When You Were Young

Last night The Killers were in town.

In lieu of Family Home Evening I put charcoal around my eyes and David drove me (all prickly) to the concert.  I had emailed him earlier in the day and foolishly written that I wasn't going.  He wisely ignored me.

Brilliant man.

And now a confession:  it was the first concert I've ever been to.  And I think David was out of practice because we got there in time to see the opening band and the theatre was still only half full.  Most people only showed up in time to see the Killers' first song, "Joyride."

It was a great concert.  Absolutely incredible to see them live.

I danced.  I screamed.  I jumped up and down with the drummer's pounding.  I begged for more.  David screamed at me between numbers, "This is so good!"

The Killers' latest album has been the soundtrack of my life for nearly a year now as I've shuttled kids to and from.  (David introduced me to it, of course.)  One day last winter I told David that it might be the best album ever made.  A few weeks later he announced he had tickets to their concert for my birthday. 

We crawled into bed late last night and whispered our throaty goodnights because we were hoarse from screaming.  And this morning, with a sore throat and charcoal smeared down my cheeks, I hummed "For Reasons Unknown" as I tied the girls' hair up for the day, and thought about my love affair with David.

There were a million reasons I fell in love with David.  (Someday I will tell you the story about the one at the gas station in Orderville, Utah that sealed the deal.)

But last night, I remembered this one.

He is dancer.

He was always the cool guy who listened to cool music and introduced me the joys of a really good bass guitar and a soulful melody, of the language that only a rock band has, and of the transformation of words by rhythm and electric guitar and a bass drum as deep as your secrets.  I felt like a groupie around him sometimes.

Last night in my new Bonnie Tyler voice I told him how strange it was that we had never been to a concert together, as he has been my music tutor all these years.  And it seems like the thing to do when you are young.

He smiled and reminded me of how poor we used to be.  When the choice between food and music was always food.

And so there we were.  Fifteen years later (when the choice is now between food and music lessons) with four children and a mortgage on a Monday night, escaping for just a few hours back into our early courtship.  It felt like a memory.  Like a door to a life before spelling lists and medical staff meetings.  When we were young.  I was vibrating by the time we left. 

And sometimes you close your eyes

And see the place where you used to live

When you were young.

Now We Are Six

I made breakfast sausage this morning.  At the request of the birthday boy.

He has the menu planned out for the entire day.  For dinner he wants spaghetti and mashed potatoes. 

(As you wish.)

This morning as he played his new harmonica, I asked him if he could remember the day he was born.

"Yes, the girls carried me around everywhere and dressed me up like a girl."  (He is still affronted about this treatment.)

"Yes they did, but not on the day you were born.  On the day you were born you were all mine.  Do you remember what happened?  It was a Wednesday morning."

I waited while he finished a few bars of his next harmonica solo.

"Yep.  And then all the water came out."

"So I called to Dad and he got the other kids up fast because you were coming in a hurry."

Then we had a brief discussion about exactly where babies come out.  And since he was six I explained.  He said his friend had it all wrong, and then played a few more harmonica measures, this time "Happy Birthday."

I finished the story with the usual quaver in my voice as I told him about his dark eyes looking up at me and he gave a big finish on the harmonica at just the right moment, because he knows the story by heart.  And then he chattered all the way to find his backpack and out the door, about dinosaur cakes and parties and the presents dressed and waiting for our celebration tonight.

I watched him run to catch up with the girls.

A few years ago David and I went to talk to my doctor about having another baby.  He was quiet for a while and then confided that he hadn't been able to sleep after Ethan was born.  He said that in his thirty years of practicing medicine he had never gotten that close to disaster and still had a good outcome.  That it was a very close call.  For both of us.  He said it still scared him when he thought of it.

Someday I will tell Ethan the rest of the story.  How heaven's hand was in his life from the beginning.  How the day and hour of his birth were known and watched by heaven, because if everything hadn't been just right, it all would have gone terribly wrong.  How there is no such thing as a coincidence.  How there are no "little" moments.

But today, I only tell myself.  Over and over again.

And this morning, as I watched this fourth and final miracle run down the street, I thanked heaven again for the life of this extraordinary boy.  Especially today, now we are six.

"But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever."

More Evidence of My Good Taste: A Love Story

(This is the gas station where I fell in love with David.  I know, romantic right?  We stopped here on our way home from Canada this year, and I took this picture.  We spent the next 100 miles of the trip reminiscing.)

Last night after David read my post and we were lying in bed in the dark he put his hand on my back and said, "I think you've got great taste."

I asked, "In men?"

And we laughed.

And then he continued doggedly forward and hunted around a little for the right words about my writing.  I could tell it was like finding his way in the dark.  But I appreciated the effort.

This morning as he left for the hospital, I asked him to kiss me with courage and determination.

He smiled at me and then complied.

He knows I need the courage to face my chores today and did his best to pour a little into me.  I appreciated the effort.

And then a little later this morning, as I followed him out to the car and held his hand in a silent plea to stay and help (or at least stay and talk to me while I work) we passed the calendar.

He tried to be bolstering, "Hey, it's the first day of autumn."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, come on, that's encouraging.  Even if it doesn't feel like it.  We could celebrate.  Let's bob for apples tonight."

He was teasing me, of course.  But it was enough.

I felt propped up.  And a little more courageous and determined, I made a menu for our celebration.  It will include 

the solstice candles

pumpkin soup (with curry and apples)

homemade bread

fresh raspberry jam

and, for dessert, I will take a break from peach pie and make one out of apples instead (my specialty)

When your courage is failing you on a very ordinary Tuesday in mid-September, it is very nice to have such good taste in men.

In Case Your Taste Is Better Than Your Art

I was supposed to scrub the house and run the washing machine today.

It didn't happen.

Instead, a good friend called me this morning and asked me about my writing project.  I hummed and hawed.  The truth is that it's going about as well as my laundry.

Which stinks.

And then, I found this great clip by Ira Glass and thought about it for the rest of the day.

It was quite what I needed to hear.

I am posting it here in case you haven't seen it and have a similar problem.  With your art.  Not your laundry. 

I know.  I love him, too.

[David thinks this post won't apply to most of you, but says "why don't you just put it out there?" and so I am.  Plus I know at least one of you (and you know who you are) will find this immensely helpful.  You can thank me later.]

Worn Out From Being Right All the Time

Bam.  The weekend's over.  (That was fast.)  I am reeling a bit from the jolt of Monday morning.

Here we are again.  Just me and the laundry and a week's worth of entropy to clean up.

David and I spent the better part of last week trying to be right.

Each of us finally conceded that we were wrong late Saturday night, and I do mean late.  But I had a lesson to teach on Sunday and I was desperate for the Spirit.  (I only repent under pressure.)  So I caved, abandoned my position, and kissed him back.  And thought if I could just kiss him everyday I would be willing to be wrong all the time.  (But don't tell him that.)

Sunday was a blur of shirts and ties and lessons and brunch and worship and peach cobbler, topped off with a court of honor.  (My favorite way to end any day.)  There was dessert and talking afterwards, but I was anxious to leave.  I kept pinching David's butt (our universal sign that we are ready to go) until I nearly accidentally pinched a member of our bishopric.  I looked at David then and said in no uncertain terms that it was time to go home.  We gathered in a circle for prayer at eight thirty and, thinking I couldn't stand one more minute of the day, I hustled the children to bed.  It was the end of a very long week, and I was happy to see it go.

I woke this morning worn out from myself.

Yesterday in my lesson about the Martin and Willie Handcart companies, I asked my Sunday school class if they had ever felt in need of rescue. 

The class was silent a long time.

And I thought how I feel in need of rescue about every day.

Rescue from myself.  Rescue from my own hard heart. 

Someone raised their hand and said that those handcart companies had kind of brought it on themselves, they were unprepared, they didn't heed the warnings, and then they were caught by an early winter.  And I thought how I must have taught the lesson all wrong because I didn't see it that way.

Because the truth is I never heed the warnings.  I am always unprepared.  I am always stranded by early snow and a very stiff neck.

And how grateful I am to have a Rescuer who will come to my aid even though it is always my fault.

Help me, is my constant prayer.

I am sure heaven tires of hearing it.

Help me get up.  Help me face that sink of Sunday dishes.  Help me forgive.  Help me repent.  Help me to live without regret.

Of course it's my fault.  Send help anyway.

(Please.)

That is what I meant to say.  That if you read my history, you will see that I am unwise and foolhardy and too stubborn almost all of the time.  That those I travel with are suffering because of it too.  But heaven sends relief and rescue wagons over and over again.  Most often, those wagons look like a sacrament cup. 

Rescue.  Repent.  Renew. 

I am trying again.  (Send help.)

The Only Solace of September

Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy and I put up the rest of the tomatoes and peaches on Tuesday.

(They are my loyal canning companions.  It was nice to see them again.)

And then, because I couldn't help myself, I bought three more boxes of peaches yesterday.

I'm out of bottles, of course.

And shelf space.

But it's now or never.  There are no more peaches in November.  So we're making the most of it.  And eating peaches on everything.  Last night I had some on my hamburger.  Delicious. 

In bed last night, as I was drifting off, I remembered my grandmother's peach nectar, a drink so good it makes you feel wicked.  And I made a little plan to make some of my own.  That thought alone is enough to make me happy for the rest of September.

Which is saying something.

Because September is my hardest month to be happy.  (With May the close second.) 

It is the interminable month of the year.  Back at school full-time, the schedule and the early mornings taking their toll by now.  The heat is still oppressive while the rest of the country is getting a respite, and envy is making me crazy.  I am so madly jealous of every resident of Wisconsin right now I can hardly stand it.

And so I console myself with Austen and dreams of peach nectar. 

And sometimes I feel nearly human.  Though I was so prickly with David this morning he may disagree. 

Never mind.  I am off to drown my regrets in peaches and cream.

Just hope I bought enough.

Sights for Sore Eyes

Last week I wrote many posts in my head.

They were lovely.

And funny too.

But I got busy and so they stayed in my head.

Which is a shame.

Because did I mention they were funny?

Instead of posting, I made a quilt that was auctioned to raise money for ovarian cancer.  (Actually, my mom had to help me piece the top of it together as I ran out of time in the end.  I am thinking that at some point in my life, I should get it together enough to not have to be rescued by my mother.  I am also thinking that she is thinking the same thing.)

I put up jars of tomatoes and spaghetti sauce and raspberry jam for the winter (if it ever comes), with more to do today.

I've eaten about a hundred of these

and laid in bed dreaming about the tomatoes that made them irresistible.  One night I told David I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about getting up and eating another one.  They were that good.

[Peaches later this week.  Can you stand the anticipation?  I'm already drooling.] 

David and I put on a ward activity, which included a variety show that put me in front of the computer for hours and hours editing video submissions and compiling them all into a movie.  My family made a music video to kick it off.  I have included it below for your viewing.

You're welcome.

And every night I was sure to ask David how it felt to be married to someone so capable and amazing.

And every night he said it was so wonderful he couldn't put it into words.

I said, "Try."

Because I love positive feedback.

Almost as much as I love tomatoes from Utah.

And now, our version of the Black Eyed Peas:

Reading Lines

Dinner last night ended with a musical number.  (Dinner and show, I call it.)  Olivia treated us to a performance of Nat King Cole's "Orange Colored Sky", complete with matching dance steps and hand motions.

After that there were plenty of "Flash! Bam! Alakazam!'s" coming from the girls' room at regular intervals.

Ethan, who was nursing a brand-new cold, asked me to make them be quiet when I came to tuck him in, and wipe his nose, and turn on the humidifier.

By now the musical number had become a duet and so this took some doing.  Olivia said, "'Alakazam' is not a phrase I usually use, but I think I'm going to make it a big part of my vocabulary now.  It says things in a way no other word can."

I can hear it now.  "...and then after lunch, Alakazam!, we had a spelling test."

She can pull it off, too.

[Speaking of vocabulary, I know I owe you a few sentences on "truckle", but that will have to wait submissively for tomorrow.]

But after the song-and-dance and the duet and things had quieted down to just humming, David and I deconstructed the day.

It had been a trying one, and so it took a while to untangle it all.

I kept saying things like, "Start at the beginning" and "I don't understand.  Just start at the beginning and tell me everything."

But his analysis and emotions were all mixed in with the events of the day and so it took some time for things to shake out.

After a couple of hours, I made a comment and David said, "Haven't you been listening to anything I've been saying?"

Which is usually my line.

I smiled, in spite of myself.

So then I said, "I just want you to be happy.  What is it that you want?"

Which is always his line.

And suddenly things cleared enough for me to see and I thought, "Alakazam!"

We have traded lines and crises.  He said all my lines from the last three weeks and I said all of his. 

This is the Sadie Hawkins of married life.  We have matching self-doubts.

Don't we look cute together?

Finding True Love at Barnes & Noble

Last night, as we were talking through my anxieties, David confided to me that he didn't like to read or write.  He said it like he was confessing a long-buried secret, that had been burdening him all these years.

I said, "I know."

He has no secrets from me.

Over the years, I have overlooked his reluctance to read (his only character flaw) and he has overlooked everything else.

We've made it work, see?

On Saturday, David and I took our boys to the bookstore while the girls ran a lemonade stand with their friends.  David got stuck for a while in the international travel and maps section while the boys and I hunted through the shelves in the children's section and got lost for a while in the Newberry's.

We passed a table with all kinds of writing books--there are many people with the dream--and I found a little book, which has apparently been quite famous for a decade or two in the writing world.  I added it to my pile.

When it was time to go, David asked, pointing at my considerable pile, "Which of those are we getting?"

I was thinking, "All of them.  That's why they're here in my pile."  But instead, I put a thoughtful look on my face and sorted through the pile, taking one of the paperbacks I had considered for Olivia out.

I smiled up at him.  "These ones."

We checked out.

The clerk handed me the bag.  It was heavy.

On the way to the car I was filled with that joy that only books can produce.  Adrenalin and endorphins and falling in love, all at the same time.  David took my hand.  He could feel my joy.  I looked up into his bemused eyes.  And his hand whispered to me all the way to the car, "I don't understand you, but I adore you.  See how much I adore you?  Even when I don't understand you." 

And mine answered back.

And said the very same thing.