when I took the first picture, I didn't know what kind of bird it was, but this time it was still light outside and a very agitated, very loudly chirping robin was hopping about on the fence near the holly tree. So . . . a baby robin. Unlike my grandchildren--who were both amazing from the first moment--baby song birds are u.g.l.y up until almost the very last moment before they morph into "real" birds.

Had I not known better, I would have thought that the newly hatched ducklings, chicks, and quail cheepers were a distinct species from baby robins, parrots, and doves.

I don't know why I'm still wandering on about this. Sometimes I take a moment and when I look--I realize that I have no clue what kind of place it is that I'm living in.

KR: Three Days of Age


This Afternoon: KR at Almost Two Weeks Old


What a strange juxtaposition that I should be able to see the first weeks growth of two fledglings. Kate, of course, growing from beauty to beauty--I am enchanted by her movements, her round-mouthed yawns, her tender-tiny-perfect ears and hands. I knew Kate's mother--I bore Kate's mother--and she was as magical and Kate is. I am still Megan's Mother here--but more often I'm known by those who live here as Jon and Kate's grandma. And Megan? She is the mother--Jon and Kate's mom. It's a title that passes from me to Meg with solemn ease.

She will never grow out of being my child, though. Crazy way of things--change that continues to stay the same even as it evolves: revolves--again and again.

I wish that my mom could be here to see.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Six Days Old

The Original Three!
Meg, Jon, Anton


Megan: Artist, Friend, Vocalist, Daughter, Wife,
and Mother Extraodinaire

Kate:
The Newest Member of the Team

Good news! After a week of throwing tantrums whenever he saw his sister, Jon is now able to stay in the same room with her--as long as she doesn't move or make noise.

Progress.

Kate is now 6 pounds and 4 ounces. I'm attaching some photos of her and of Jon, Meg and Anton. The rest of my photos have been of Jon showing me one of his trucks/trains/cars--the truck/train/car right up next to the camera and a glimpse of his eyes or chin in the background. I'm not sending any of those since the only person who is fascinated with them is Jon.

I am doing wonderfully well . . . except for the usual clumsiness. I shaved my legs this morning and immediately covered a towel with blood from cuts at my ankles and knees. Megan brought me bandaids, made comforting noises, and so I am now recovering nicely.

Right how it is muggy--not as hot as Florida--but we are hours from the beach and the splash place pool does not open until 30 May. I didn't pack a swimsuit, but that is no problem since they do actually have stores here. And they accept money in exchange for their wares. It is not the wild frontier that it used to be (in the late 1700's). Progress is spread over the whole country--even if every state can't have waves and beaches with shells to collect, Target and WalMart and Cosco have made great progress in these northern reaches.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

My Two Women in Zion: Brent's Mother's Day Talk 2011




Women in Zion



Libby Hendry, Carolyn Hendry, Megan Rytting at Dallan and Libby Hendry's 50th Anniversary Celebration

I was asked to speak this Mother’s Day on women in Zion. What I am really going to speak about is two women in Zion. As I speak about my wife and my mother, I would like for those men in the congregation that are married to think about your spouse and ponder on those qualities that endear her to you. As I speak about my mother, think about your mother, your grandmothers, and other women who have touched your life. Reflect on the qualities in them that lifted you and helped you to become the person you are today.

We all have a mother. She may have played a role different from the standard role. She may have spent more time or less attention with her children than the average mother. However, every one of us has a mother who gave us life.

Eliza R. Snow penned the words to one of my favorite hymns “O My Father.” Her lyrics capture what we all intuitively know about our spiritual upbringing prior to coming here on earth. The words to this hymn remind us that we have a heavenly mother as well:

3. I had learned to call thee Father, Thru thy Spirit from on high,
But, until the key of knowledge Was restored, I knew not why.
In the heav’ns are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare!
Truth is reason; truth eternal Tells me I’ve a mother there.

In Romans, chapter 8, verse 16, we read: “The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God:” We are the children of Heavenly Parents. Our earthly mothers deserve the same respect and protection from the profane things of this world that our Eternal Mother has been shown by our Eternal Father.

N. Eldon Tanner once said, “A mother has far greater influence on her children than anyone else, and she must realize that every word she speaks, every act, every response, her attitude, even her appearance and manner of dress affect the lives of her children and the whole family. It is while the child is in the home that he gains from his mother the attitudes, hopes, and beliefs that will determine the kind of life he will live and the contribution he will make to society.”

I am the oldest of six children in my family. My father enlisted in the Air Force just before I was born and so there was never enough money and more than enough work to be done. My mother taught me to work. She did it by example: she was always working in the yard, gardening, canning, cooking, and cleaning. When her example was not enough to get the six of us to help around the house, she would often start reciting the following poem:

“I love you mother, said little Nell
I love you more than tongues can tell.
Then teased and pouted for half the day
Till her mother rejoiced when she went out to play.

I love you mother, said little John
Forgetting his work, his cap went on.
Then he was off to the garden swing
Leaving his mother the wood to bring

I love you mother, said little Ann
Today I'll help you all I can
Then stepping softly she took the broom
Swept the floor and tidied the room.

I love you mother, again they said
Three little children all going to bed.

Now, which one do you suppose, really loved Mother the most?”

After hearing this guilt-inducing poem a few times, we children learned to quickly go and do what we had been asked to do--before she could get past the “I love you mother said little Nell” part of the poem.

My mother was always very protective of her children. She always believed us, trusted us, and stuck up for us if there were ever any question regarding our behavior in the neighborhood or in school. When someone you love believes in you so strongly that she would protect you and stand up for you under any circumstance, it affects how you act. We never wanted to disappoint her and we tried to live in such a way that we would be worthy of that protection and trust.

My mother always acted and spoke about my going on a mission and going to college as if it were a natural and inevitable consequence of being born--even though my dad and my grandfathers had not gone on missions, nor had they gone to college as young men. I grew up assuming that she was right and that was the course I followed. My three brothers and one of my sisters all served missions as well. I can say that going on a mission and going to college have made all the difference in how my life has turned out. It allowed me to meet my wife, the mother of my children.

Mothers literally wear out their lives for us in one way or another. Sometimes it is through long years of work and dedication. Sometimes it is through sacrificing personal interests and desires, in order to teach and care for family members—sometimes it is literal. Carolyn’s grandmother died shortly after giving birth to Carolyn’s father. Carolyn is grateful to this grandmother she never met and feels a bond with her. She carries this woman’s name as her middle name. Her father told her that his mother was especially looking after her as she served her mission. Carolyn cherishes her because of the ultimate sacrifice she paid in bringing her father into this world. Today, thank your mother for all she has done for you. Thank her in person, by phone, or--if that is not possible--in your personal thoughts of gratitude.

My mother always expected the best from me and believed in me and my abilities. There was never any question in her mind that I was a good person and would have a wonderful life. I have had a wonderful life and I have tried to live up to her expectations. I have noted that this ability to expect the best from others is potentially one of the best motivators in the lives of others; but it requires a consistent belief--and it requires time. I have learned that people often live up or down to the expectations of those they care about. This can be uplifting or it can be a severe obstacle to overcome, depending on what those expectations are.

My wife and my mother are two very different individuals in terms of upbringing, experiences and interests. The one thing that they hold in common--from my selfish perspective--is that they both love me unconditionally. Because of all that they do for me and mean to me, I love them very much. To paraphrase the Apostle John, “We love our wives and our mothers, because they first loved us” 1 Jn. 4:19.

My wife is an incredible person. As I mentioned earlier, my mother always expected the best of me and believed in me and my abilities. With my mother’s basic training and her belief that I was a good person, Carolyn was in a good position to take over and make something more out of me. I am still a work in progress. To some degree I am her other child as she teaches me and often shows me the path I am to walk.

We met while going to BYU. We were married during my junior year in college. During my senior year, I happened to tell Carolyn that even though I was nearly done with my schooling, I did not feel like I could actually do anything. I wasn’t sure who would hire me, given--from my perspective--my lack of knowledge and abilities. I was a little stunned when she replied “Of course you are not ready.” She told me that I still had to go to graduate school.

Graduate school had never crossed my mind.

She had grown up with parents who expected their children not only to go to college, but to also go to graduate school and earn advanced degrees. She told me that I had two choices. Since I was getting a finance degree, I could continue on and get an MBA or, if I wanted, I could go to law school. I looked at the requirements for passing the GMAT to get into a graduate business school and I looked at the requirements for passing the LSAT to get into a law school. The LSAT had less math so I went to law school. She thought I could do it, I did not know that I could not, so that is what I did. No more planning than that was involved in my choice of career. Nonetheless, I have been blessed by a mother and a wife who believed in my abilities even when evidence of that ability did not exist.

My wife’s training also involved the little things in my life as well. One day, after a long time of not getting any flowers from me, (after I had graduated and was making some money), she got out her wallet and gave me some cash. She told me not to come home until I brought her some flowers. So I went out and brought her some flowers. When she thought too much time had transpired since the last time I brought her the flowers, she did it again. She never got mad or annoyed at my lack of thoughtfulness. She realized that I had been brought up in a different home than she had and so she worked on teaching me. After a while I would get it right and actually surprise her with flowers. I am embarrassed to say this, but she still occasionally has to, figuratively, get out her wallet and send me for flowers.

Carolyn does not get upset at my lack of manners or social graces. She knows I love her more than anything, so she never takes my thoughtlessness or idiosyncrasies personally. She carefully takes what she has been given--in terms of a husband--and works with me to make me a better, more attentive person. I do believe that I am a better person today, because of her influence, than the day we were married.

I just hope that she does not give up on me.

Carolyn has been a guiding influence in my spiritual maturation as well. When our children where small, the church started emphasizing family scripture reading. Carolyn helped me to learn how to lead our family in scripture reading. It took several years (not weeks or months) to get beyond the moaning and children picking at each other during the nightly scripture reading time. Eventually, though, we got to the point where we all enjoyed the time together. We would read and sit and discuss what we had read and what it meant to us. Sometimes we talked for a long time after we had finished reading. It was one of the best experiences we had as a family. It brought us closer together. However, if we had stopped after a few weeks or months of frustration--because it did not start out as a pleasant or spiritual experience--we would never have had the truly marvelous experiences we had later, while our children were maturing spiritually. My children and I have Carolyn to thank for those experiences and memories. Carolyn is the spiritual center of our home.

I have mentioned before how my daughters--when they were little--used to do what they called “playing a play.” When they were young, they would act out plays together. One of the characters they both created was Little Mama. They represented her by two of their fingers which walked like this [show two fingers walking across palm of my other hand]. Carolyn found out about these characters one day when she wanted to take the girls across the street to a park for a picnic lunch. Normally, when crossing the street, Carolyn would have them hold onto a pocket on each side of her jeans. This time, though, they said they couldn’t hold on to her pockets because, if they did, “Little Mama will fall.” Carolyn said, “I am your mama.” They said “No, not you, you are Big Mama. This is Little Mama. If we hold on to your pocket Little Mama will fall!” Carolyn thought about that and asked if they could be very obedient when they crossed the street and stay right next to her so the Little Mamas would not fall down. They both said yes and walked right next to her across the street to have their picnic. My children have all tried to incorporate a part of Big Mama into their lives as they have grown up. She will always be a part of who they become.

Carolyn, my wife and my children’s mother, has always been interested in Megan, Lauren and Nathan as individuals with their own thoughts and interests and perspectives. She values them for who they are and what they are interested in. Every night as they grew up, until they decided they were too old, she would spend 15 to 20 minutes with each of them. Listening to their prayers and then, before they fell asleep, listening as they talked about what happened that day and any other thing they wanted to say. My children knew they were important. They knew their mother cared about them and what they thought. They fell asleep every night knowing that someone they cared about was very close. I heard a number of years ago a terrifying statistic, I may not be exact on the numbers, but the crux of the matter was that parents only spent about 7 minutes a day actually communicating with their children and much of that was negative criticism. I know my mother spent much more time than that talking to me as I grew up. She used to ask me questions about all sorts of things. If I did not have an answer or opinion, she would say “Think about it and we can talk about it tomorrow.” I grew up knowing that someone was interested in what I thought about things. My children grew up knowing someone cared about what they thought. That is a priceless blessing. That is a blessing that we can give others.

My children also learned about obedience from their mother. They learned the value of the phrase “Yes mama, I’ll do it right away”. Carolyn took some child development classes at BYU. She read books on child development and how children learn. She was the oldest in a family of five children. Consequently she has, over the years, learned what worked and did not work in teaching children. From what I can tell, what counts in teaching children is consistency and follow-through and my wife was the epitome of both. Without getting upset or angry, without raising her voice she would teach our children how to obey instructions by giving them options. Frequently you would hear the following exchange between Carolyn and our children when they were younger:

She would ask them to pick up a toy, to come when she called, or to empty the dishwasher. If Meg, Lauren or Nathan expressed a desire NOT to obey, Carolyn would ask, “Do you want to do it by yourself? Or do you want me to help you?” Very soon they learned to quickly answer, “I want to do it myself.” They responded with that answer, and then immediately began to pick up the toy or come to her or empty the dishwasher. If they did not, then Carolyn would help them do whatever it was that she asked them to do. It seemed embarrassing to my children that they would need their mother’s help, so they would do it themselves. She was always consistent, never asking anything that she was not immediately willing to do or follow up on. My children learned to believe their mother and that has made all the difference in teaching them obedience.

My wife loves life.

She is a singer, a pianist, and plays the flute. She is a choir leader, a writer, a teacher, a gardener, a collector of all things interesting, a photographer, a horse rider, animal lover, and a perpetual student. These things have had their times and seasons in her life but she is and will always be a wife and a mother.

Carolyn grew up in a home where she and her sisters and her mother would always perform in church and other venues, singing or playing the piano or the flute. So, naturally, when she married me she thought I would have the same experience and desire. She did not know what a challenge that would be. She persevered and after many months of making me sing this song over and over, we sang together in Sacrament Meeting. This was a very long time ago, but I would like to sing just the first verse of this song, usually sung by the girls in Primary.

Love Is Spoken Here,

I see my mother kneeling with our family each day.
I hear the words she whispers as she bows her head to pray.
Her plea to the Father quiets all my fears,
And I am thankful love is spoken here.

The gift of motherhood is everything to us. Today is the opportunity to give, for just a few minutes, a special token of our recognition and appreciation--for the love given and sacrifices made by every mother in Zion.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Late Afternoon Orange Juice and Late Night Photos

Vivid colour contrast:
Nathan and the peels left over from my juice making in Florida.

I feel like I should have something very clever, quite pithy, really, to accompany this amazing contrast of colour and shape.

It is 1:34 am on Friday morning. I just felt that I needed to go outside and take two photographs that I'd been thinking about for the last two days. One was of a flower--one of two still left blooming on a group of bushes outside the front of Megan's apartment complex. I noticed the bushes the first day that I got here--beautiful flowers covered the bushes. Now there is only a duet of blossoms nestled deep in a recess between two of the largest plants.
I took a few shots of the pink flowers still in bloom and then a few of the rest of the bush--covered in the withered petals of the main flowering period.



The other was of a nest that I found while Jon and I were outside avoiding the baby a few days ago. Jon was occupying himself by throwing his tractor and its trailer into bushes and then waiting for them to tumble down to the bottom. Or, if they didn't fall out of the shrubbery by the sidewalk--then he would poke around inside the bush or low-trimmed tree to find them and pull them out. In the middle of one of these throw and fetch sequences, he lost interest and walked on without waiting to find where the tractor and trailer had landed.

Next day, Meg mentioned that Jon had asked about them and so we went to the tree where he had poked them into the foliage. I spread the outer branches, but couldn't see either of them. What I did see was a nest. I decided that I wanted to come back later and take a photo from the bottom of the tree. A little while ago, I was pulled from the apartment, down to the outside of the apartment building. I took a couple of the botanical photos and then went over to get a night flash photograph of the nest from the bottom of the tree--up through the branches. As I got down and got ready to take my photograph, a bird flew out of the tree--quite upset.




I carefully opened the outer branches just above the nest and was able to see a single chick. It looked dead, put perhaps it was just so young that it was still living on its yolk sack. I hope that it will be OK. I didn't touch anything, just took a few photos.

While I was outside, a dozen or so geese flew overhead--honking loudly as they flew. I didn't realize that migratory birds flew at night when it was dark. Perhaps the street lights gave enough light that this group could still navigate in the middle of the night. It was a terrifically impressive noise. Like an emergency vehicle siren, it began quickly and loudly and then intensified as they flew overhead, the noise fading almost as soon as they were out of sight in the dark sky. They were close enough that I could see their heads and bodies, wings and legs, lit from below by the parking lot lights. It was like a secret moment that no one else knew about--that no one except me and those geese knows about even now.