I Little Bit of Bragging

For a long time, I was paralyzed by the sudden influx of people and responsibilities that come when two families merge into one.  Sometimes this happens when two divorced people who each have children decide to marry. Sometimes children are separated from their parents by death, design or decree and plunged into either the foster system or the home of a relative.  

In our case, Lauren and Robert decided that he needed to go back to school so that he could get a job that would pay enough to support his family--and that he would enjoy.  They moved in last October--that would be almost 8 months now.  They have the guest apartment--a studio apartment with a minuscule kitchen and tiny bathroom.  With Caleb and Charlie, that puts four beings (who have been used to two bedroom, two bath apartments, which are not huge, but there was space for everyone to spread out) all into one room.  Unfortunately, even with re-insulating the attic space above them, the AC unit--the biggest we could find--isn't able to keep the room cooler that the mid-70s during the hottest parts of the summer.  The Florida heat and the spaces around the doors and windows don't make for a favorably cool environment.  We will see how the summer goes.  

Now that Caleb is older--a year and two months--and walking----and Lauren's foot surgery making it necessary for Nathan and I to take over much of the work associated with a baby----it feels like my life has settled again into a manageable rhythm.  

Nathan and I are taking art lessons together on Tuesday nights.  I remember every time I sit down to practice how difficult drawing even simple images are.  The first night was encouraging--the second, not so much.

Two of my efforts on the first night.  Brent
wants me to frame one of them for him to take
to his office.  I am glad that he appreciates
my efforts--and wants to share what I do with
the people he works with.

Practice efforts this week--the proportions are wrong, but the shapes of the body and legs is OK.  The back of the image is too big for the front:  the head is too small.

I think that the best part of the whole thing is being able to spend time with Nathan.  He hates being in a car when there is a lot of traffic--since the class begins at 6:30pm we hit the tail of rush hour.  On the way home, however, we are close to the only cars on the roads before we get on the freeway.  He has a hard time with art--something that he is not instantly good at.  He is doing well, though--much improved from the beginning the first lesson when he wanted to go back home--promising at last to at least stay for that night.  The teacher saved him? me? by being so "hands-on" and openly assuring that all of us were beginners and not good at drawing at all.  I think it was a saving grace for Nathan that when he walked around and looked at everyone else's drawings he realized we all were at the same place he was . . . one or two were struggling even more than he.  

****One time when comparing your efforts to others helped rather than depressed Nate.****

Another of my practice pieces this week.  Simple shape.  Fun to try.  And the head wasn't too small.  !

. . . a lot.

. . . a lot.

I have to fight the birds to get the ripe mulberries.

This week Nathan decided that he wanted to join the electrician certification program at Palm Beach State College.  After seven years of college courses, earning his Associate’s degree and deciding to go on and graduate with a Bachelor’s in Accounting, he felt frustrated and aimless.  With his Asperger’s, he could only handle 2 to 3 classes per semester.  At that rate, it would have meant another 5 to 8 years in school—all those years sitting in a classroom and trying to stay awake . . .

He has a weird kind of savant understanding of Accounting.  Precepts that I had to practice over and over and over again, he was able to pick up and apply with relative ease—at least with more acuity than I possess.  I’m not upset with his decision.  In the short-run it means that I can drop Managerial Accounting and Macro Economics.  hurrah.  In the long-run it means that I will no longer be going to class and doing homework with him . . . AND . . . that in less than a year he will have a job.  My only prayer now is that he will be guided to places and people who will be kind and who will respect his values.

It also means that suddenly I have my life back and I feel aimless.  My most urgent daily tasks now are much less esoteric.  I am cleaning out the craft room (our “dumping grounds” for the last 10 years) and getting rid of boxes full of craft supplies:  professional acrylic paints, dozens of small squeeze bottles of craft paint, pounds of crayons (I still have a REALLY hard time not picking up a half dozen new boxes of Crayola crayons when Walmart offers them for 25 cents each every year right before school starts in August), a rainbow assortment of tubes of printing inks I have never  opened and piles of folded eighth-yard quilting-cotton fabric.  We need to re-carpet and re-paint that room.  Brent wants to put in new baseboards and I want to put up new curtains.  Nathan will get the room in trade for his old bedroom.  His present room is the smallest in the house and full to the brim of Lego planes and vehicles and figures he has amassed over the last 10 years.  

Gypsy (no one calls her that--she will come to "Kitty-Kitty-Kitty-Kitty" if said in a high-pitched voice.  Here she is on the cement patio floor of the lanai.

We have two rabbits left and two cats—one of whom we just shaved so she can stand the summer heat.  Her long black fur is just too much for her to keep up any more—and she loves the way she feels when most of her is “naked.”  She loves to be petted and held and to roll around on the cement floor of the lanai at midday.  I took Murphy (rabbit—rescued) outside yesterday afternoon and “de-fuzzed” him in the back on the lawn.  He is a long-haired, flop-eared rabbit with snowshoe feet.  Even though he lives in a 68 degree house 99.8% of the time, he sheds great floofs of downy under-fur twice a year.  The stuff is gossamer soft and sticks to EVERYTHING—especially him.  We are one of the only families that has actual “dust-bunnies” living in the corners of our rooms.  He gets kind of nervous outside, since (1.) I am holding him and (2.) he is outside.  I rub him all over and gently tug on the tufts of hair that have come loose.  Then I pick him up and hold his back against my stomach and rub his tummy (which he REALLY dislikes and vehemently objects to at first).  He no longer tries to escape and since we are trimming his claws regularly, no longer leaves long, infection-prone scratches down the lengths of my arms.  

Change of subject:  last night about 9 pm, I ate cold pizza (bacon with mushrooms) with my night meds and currently have a nasty case of heartburn.  I need to stick with fruit and rice cakes after 6pm—I feel better in the morning when I do.  

And, yes, I DO happen to LIKE rice cakes.  

Bananas!  Bananas!  Bananans!

Pears are coming into season and raspberries are going out.  Honey Crisp apples are almost always available in the stores—along with bananas. Speaking of which—we have new bananas on the banana trees in our side yard!!!  The trees are bent over with the weight of the rapidly ripening fruit.  Our only regret is that by the time the first banana ripens, all the rest rapidly follow . . . this means we have about 30 bananas to eat all at once.  I have tried freezing them, but they taste funny and have a weird consistency.  

Mulberries are out now—fuzzy long clusters of dark purple fruit—almost the length of my little finger—are sweet and rich.  I stand at the bush and eat them as I pick them.  It will be years before I can gather enough to make jam—we just have the one big bush.  Until that time, I will continue to love looking under each big, heart-shaped leaf for the juicy treasure hanging beneath—eating each as I pick it.  

Too hard to keep awake now—I got up when Brent and Nathan got in the car this morning to go serve their shift at the Fort Lauderdale Temple.  I miss them . . . a lot.

Me, teaching Sunday Nursery!  I have a really fun time with these children!!!

On Sunday mornings, I teach the youngest Primary students: 18 months to 3 years old.  Eight years ago, I held the same calling.  It was a time of experimenting with what helped very young children to learn and love being obedient 

I have three children:  Megan, Lauren and Nathan.  Megan was born in Utah, 13 months after we were married.  When Brent and I were first married, I signed us up for marriage classes and communication seminars.  

My mother was an educated woman.  She graduated with her Bachelor’s degree in Home Economics.  She had books about how to set a formal table, serve as a hostess in her home, how to measure and cut and sew a tailored suit (I drew her a picture of the wedding dress I wanted and she made it for me—something I always thought that every mother did for all of her own daughters—but which I did not—was too exhausted to—do for Meg and Lauren.) and what kinds of foods should be included in a balanced meal—even what colours they should be to achieve an attractive plate presentation.  She was amazing.

The other thing she did was to collect a few books about how to be a good parent.  There was one that I picked up when I was about 8 or 9 years old.  Each chapter contained several case studies—stories illustrating the concept being presented.  I didn’t read much of the regular prose at first—my attention was drawn to the italicized text.  I quickly discovered that this font was saved for the stories of the mothers, children, fathers and friends later examined by the author of the book.  I learned so much from this book and its examples of how to and how NOT to act in different situations.  This formed the basis of my own decisions about how I wanted my future home to be.

I love these stories.  They were my first taste of biographical writing.  Of course the “names were changed,” but the stories were real!  Some situations were completely foreign to me, but others were like a diary entry recorded straight from my own home.  

The stories were easy to remember—like history book stories about the Egyptian dynasties or the court of King Henry VIII.  When these stories were played out by my own mother, sisters and brothers—I was quick to point out to my (very patient) mother what she did wrong—and what she should have done.  I’m afraid my timing was probably always wrong, but mom remembered my comments for years after that.  She would tell friends and guests in our home about how “Carolyn always told me what I did wrong and how I could have done better.”

To this day I am not sure if it was a complaint or a compliment . . . or simply an explanation for my quirky behavior.

Usually my days are full up to the brim—but when I reflect on things that happened when I was growing up, I realize that I miss mom . . . a lot.

Going Through Some Old Files--Nancy Kathleen Burton

Nancy Kathleen Burton in front of her home at about 18 months-2 years.  

Last night I was going through some old files that I wanted to get rid of.  Instead of finding garbage, I found some incredible treasures.  Among the diamonds, I discovered that I had photos of mom's class pictures from Afton Elementary School.  

First grade--I can't find which little girl is mom.

In her first grade picture, I couldn't find her--and then I remembered that she was sick with rheumatic fever for most of the year.  Here are the other class photographs that I found.

There is a program of a class musical for mom's 3rd grade class.  She is listed as playing the bells.  She's on the first row, second from the right--holding a ring of jingle bells.  

A close-up of mom--bells in hand.  I love the hat.

Mom, listed as Nancy K. Burton, played the piano, Strauss' "Blue Danube".

Mom's listed under "Bells" as Nancy Kay Burton.

This is mom in her 5th grade picture.  She's on the back row, 4th from the left.  

Mom's 6th grade picture.  She's in the second row, 5th from the left.

I think that the arrow points to mom, but there's no indication of the grade.  They look like they're older than 6th grade to me.  Aunt Janie thought that it was probably 7th or even 8th grade.

I can't get over the feeling that came over me as I pulled out piles of old papers and discovered all of these old photographs.  It was as if a magic quiet came over my soul.  

There was another photograph I found of mom as a bridesmaid for her best friend Jeanean Gardner's wedding.  She is sitting so still--most of my memories of mom have her in constant action:  playing the organ at church, playing the flute with me as we sit at the piano, her hands moving over the piano keys while Susan, Martha and I sang.  She bought matching rain coats and umbrellas for the three of us and taught us a dance routine for "Singing In the Rain"--a number that we did for the Ward Talent Night while we were living in Edina, MN.  (6105 Parnell Avenue, Edina MN 55424)  Mom was always moving the furniture around the house.  She was home room mother for all of us--I remember the burnt spud nut left overs that remained on the countertop after she took all the good ones for one of our class parties.  There were the chives that she brought all the way from Wyoming and planted on the side of our Minnesota home--she would go out and cut a handful to put in our breakfast scrambled eggs.  Then there were the scrambled eggs that mom made for Crook--our Siamese cat--while all of us kids had to eat oatmeal for breakfast.  I remember her rubbing a popsicle on Nathan's mumps while he slurped it down--Nate was only about a year old and she couldn't get him to keep anything cold on his neck to ease the fever and pain.  I was kind of grossed out that he would be so sticky--but the ruse worked and the fever and swelling did subside.  I still love rice baby cereal mixed with milk (though mom preferred formula with hers) for breakfast.  I also remember a night when we were sitting at the great big round table, eating "hotdog pennies" with cottage cheese for supper--while I watched through the kitchen windows as mom worked in the backyard.  Dad was gone to Georgia for work from Monday to Friday.  Mom must have been lonely--but I remember only all of the things that she did keeping the house clean.  There were evenings sitting downstairs on the cold floor while we all folded clothes that had gathered into clean mountains of colour on the folding table.  I remember the chute that dad made between floors so that we could send our dirty clothes downstairs from the upstairs bathroom.  There was also the huge blackboard on the basement wall--across from the washer and dryer.  And Thanksgiving with 30 or 40 people filling our basement--on the side with carpeting and the TV--laying around and watching TV after the huge meal.  I was sitting upstairs with mom and dad in the kitchen after a Christmas dinner with turkey and pies and whip cream--Nathan had asked for an apple before we ate and mom told him that he could have one after we ate.  While everyone was having seconds on dessert--Nathan came and asked mom if he could have an apple now.  

So many strange bits and pieces come back to me tonight.  I was talking with a doctor this morning and he asked me about mom and dad--if they were alive, in good health, etc.  I told him about dad and his work and then he asked me what mom did.  She was a mom, I told him--just what she always wanted to be.  I hadn't thought about what a unique family we had growing up--a dad who was faithful and loving--and a mom who didn't work for pay, but was happy being in our home--there when we came home from school.  

We were very lucky people.

Just Another Wild Night

6 June 2015

This is one of the better photos I took while covering the Youth Trek activity.  It's not two escaped, French resistance fighters, but it fits the mood I'm in.

I sit here in one of our huge leather chairs, swaddled with a quilt and heated on one side by Charlie, Lauren’s small dog.  We’ve just finished watching a French film (dubbed in English) about a prisoner during WWII:  a French resistance fighter caught by the Germans while as he blew up a bridge.  It was a sad, inspiring movie: sacrifice, unjustifiable trust, slow planning, encouragement, a package from home, vermin and gruel.  It was in black and white—and very quiet.

There was a curious absence of sound:  no loud laughter, vulgar swearing, caustic threats, or self-aggrandizing yelling—no cars blown up, no wild gun fights with countless guns shooting off dozen times more ammunition than any person could possible carry.  

This intense, curious quiet drew my attention to small bits that I would usually overlook.  The silent backdrop highlighted the whispered encouragement; magnified the slight rustling of paper as notes were passed from one man to another; and made the the bird-like squeak of the German officer’s bicycle echo carefully as the men made their way across the last space on their way to freedom.

The final image is of the two escaped prisoners, the older man with his arm around the shoulders of the 16 year old boy who had joined him at the last moments of the movie.  They walk quietly, with determination, away from the audience, into the night fog.

Charlie:  reflective and relaxed.

Their tense apprehensive steps come as a sharp contrast to Charlie—asleep like a limp carrot someone left out on the counter overnight.  

My head feels like a spacious—no, cavernous—void where my brain used to be.  My lungs, in contrast, have ooze filling up the alveoli, one by one . . . and I am beginning to cough it back up by the throat-full.    

The “thuck-thuck, thuck-thuck” rhythm of the baby swing in the corner reassures me that the baby sleeping there is fed, burped, and comfortably resting . . . and not likely to cry out any time soon.

Charlie has abandoned me for the cool of the tile floor.  

There is another old movie on the television.  Back and white but a comedy about a NY reporter who uncovers a plot that will influence the start of WWII—but no one believes him.  This one has car chases and gun shots and not-so-subtile misunderstandings and Latvians.  

Another wild Saturday night at the Hendry’s.

Morning Essay

Brent and I went to New York City a few years back and he took this picture of me as we stood on the top floor of The Castle in Central Park.  The wind was wicked sharp and cold, which made my eyes water.  I know I've posted this before, but it fits how I feel right now . . . 

This morning I cannot sleep.  I got up to use the bathroom at 5:40 am--and sweet husband of mine is snoring steady, quiet rumblings and so I cannot get back to sleep.  I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door.  Raspberries . . . the last of the season.  There are four small, square, clear containers and I fish two of them out from the bottom produce drawer.  I immediately begin to eat, just standing there in the middle of the room.  I check each one to see if it has begun to  mold yet--that black goo that melts the berries together from the bottom up, but leaves the top with the delicious satin-deep-red landscape of healthy fruit.  I am in luck--these were fresh enough when I bought them a few days ago that they are still lovely and sweet (and ever-so-slightly prickly as if I had just picked them from my Grandma Burton's raspberry patch). 

I also swallow one of the last amoxicillin the doctor prescribed last Saturday for a run of  bronchitis that has turned out to be viral--but I still need to finish the antibiotics so that I don't harbor one of those "super bugs" that becomes immune to medicine.  The pills are white, hard-pressed ovals that stick in my throat if I don't "take with food."  I guess I am stuck with the cough and breathlessness that characterize my own brand of bronchitis for another few weeks . . . the one "going around" has a reputation for lingering about eight weeks or so before leaving.

The rabbits are restless this morning--ringing the bell that hangs from the top of their cage, chewing at the new toys I put in with them this morning.  They are currently shedding--their internal clocks pushing out old  and replacing it with a new down-like undercoat--even though they are (with rare exception) always kept inside the house where it is sixty-eight degrees.  Yesterday Nathan got Murphy out and we trimmed his nails and around his tail where he has a hard time keeping clean.  Brent also needs me to trim his hair this weekend--perhaps the rabbits are not so off-kilter as I believe.

Where was I? . . . yes . . . 6 am and raspberries.  Then, because right hamstring is still raw from a fall on Monday, I waunder into the TV/study room and slide up onto a double-pillow cushion nestled in one of the big leather side-chairs.  I look around and think about doing some more accounting ("managerial" this semester) homework because there is a test next Thursday and I still have to look at my notes to finish the practice examples correctly.  I can turn on the TV, I think, and work with the background noise to cover the loud "ta-TAK" of the kitchen clock.   And because it is a habit to have it on all the time now.  We record the few shows we like and watch them end-to-end, sometimes for hours at a stretch.  

But, instead, I look to my right and see some of the few books that I still keep on the shelf.  We have been purging the house of anything loose we find that we don't mind not keeping.  It is a beginning at downsizing . . . a VERY beginning.  There are children's books: The Cat in the Hat, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Princess Smartypants, The View from Saturday and a few "grown-up" books I will have a very hard time letting myself get rid of:  Beauty by Robin McKinley and Lewis Thomas' Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler . . . and two by Mitch Albom:  For One More Day, and Tuesdays With Morrie.  

I am in a mellow mood, restless as sit because of the angry tendons connecting the muscles of my right back leg to the bones underneath my right bun.  I have the house to myself--Nathan is away, dog-sitting for some people while they travel--Brent is still sleeping.  I am in the mood to think deep thoughts and to cry just a little bit.

I reach over and pick out Tuesdays With Morrie.  It is a quick read and before I know it, I am into the parts where I want to remember the words and so I reach for a pen and mark the lines.  They are about how hundreds of thousands of people are glued to their TV screens, following the O. J. Simpson trial instead of living lives of their own.  (The only thing I remember about the proceedings is that several lawyers made millions and a white SUV was trailed through the freeway system by police cars with their flashing lights on.)

The point is made that none of these people know Simpson--he certainly doesn't know any of them--yet they spend their entire lives on him.  Crazy.  

I know why they did this, though, it is because personal relationships take energy, thought and time.  People can tread on our emotions and, often, our hearts--at least in the relationships that really matter.  Individuals, however, can experience emotions by watching someone else show theirs--without having to invest anything of their own.  It is much less taxing--much easier.  I do not have many close friends--in fact, my closest friends are pretty much found in my own home and within the circle of my close family.  

I think that is why Facebook and Pintrest are able to consume so many.  Look!  I have 147 "friends". Look!  More than a thousand people "like" the picture I posted yesterday--they "like" me!  They send me pigs and sheep and invite me to play "Candy Crush."  Inane, angry birds have been hurled into the toy stores and Saturday cartoons.  Lego fans make short movies out of Legos and put them up on YouTube.  The dialogue is corny and flat---and on the few I've seen are pretty much pointless.   They are well done, however, and I would much rather watch a few of those than the sitcom re-runs dredged up from the 70's and 80's.  

I think that one of the reasons Albom's book compels me so is that the main character, a college professor named Morrie, fills his life with giving.  It is almost as if the more he gives, the more he has.  When Albom describes Morrie, he recounts the classes he took, the conversations they had, a 50 page Senior thesis Morrie helped him write.  There are no material gifts--what I throw at people instead of offering time and a listening ear.  

I yearn to leave something behind me that will mean that I have left a mark--a good change--on this Earth.  When the Earth is burned to purify it for Christ's coming, I want Heavenly Father to sigh for just a second before burning a spot that I have made better than it would have otherwise been.  

Perhaps our yard will be that spot.  Over the last ten years, Brent has allowed me to spend thousands of dollars on worker hours, soil, fertilizer, mulch (oh, so much mulch) and countless plants and trees.  Many of the plants have come from seedlings or cuttings that I started.  It is a source of satisfaction for me that this is so.  I trim back the hedge that follows the back and side walkways knowing that I stuck bits of twigs in the ground--and they grew!  

Morrie also talks about emotions--especially ones usually considered negative:  self-pity, helplessness, hopelessness, depression, sorrow, grief.  He says that he has to let himself experience them, recognize them, and then let them go so that he can continue on to fill his day with love and friendship and wisdom.   

I know that I have done this with pain.  I know how it feels, how my soul cringes from it, how it hangs over my mind and clouds my vision.  When I experience it, though, it is getting easier to deal with.  I no longer wallow in it--but am able to know it and then look through it to the people and tasks that face me.  Grief, guilt--I know them, but still have a hard time facing them, embracing them, and then leaving them so that I can go on with the things I want to do.

Brent is up now and Valley cat is meowing to be let back in from being outside on the porch (It's raining steadily--no birds or lizards to watch through the screen.).

In the Book of Mormon, I'm in 3rd Nephi--just after Christ has been crucified and there have been three days of black, suffocating grief as the Earth mourned the death of Her Creator.  Whole cities buried under mountains, swallowed by the sea, burned by fire--and then His voice chiding the "least wicked" because He sent His prophets to teach them, to prepare them--and they killed them.  At the end of the chapter, though, He welcomes them to come to Him and repent "for my arms are reached out still."  How can a planet know Her Creator is being killed?  What is there in the soil that calls out because it has been soaked by the blood of the righteous?  And how can an Earth now accept us and prosper us?  

My Lauren half-jokes, half-laments that her "Mom can put a stick in the ground and it grows!" while the herbs outside her front door wither away and die.  She has gotten an orchid to bloom, though--which is a very rare occurrence at my house.  I think we all have our own strengths.

It is after 9 am now and I am fully awake.  Papers to get notarized, Visiting Teaching to make a stab at, more stuff to go through and get rid of, homework . . . 

. . . and still a few more raspberries to enjoy.

Note From Nursery, Retirement Considerations, Cutting My Hair?

    What is going on with me now?  Almost the last day of January in 2015.  I am doing well? good? fine?  It is about 75 degrees here in the mornings and my shoulder is strong enough now that I can be outside and walk without the *&(#&$^*# sling.  I am back as the Nursery Leader at Church and the house is very quiet with everyone gone back home from their Christmas visit here.

Me in the Nursery before my shoulder surgery last September 2014.  One of my
favorite things is to get my iPad and take pictures of me with the children.  This
sweet boy has moved from the Ward, but I have very fond memories of him and
what I learned while I got to teach and be with him.

Skyping with Megan and Kate and Jon.  In this picture, Jon is about the same age as Megan, in the photo
below with Lauren and Nathan.

    There are two yellow butterflies chasing each other around in the side yard--I can see them from my widow when they flit from the shadows of the trees into the sunny, grass areas.  It reminds me that the hibiscus bushes along one side of the house are dying (they're more than 20 years old . . . they are allowed to expire) and I don't know what I want to put in their place.
     Classes have started again for Nate and me--Managerial Accounting and MacroEcon are the bears this semester.  I hate the wait between the start of class and the first test--cause I don't know exactly how to study for the tests . . .
     Brent is still the Stake Clerk.  He (somehow, somewhere) tore some of the ligaments (or tendons, don't remember) along the bottom of his right foot and they are taking a long time to heal.  The pain was (is) enough to keep him from going out on a fossil hunting weekend he planned over the holidays.  Anything that will keep him away from fossils is definitely serious.
     My hair is long-long and, with my right arm out of commission, it is a real bother to take care of.  Also thinking about cutting it shoulder length so it would be easier to wash and keep out of my face.  Not very interesting thoughts, eh?

Lauren (3) and Meg (5) with Nathan (about 6 months).  We were living in Bedford, TX.  1989.

     Nathan is Elders Quorum Secretary and spends Friday mornings (no school on Fridays) at the Lake Park City Hall doing work for the accounting department.  He is in charge of making the arrangements so that we can go to Tampa this summer and see what a real Lego convention is like . . . believe it or not, I am really excited.  Surrounded by all of his Lego creations here at home (his room is filled from floor to ceiling with shelves of them), I am becoming a fan myself.  I like the ones that you put together and then program to do stuff.  cool.
     Brent surprised me this week by broaching the subject of retirement.  augh.  Right now the yard costs a LOT to keep up because of all of the fancy plants that I have gathered over the last 10 years.  He asked me if we could simplify so it didn't need quite so much attention.  It is almost like when I had to give up my horse.  Every day held 4 to 5 hours at the stables--it was my sanity.  I went from that to working on the grounds around the house . . . little more than an acre, but enough to keep me with holes in the knees of my jeans, dirt under my fingernails, and trails of mulch and garden soil following me in and out of the house.  Now I can't do anything in the yard (that's how I tore my shoulder off this 4th time)--so it makes sense to scale things back.  I got used to be a grandmother without any trouble, but this makes me feel  . . .  old.
     Actually, simplifying the gardens around our home is not much like giving up my horse.  I don't feel the same rush of joy when I pull up weeds as when I rode Agraciada through the fields in Texas.

Lauren and Robert are sealed in the Ft. Lauderdale FL Temple in November 2014.  Hard to see here, but Lauren is very
round in front.  I am glad the baby was able to be there.

     On the bright side, Lauren is just 5 weeks away from her due date.  They know that they are having a boy--she predicts that he will have dark eyes and a thick thatch of dark hair when he arrives.  Her body is stretched out and her joints ache.  Her husband couldn't go with her to her doctor appointment on Wednesday, so I got to go.  They didn't do an ultra sound, but I did get to hear the baby's heart beat.  It sounds like he has a strong heart.
     I know that it will be wonderful to have him finally here where we can all do more than just pat his mom's tummy and wish him "Good night!" and "I love you!"  Which reminds me, I need to call Kate and Jon and talk to them.  They are already out and bouncing/growing about.
       

Four Million Followers

MD wildflower--the ripe seed pods look like a red raspberry.

This is a response I left in the comment section of the World Wildlife Federation.  Other readers were discussing the salary of the charity's CEO.  They thought that his mid-6 figure salary was way out of line--and that they shouldn't advertise.

Maryland wildflower

   Depending on where the CEO lives, he may bring home 50% (or less) of his stated salary after Federal, State, property etc taxes.  Since the headquarters are in DC, his housing costs are outrageously expensive.  He is married with three children.  He graduated with MBA and BS from two great schools--and worked at several large corporations before coming to WWF.  It is because of this work history that he was able to accept a huge pay cut and invest his time.  In this job, he receives no stock options or yearly retention bonus.  I would image that he also contributes to charities (WWF, for one). 

Sunset clouds, FL

 As the face of the World Wildlife Fund and intimate involvement in its fund raising activities, he has to look the part (no suits from Walmart).  With the salary he is paid, he needs to support his children in school--he may even be paying off student loans himself.  Perhaps he is independently wealthy--or his wife is--or he may face high medical costs from an elderly parent or one of his children.  

Vinca, MD

   Living in Minnesota or Montana or Oregon or Texas--places with a much lower cost-of-living--would give his salary more purchasing power (Texas does not have a State Income Tax, for example, and housing costs are some of the lowest in the nation.).  
   You can't tell anything from just a number . . . especially if the number is way under a million--and does not include a yearly bonus (which is sometimes equal to or more than a year's salary for an incredible number of much less qualified CEOs and business executives across the nation).

Black crowned night heron, waiting.    FL

    As for cutting out the advertising (which is less than the 20% of the total operating budget quoted below):  you are either reaching more people every day or you are fading from public view.  Doing nothing means that you are losing potential new donations and failing to retain present contributors.  There is no standing still.  

Florida water turtle

   Compared to "charities" such as the United Way, I believe that WWF uses less money on managing personnel salaries and office costs than any other organization with such a world-wide and diverse reach.  

Coot.  Such a short, silly name for such a creative, amazing bird.  FL

   I live in a place where the student parking lot at the nearest high school is full of BMWs, Porches, sports cars and fully-loaded Ford and Chevy trucks.  The teachers' parking lot, on the other side, is populated by older, economical cars.  The local grocery store parking lot has Lamborghinis, Bentleys, a bright orange Lotus, Cadillac trucks, Humvees, and Lexus cars.  It is an unreal place.  People here do not have children--they have dogs . . . animals that they put through the hell of chemo when they become old and feeble enough to get cancer . . . and should be allowed to gently pass away.  

Cactus flower, UT

   It is all this money that is ill-spent.  Working for a mindful, organized charity that seeks to maintain a balance between preservation of our animal and natural resources--and our collective inability to see past our own self-centered noses (who do you know who would forbid the public from visiting the Galapagos 

A young pine tree frog, I think, at dusk inside a Allamanda blossom.  FL

Islands or Antartica or Australia's Great Barrier Reef because they are delicate ecosystems).  The only way to preserve as pristine the earth we live on is to live as Castro's Cuba lived for decades.  The people had nothing, no one was allowed to visit--Cuba's tropical forests are in amazing shape because the world was prohibited from developing their natural resources--everyone left them alone.
   I have not felt this strongly about anything in years.  I appreciate this forum and its space where anyone can express their opinion.

Hibiscus, FL

   I am also grateful for organizations like WWF--that seek to manage our remaining wildlife and wild lands by balancing the human need to exist and to explore in places that would be much better left untouched.  We are on this earth to learn, explore, expand and create.  It is in our "nature."  Some do it on a cosmic level--others on a microscopic level--most of us simply do it in pursuit of daily living. 

Wasp after the rain, FL

For the first time, yesterday I heard of a man who has 4 million people following his every selfie and 6-second looped movie.  He is living in response to the question:  "You are on your deathbed, you have the chance to come back to right now . . . what do you do?"  He is single, without commitment, openly avowing that he is living according to that creed.  He has no wife, no children, no job that helps society to be better educated, better fed; freer from want, freer from disease.  A company offered him $1,000,000 to hawk their wares and he dismissed them (which I think he should have--dumb to hook your star to a corporation that has even less scruples than you do) with the public statement that he did not want anyone telling him what to do.  
   To be a father, you have to keep a job.  To be a mother, you have to wash dishes and read to your children.  To be a teacher, you have to prepare lesson plans.  To build houses, you have to put on roofs when it is hot outside.  To be a grocer, you have to go to the same place everyday and stock shelves. 
   You get the simplified idea.  

Graphic of photo I took.  Half-circle of Ibis.  FL

   I like the question that this man related about the deathbed ability to come back and go in another direction.  I have thought about the same question every day of my life since I was a child.  It is why I practiced the piano.  It is why I never smoked or drank.  It is why I went to Church.  It is why I went to college.  It is why I served a mission.  It is why I fell in love.  It is why I got married.  It is why I had children. It is why I sang and rode horses and did homework with my children and taught school and went back to graduate school and do laundry and pay bills and plant my gardens.

Stag-horn beetle, FL

    It is why my husband has gone to work as a contract lawyer to supported me and our three children for the last 32 years--when he would much rather have painted and sculpted and sketched out the visions in his head.  
   Were I on my deathbed and had the chance to go back to today and live my life again--I would do the same things I have already done and hope to continue to do.  When I die, I want to feel that I have done all I can to love, to teach, to encourage, to inspire, to discipline, to support, and to cheer everyone who I have every met or known.  

Red-bellied woodpecker.  One of a mating pair.   FL

  I do not want to be like the man with 4 million followers who is tromping throughout the world doing what he likes.  I want to be more like the people who work with the WWF.  I want to leave this earth better than I found it.