Few people would look at Miss Vivi and think her capable of being anything but sweet and demure, but behind her innocent smile is a spunky little spirit. Just ask Aunt Heidi.

(Heidi & Vivi feeding the ducks in Spanish Fork, UT–August 2009)

One summer morning while at Bear Lake, Uncle David took the kids snake hunting. Thankfully, all they found was a skin which Vivi proudly carried inside to show Ho.

As I sat in the bedroom at the back of the cabin feeding Baby Tad, I heard Heidi’s blood curdling scream of sheer terror followed by Vivi’s attempt to restore order with logic: “But it’s not alive … it’s only skin.”

“I don’t care if it’s not alive, sweetheart. I don’t like snakes. They scare me,” was Heidi’s patient reply as she shooed Vivi out the door.

Chaos erupted again a few minutes later, but this time I heard Vivi’s Bart Simpson-like giggle. The little tow-headed tormentor had discovered Ho’s achilles heel and had returned with her scaly prize to exploit the chink … and I remained hidden in the back room, grateful that Vivi had identified a new victim for her shenanigans.

BT had to know that something was wrong when he arrived home from work and was not greeted in the customary fashion … me embracing him, peppering him with passionate kisses, gushing about how much I missed him and about the amazing things I accomplished while he was away.

Oh, wait. I don’t do this.

He’s lucky if I can manage a half-hearted smile from across the room as I hold baby to bosom while making dinner, shouting out the counting as Ariana practices the piano (half-note dot rest!), and dressing a Barbie for Vivi (WHY do they make those clothes so tight???).

Let’s try this again …

BT had to know that something was wrong when he arrived home from work and was promptly blindfolded and then led to the garage where my little gang was waiting in the get-away vehicle.  He’s fortunate that all we did was blindfold him; the girls wanted to gag and hog tie him, too.

The big reveal happened a little earlier than planned when, en route, Vivi teased, “We’re NOT going to tell you about the new sprinkler park we’re going to! It’s a surprise!”

Of course, it was no surprise that the kids LOVED our fun family home evening–from the planning to the executing.  They even stopped playing in the water long enough to eat the little picnic dinner we had packed, leaving room for a stop at the Snowcone Lady on the way home.

The memories we made with this cheap and simple activity are worth a king’s ransom.

1. 7:40 p.m.–Thursday, 8/20
2. 5:29 p.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
3. 5:21 p.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
4. 3:24 p.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
5. 3:16 p.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
6. 10:28 a.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
7. 9:41 a.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
8. 8:51 a.m.–Wednesday, 8/19
9. 8:23 p.m.–Tuesday, 8/18
10. 5:21 p.m.–Tuesday, 8/18
11. 2:34 p.m.–Tuesday, 8/18
12. 11:57 a.m.–Tuesday, 8/18
13. 8:08 a.m.–Tuesday, 8/18
14. 10:18 a.m.–Monday, 8/17
15. 8:41 a.m.–Monday, 8/17

Bless his heart, my cell phone logs reveal that we have had FIFTEEN separate telephone conversations since Monday morning, most of them initiated by me. (And this doesn’t count the calls to his competitor as I armed myself with pricing data). Yeah, I get a wee bit OCD when it comes to our AC units (and spending $$$$).

As I marvel at the patience of James, I am mindful of the trials of Job. Although this ordeal has been disheartening and expensive, it is, after all, only an AC unit.

As I entered my dark bedroom last night near midnight after spending several hours dealing with yet another AC issue {insert sobs of frustration}, I saw a strange glow coming from my bed. BT had crashed several hours earlier under the strain of his “day of rest,” so I couldn’t imagine where the light was coming from.

An alien encounter?

A swarm of lightning bugs?

BT being translated in the twinkling of an eye?

As I cautiously approached, I realized that it was BT using his iPhone. He muttered something about checking his email and then collapsed back onto his pillow.

This morning when I asked BT why he needed to check his email in the middle of the night, he gave me a blank stare. Reminding him of the course of events did nothing to jog his memory; he truly had no recollection of his midnight iPhone usage.

BT talks in his sleep when he is stressed and overly tired; apparently he now also checks his email.

Perhaps this new fangled device of his wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Everything is BIGGER (but not necessarily better) in Texas … including the BUGS. This fella is on the wall of my front porch.

SCARY!!!

Watching Miss Vivi bond with Grandpa Gold (her Great Grandpa Gold) was one of the highlights of my trip to Bear Lake this summer.  She seemed to instinctively sense just how special a person he is and instantly became his four-wheeling buddy, walking companion, lap warmer, and nap pal.

For his birthday this year, each family member was asked to write about a memory of Grandpa Gold.  This is the Grandpa Gold that I know . . .

I have so many fond memories of Grandpa that it’s hard to just choose one.  Perhaps I should write about the sound of Grandpa–the jingle jangle of change in his pocket as he walked; the quick, solid thump of his shoes; his whistle (Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho) as we bounced around Disneyland.  Or the smell of Grandpa when he’d come home for lunch—a distinct, pleasant mix of Irish Spring (green) soap and earthy greenhouse potting soil. Or the sight of Grandpa—always a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his face, and his straight, strong posture.   And what grandchild will ever forget the taste of Grandpa’s ice cream store; I credit Grandpa for my love of premium ice cream—burnt almond fudge is the best!

But more than anything, the one impression that keeps surfacing in my mind is his tender touch and treatment of Grandma over the years.  Even as a young child, I realized that their relationship was special.  I loved how they would hold hands . . . how he would call her “sweetheart” . . .  how they would kneel down together at the dinner table, grasping hands throughout the prayer and kissing after “amen.”  I admired how he would open doors for her . . . and how she allowed him to open doors for her.  But more than anything, I will never ever forget his sweet and gentle care of Grandma when she was sick.  He was there for her until the very end, doing everything he could to help make her comfortable, to share the burden of her illness, to leave her no doubt about how much he adored her.

But, of course, that’s not really the very end. It’s only the first chapter of their eternal romance.  I hope to live worthy of witnessing the unfolding of future chapters when they are reunited again.

I love you, Grandpa!

August 13, 2000

13:13 in the afternoon

The most significant day … hour … minute of my life.

The moment I became a mother.

Sure. Even prior to becoming a mother, I had read all the chain e-mail “motherhood” messages known to man. You know … the ones that calculate a mother’s “salary” by all the work she does; or the quips that suggest lofty job titles like “Research Associate in the field of Child Development” for stay-at-home moms; or even the gems that I’m convinced are meant to make me feel guilty for bemoaning today’s the fingerprints and crayon “art” on my walls and the spilled milk on my newly mopped kitchen floor, promising me that I’ll miss all the chaos when the kids have left the nest.

And, of course, I had a front-row seat to witness the service of my own mother as she raised her own five little angels.

I had even tended lots of children over the years, babysitting kids that idolized me; my sibilings that pinned me down, gagged me and cut my hair; and even a little tyke (Kevin Nordstrom) that kicked me in the gut when I told him it was time for bed.

And if that wasn’t enough, I had been a responsible pet owner since before I could even walk.

But nothing that I had ever read, seen or done could have prepared me for the life-altering experience of becoming a mother.  It awakened in me a fierce instinct I thought only mother bears possessed–the impulse to sacrifice life and limb to protect my child from any threat, real or imagined. Just like the Grinch discovering the true meaning of Christmas, “[my] small heart grew three sizes that day!” And even though I didn’t know it at the time and can’t, in my mortal state, even fully comprehend the magnitude of it now, the moment I became a mother truly did redefine who I am … not just for time but for eternity.

And so each August 13th when Ariana’s birthday rolls around (and it’s happening far faster and more frequently than it should), I secretly celebrate it as my special day, too.

Happy Birthday, Ariana! I am grateful and honored to be your MOTHER! May you always honor and hold sacred the power of creation within you so that your defining moment will be as joyful and eternal with your firstborn as mine was with you.

Playing peek-a-boo around this old tree on my great great grandparents’ property, I couldn’t help but wonder how many generations of my ancestors have done the same.

I love this picture of my sweet little girl.

As I sat in the childhood home of my Great Grandmother, Arvilla McMurray, with four more generations of the tree–my Grandpa Gold and Grandma Kathleen, my mom, me, my girls and my niece Claire–I couldn’t help but wonder if she and my Grandma Gold (daughter of Arvilla) were present with us, too.

Did they hear 94-year-old Great Aunt Mary, current resident of the family homestead and widow of Arvilla’s brother (Arch), tell the faith-promoting story of her granddaughters being held hostage at their school by bomb-weilding crazies in Cokeville, WY?  Even these many years later, Aunt Mary shed tears as she reflected on the happy ending to the nightmarish episode.

Mary recounted that the quaint white home featuring a darling wrap-around porch was a blessed upgrade to the log cabin where my great, great grandparents were raising their large family (13 children when all was said and done). They had saved money to start constructing their new home, and then two of their sons were asked to serve missions with the promise that, if the family supported them in this endeavor, the home they’d be able to build would be more grand than they could have hoped for. And it was.

It is befitting that an old tithing shed where members of the church would bring their in-kind donations still sits on the property, as does a little playhouse where my great grandmother mothered her dolls as a child.

Aunt Mary is heavily involved in family history work but noted that the work is slower than she’d like; in her words, “I only have a landline, so dial-up is slow and it ties up the phone line.”  (She’s more technically savvy than Dell tech support!)

“In my mind I’m young, but my body reminds me of my age.”  Nevertheless, this sweet near-centenarian beams with optimism.

I want to be like Aunt Mary when I grow up.