My brother Mark died when I was 23. He was eight years older than me and most of my memories of him are not fond. I remember him picking on me a lot, teasing me until I cried and, once, picking me up and hanging me over the balcony, telling me he was going to drop me.
He was the master of pestering; the kind of brother who, when you shouted, 'stop bugging me,' would pin you down on the ground and poke your chest with his fingers while saying, 'bug, bug, bug...'
Being the overly-sensitive type, my response was to yell at him, tattle on him, or burst into tears and run to my room, slamming the door. But I loved him.
When I was little, he ran away from home. In my memory, he was gone a long time before we knew where he was. I remember crying myself to sleep at night, praying a simple prayer, over and over, asking God to please just bring him home.
Eventually he did come back, but he continued to struggle with life, at least in my eyes. He didn't go to church like the rest of the family and lived by a set of standards all his own. Growing up in an LDS home, I had a hard time with the choices he made. I judged him, distrusted him; I kept my distance from him.
I wish I hadn't. I wish I had known then what I know now about people who are different from me: that they are almost always amazing in a way I can't see. I wish I had spent more time listening to the stories he told me, actually hearing the things he said. I wish I could have appreciated him for who he was and loved him unconditionally.
When I came home after spending a year and a half on a mission in Montreal, I happened to take a trip with my parents and Mark and my brother Paul. It was probably the first time I had a real conversation with Mark. He was working on a little island in Alaska at the time and was home on a mandatory break. He had several more weeks off and we tentatively planned for him to visit me at school, where maybe we would go camping together. I was looking forward to it, but we never had the chance.
The last time I saw Mark, he picked me up at the airport on a layover in Seattle and took me to Pike Street Market. He waited patiently while I looked at almost every silver ring at every jewelry stand, trying to find one that was just right. I don't remember what we talked about, I just remember we had a good time.
I don't often think about Mark anymore. It has been almost 20 years since he died. Today, as I was driving alone in the car, Jesus is Just Alright came on the radio. It is the song he suggested I use as a musical number for my missionary farewell. :)
I sang along, by myself, to every word as tears streamed down my face. I so wish I could know Mark now, as an older and wiser me. I think we would be great friends...
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
zucchini apocalypse
Forget about a Zombie Apocalypse. I think we are in more danger of zucchini taking over the world. So if you are one of those gardeners who habitually plants too much zucchini: STOP!
While zucchini is good for you and astonishingly easy to grow, and while there are thousands of recipes to help you use up your overzealous crop, even the most health-conscious, zucchini-eating, faux-apple-pie-baking folk around get sick of zucchini. So here are my simple steps to avoid a Zucchini Apocalypse:
Step 1: Plant less. It's simple math: one zucchini seed + sunshine + soil + water = a bazillion zucchini. Or at least enough to feed a family of four, freeze some for winter and share a few with your friends. So just plant one plant. Or, if you are a pessimist like me, plant two, three, or even four seeds (just in case) but thin them as they come up and start to thrive.
I know it's hard, but you can do it; I did. Here is my garden. There is only one zucchini plant growing in this mess and we have had plenty of zucchini for several weeks in a row.
Step 2: Harvest them young. The longer you let them grow, the bigger they get, but bigger zucchini is not better zucchini; it's just more zucchini. I like to pick mine when they are about 8-10 inches long, or about the length of a butter-knife. They are perfect for roasting, grilling, sauteing or baking. If you miss picking one for a day or two, the big ones (below-left) are great for shredding and freezing. I freeze mine in regular, sandwich-sized zip-lock bags and use them to make zucchini bread in the winter. Here is my favorite zucchini bread recipe, although I usually omit the orange zest (because I never have it) and add a little coconut.
Step 3: Compost the excess. There is no need to push unwanted zucchini on family, friends or neighbors; no need to break into a person's car, as the legend goes, or bring baskets full of zucchini to give away at church. Chances are, if you have a spectacular zucchini crop, so does everyone else. So toss your extra, unwanted zucchini straight into the compost pile. Think of it as super cheap fertilizer for next year. :)
While zucchini is good for you and astonishingly easy to grow, and while there are thousands of recipes to help you use up your overzealous crop, even the most health-conscious, zucchini-eating, faux-apple-pie-baking folk around get sick of zucchini. So here are my simple steps to avoid a Zucchini Apocalypse:
Step 1: Plant less. It's simple math: one zucchini seed + sunshine + soil + water = a bazillion zucchini. Or at least enough to feed a family of four, freeze some for winter and share a few with your friends. So just plant one plant. Or, if you are a pessimist like me, plant two, three, or even four seeds (just in case) but thin them as they come up and start to thrive.
I know it's hard, but you can do it; I did. Here is my garden. There is only one zucchini plant growing in this mess and we have had plenty of zucchini for several weeks in a row.
Step 2: Harvest them young. The longer you let them grow, the bigger they get, but bigger zucchini is not better zucchini; it's just more zucchini. I like to pick mine when they are about 8-10 inches long, or about the length of a butter-knife. They are perfect for roasting, grilling, sauteing or baking. If you miss picking one for a day or two, the big ones (below-left) are great for shredding and freezing. I freeze mine in regular, sandwich-sized zip-lock bags and use them to make zucchini bread in the winter. Here is my favorite zucchini bread recipe, although I usually omit the orange zest (because I never have it) and add a little coconut.
Step 3: Compost the excess. There is no need to push unwanted zucchini on family, friends or neighbors; no need to break into a person's car, as the legend goes, or bring baskets full of zucchini to give away at church. Chances are, if you have a spectacular zucchini crop, so does everyone else. So toss your extra, unwanted zucchini straight into the compost pile. Think of it as super cheap fertilizer for next year. :)
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
jack the bear
This morning I asked Max to feed the cat. For emphasis I added, "fast, like Jack the Bear." Which made me wonder (again) where it came from and what it means.
I know I got it from my dad. He used it often in sentences like this: 'I told old so-and-so I'd stop by and look at that truck, but I'll be fast like Jack the Bear.' Ironically, this usually meant we were about to spend a lot of time waiting in the car while he picked up a part, dropped something off, or helped someone out.
Until I left home, I never thought to ask what it meant. The meaning was clear enough and I thought it was just another one of his colloquialisms, like The Dairy Kink (Dairy Queen), pass the moke, Joke (please pass the milk), back when I was a little girl (a long time ago) or, this is better than hammered horse-pucky (this tastes really good).
It wasn't until I started using it with my kids, who would stare at me and ask "Who's Jack the Bear?" that I realized I didn't know. And then, this morning, I finally thought to google it. I wasn't really expecting to find anything, but it turns out that Jack the Bear is a racing term, meaning the car is moving at optimum efficiency or running flat-out.
Huh. Maybe I'll google hammered horse-pucky...
Thursday, June 7, 2012
begin, the rest is easy
I am usually a believer in the phrase, 'Begin, the rest is easy.' I tend to whisper it to myself as a kind of mantra and with almost everything I have done, it has been true. But this summer I started painting the outrageously neglected trim on my old brick home, and I have learned a thing or two.
Or five:
1. When painting the trim on an old home, beginning does not make the rest easy. Rather, beginning means you have to finish, which is the worst possible thing you can imagine once you begin.
2. Painting the trim is not so bad. It's the scraping and caulking that takes so blasted long.
3. Although painting the trim on the exterior of your home will require a lot of paint, do not be tempted to buy the five gallon bucket. Five gallon buckets are surprisingly heavy and the lid is a total pain; unless you are a weight-lifter, you are likely to end up with a great deal of paint pouring down the side of the bucket while struggling to get it back on the ground.
4. Unlike paint buckets, when it comes to ladders, bigger is best. But even the largest, heaviest ladder you own may not be tall enough to reach the highest points of the house, meaning your husband will offer to climb up on the roof to paint them and, while he's up there, put himself in great danger of breaking his neck, or worse - getting white paint where it does not belong.
5. Hauling and maneuvering such a beast of a ladder is likely to make your arms and shoulders ache, although those sore muscles will go nicely with the kink in your neck from tilting your head back, the cramp in your hand from holding a brush for long periods of time, and the raging headache caused by all of the above and, possibly, the fumes from a paint/primer combination powerful enough to make the old wood look good.
I wish I were writing this in retrospect, but in fact I have only just begun. I hope the rest will be easy.
Or five:
1. When painting the trim on an old home, beginning does not make the rest easy. Rather, beginning means you have to finish, which is the worst possible thing you can imagine once you begin.
2. Painting the trim is not so bad. It's the scraping and caulking that takes so blasted long.
3. Although painting the trim on the exterior of your home will require a lot of paint, do not be tempted to buy the five gallon bucket. Five gallon buckets are surprisingly heavy and the lid is a total pain; unless you are a weight-lifter, you are likely to end up with a great deal of paint pouring down the side of the bucket while struggling to get it back on the ground.
4. Unlike paint buckets, when it comes to ladders, bigger is best. But even the largest, heaviest ladder you own may not be tall enough to reach the highest points of the house, meaning your husband will offer to climb up on the roof to paint them and, while he's up there, put himself in great danger of breaking his neck, or worse - getting white paint where it does not belong.
5. Hauling and maneuvering such a beast of a ladder is likely to make your arms and shoulders ache, although those sore muscles will go nicely with the kink in your neck from tilting your head back, the cramp in your hand from holding a brush for long periods of time, and the raging headache caused by all of the above and, possibly, the fumes from a paint/primer combination powerful enough to make the old wood look good.
I wish I were writing this in retrospect, but in fact I have only just begun. I hope the rest will be easy.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
he may not seem like a superstar
Abby is amazing and everyone notices. She is pretty, talented, smart, outgoing, friendly. We recently timed her to see how long she could go without smiling: not long. Dave's mom has always said she has a star hanging over her head.
Max is more reserved; he won't speak unless he has something to say. He is sensitive and caring but doesn't like people to notice him. He is funny (in the comedic way) with excellent timing and clever wit, but for a long time he got upset when he made people laugh. He avoids shirts and hats with slogans or logos that might spark a conversation with a stranger, or require him to explain his interests and tastes.
Max is talented and smart, just as much as Abby is, but in a different way; a way that is easy to overlook. But every once in awhile, we catch a glimpse of his star, not hanging over his head, like Abby's, but shining out from inside of him.
Like the first time we convinced him to practice his cello in our presence - many weeks after he started orchestra. None of us were prepared for how beautiful he would sound and it wasn't until the last concert of the year that we realized he was playing first chair; he never mentioned it.
When applying for an English class next year, which required a writing sample, I had him pull up a story he's been working on for at least a year or two. It was long - chapters and chapters and chapters long - but I found myself wanting to read the whole thing. As I am not a youth fiction fan, that's impressive!
Today he is supposed to teach a lesson in his church class. When he woke up I offered to read through the lesson, so I could give him some help if he needs it. His reply was something like, 'No, I already know what I need to do,' and then he opened the manual and asked me to type up some word strips to put on the board.
Outwardly, he may not seem like a superstar. But to those who know him best, Max is amazing too.
Max is more reserved; he won't speak unless he has something to say. He is sensitive and caring but doesn't like people to notice him. He is funny (in the comedic way) with excellent timing and clever wit, but for a long time he got upset when he made people laugh. He avoids shirts and hats with slogans or logos that might spark a conversation with a stranger, or require him to explain his interests and tastes.
Max is talented and smart, just as much as Abby is, but in a different way; a way that is easy to overlook. But every once in awhile, we catch a glimpse of his star, not hanging over his head, like Abby's, but shining out from inside of him.
Like the first time we convinced him to practice his cello in our presence - many weeks after he started orchestra. None of us were prepared for how beautiful he would sound and it wasn't until the last concert of the year that we realized he was playing first chair; he never mentioned it.
When applying for an English class next year, which required a writing sample, I had him pull up a story he's been working on for at least a year or two. It was long - chapters and chapters and chapters long - but I found myself wanting to read the whole thing. As I am not a youth fiction fan, that's impressive!
Today he is supposed to teach a lesson in his church class. When he woke up I offered to read through the lesson, so I could give him some help if he needs it. His reply was something like, 'No, I already know what I need to do,' and then he opened the manual and asked me to type up some word strips to put on the board.
Outwardly, he may not seem like a superstar. But to those who know him best, Max is amazing too.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
for better or worse
For a variety of reasons, Dave and I didn't dance at our wedding, and, neither of us being very romantic, we didn't have one song that we considered "ours." This wasn't really a problem of any kind, but we had a surprising number of people ask us what "our song" was, so we chose one at random: Silly Love Song by Paul McCartney & Wings.
Admittedly cheesy, it's fun to sing and has the words "love song" and "I love you" right in it. No beating around the bush, nothing implied; it just tells it how it is. We started singing it to each other often enough that it actually became our song.
But even better than the song itself is the tradition it inspired. Over the past (almost) 18 years we have been married, we have collected more cheesy love songs; the cheesier the better. With the invention of facebook, youtube and rdio, it's become easier to find them and listen to them, and now Dave has a play list full of cheesy love songs.
There is no rhyme or reason to how we gather them. Sometimes they just pop into our heads, other times we hear them somewhere. Yesterday I woke up thinking of this one: Loving You is Easy 'Cause You're Beautiful by Minnie Riperton. And, last summer, Dave called me "Lady" for some reason, which added both Lady by Styx and Lady by Little River Band to the list.
These may not be the most romantic love songs, and some of them are just down right annoying. But they are "ours" and we love them, for better or worse. Just like we love each other.
Admittedly cheesy, it's fun to sing and has the words "love song" and "I love you" right in it. No beating around the bush, nothing implied; it just tells it how it is. We started singing it to each other often enough that it actually became our song.
But even better than the song itself is the tradition it inspired. Over the past (almost) 18 years we have been married, we have collected more cheesy love songs; the cheesier the better. With the invention of facebook, youtube and rdio, it's become easier to find them and listen to them, and now Dave has a play list full of cheesy love songs.
There is no rhyme or reason to how we gather them. Sometimes they just pop into our heads, other times we hear them somewhere. Yesterday I woke up thinking of this one: Loving You is Easy 'Cause You're Beautiful by Minnie Riperton. And, last summer, Dave called me "Lady" for some reason, which added both Lady by Styx and Lady by Little River Band to the list.
These may not be the most romantic love songs, and some of them are just down right annoying. But they are "ours" and we love them, for better or worse. Just like we love each other.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
liar, liar, pants on fire
I tried some clothes on this afternoon at T.J.Maxx, a task I loathe. Not only do I hate realizing I'm still fat, despite the hours I spend running each week, but I hate how the floor is nasty and the doors only cover the mid-section of my body, so that a really tall person could walk down the aisle and see me in my underwear.
The only really good part about entering a dressing room, for me, is the fact that most people seem to forget that only their mid-sections are covered by those stingy little doors, so everything they say is clearly heard by everyone around them. Since eavesdropping on strangers is a favorite pastime of mine, this scenario has high entertainment value and in a dressing room they can't see me, so I don't have to avert my eyes or pretend I'm not listening.
This was the conversation I overheard today. It is one-sided because the woman was talking on her cell phone...
"Yes, I'm on my way. The traffic is AWFUL! Oh, I know. I'm on my way. There is just SO much traffic and DETOURS everywhere! Well, I'm trying... I'll be there soon... I'm on my way..."
Liar, liar, pants on fire. The college students are gone now; there were hardly any cars on the road. And she was in there another ten minutes. :)
The only really good part about entering a dressing room, for me, is the fact that most people seem to forget that only their mid-sections are covered by those stingy little doors, so everything they say is clearly heard by everyone around them. Since eavesdropping on strangers is a favorite pastime of mine, this scenario has high entertainment value and in a dressing room they can't see me, so I don't have to avert my eyes or pretend I'm not listening.
This was the conversation I overheard today. It is one-sided because the woman was talking on her cell phone...
"Yes, I'm on my way. The traffic is AWFUL! Oh, I know. I'm on my way. There is just SO much traffic and DETOURS everywhere! Well, I'm trying... I'll be there soon... I'm on my way..."
Liar, liar, pants on fire. The college students are gone now; there were hardly any cars on the road. And she was in there another ten minutes. :)
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