Being the youngest of ten children could probably lead to some spoilage (do ya think?), but I do think Bekah has handled her situation rather well. Sure, she can and does play that card when she wants to, but she's civil most of the time. This is about driving, I promise.
A couple of weeks ago the red car died. The poor thing started out as a mission car so who knows what sort of abuse it suffered at the hands of 19 year old missionaries. Scott bought it, sold it to us, bought it back, then sold it back to us once again. It served us well as a car for Dan and Bekah to use but I think it took too many trips to the homestead in Mescal when Scott and Benjamin were commuting from their tent city. Other than the paint, headliner, door handles, headlight covers, battery, engine and transmission, it's in excellent condition. I think the left tail light works. Yes, we are in the market for another car.
Really, this is about driving. A couple of days ago Bekah had gone to the temple in Mesa to help some of her friends with a family photo shoot and, since we were down a car, I had to go pick her up. To save time and gas for both parties we decided to meet at the Carl's Jr at I-10 and Congress as it is the half way point between our domiciles. Good idea. She called just after 10PM so off I went. I made good time and then waited, and waited, and waited. Around 11:30 she called and said "Where the heck are you!" "I"m waiting in the Carl's Jr parking lot." "So am I." We had both been in different areas of the same parking lot with visions of car wrecks dancing in out heads wondering what was taking so long.
Here comes the driving part (at last). As I was driving her home, she asked me to take her driving on the Interstate so she could learn how to drive there and her Mom would let her use I-10 to get to her friend's house. WHAT? "You can't drive on the Interstate?" "No, Mom says it's too dangerous." Holy crap. I drove to San Bleeding Francisco from Idaho when I was 15 years old BY MY SELF! Codling is a terrible thing. I gave her a lesson on how it's pretty much the same as driving in town but easier, faster, but actually easier. I think she's ready to do it and Babs might agree...but I doubt it.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Barber of the Ville
This is a day late because I got all busy with Sarah coming home to visit, tithing settlement and the Wildcats basketball game. Oh well, 'tis the season.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
For Crying Out Loud
Yes, I am in for it. Seriously, I think all adults should be able to just wail away like a three year old who just dropped her ice cream cone. Tilt our head back, fill our lungs and yowl like young banshees.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Six Days Late or One Day Early
Thanksgiving preempted my blog last Thursday and the ASU game will take up tomorrow night so here it is.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
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