The Newport Beach Temple - the one hundred twenty second operating temple in the world as of today - was dedicated in four sessions, presided over by President Gordon B. Hinckley. I got to stand no more than ten feet away from him.
Earlier this summer I received a letter from the Temple Committee stating that I had been selected to participate in one of the dedicatory choirs. It would have been a tremendous honor to participate in the dedication as an usher. To sing in one of the sessions was something I never in a million years expected to experience.
Because of the size of the temple (small) and the fact that the sessions are conducted in the Celestial Room (even smaller!), the choir also needed to be (small). There were, in fact, eighteen of us, plus two alternates who would be called upon to sing if one of us was unable for any reason. The conductor I know well. She conducts a local group called the Anaheim Mormon Chorale, one of relatively few standing LDS choirs in Southern California. We would be honored to perform for the fourth and final dedicatory session.
From the beginning of rehearsals, this was obviously a unique experience. It is never far from one's mind that temple dedications have been the scene of some of the most spiritual experiences one may have in this life. Indeed, angels were seen by many at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple, and countless anecdotes of equal significance have accompanied every dedication since. And so, even with the friendly and cheerful banter that often accompanies these rehearsals, there was also the pall of tremendous responsibility that we felt from our first session together.
Musically, this performance was not overly taxing. The hardest part was, perhaps, having to memorize the pieces. Unless you count having to end the "Hosanna Anthem" on a note right on my break. Could have done without that.
Although I was thrilled to be able to perform in this dedication, it was even more important for me that I got to share the experience with my wonderful Mrs. Woody. We both were privileged to be in the temple, albeit in different rooms, for the service.
I wish I were somehow capable of describing the emotions I felt during the service. Although I was only in the presence of the prophet while we were singing (we sat in one of the sealing rooms in between), it was wonderful to feel his infectious testimony fill the meeting. Every speaker - brothers and sisters with fervent testimonies and dedication to the Lord - bore solemn witness to the blessing of having a temple in our midst. President Faust, who accompanied the prophet, bore his testimony of the atonement. He made particular emphasis of the idea that the atonement means we receive the blessings after all that we can do. (Emphasis, Pres. Faust)
President Hinckley is, of course, one of the greatest stump speakers I've ever heard. At one point he could not, for the life of him, remember what the name of the temple was. He finally had to turn and ask the Seventy. He then sheepishly reminded us that this is one of the signs of old age. He mentioned that Sis. Hinckley had something on their refrigerator once that said, "I'm the same age as President Reagan. I wonder if he ever goes into the Oval Office and forgets what he went there for?" He then proceeded to bear powerful testimony of the temple and its blessings. He made particular mention of the great work of family history and the opportunities we have to do that work for our ancestors.
Then came the great dedicatory prayer. It is said that the prophet takes special care to prepare the prayer in advance. It must convey not only the priesthood authority under which we dedicate this edifice, but also the hopes and desires of all who will enter the temple to perform this work. Immediately following the prayer is the Hosanna Shout which has been performed since ancient times. Then the choir sings the Hosanna Anthem, accompanied by the congregation singing "The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning." I can only say that after all the spirit felt immediately preceding the song, getting through it without losing control of my tear ducts was a real feat.
Mrs. Woody and I compared notes as we drove home. It was, for both of us, exactly what it needed to be; a chance to renew our commitment to the temple work, and an opportunity to share this experience together. Mrs. Woody could just as easily have attended the ceremony via the satellite broadcasts to our Stake Center, but she was allowed to come to the temple instead. With me. Another memory to seal in our hearts for eternity.
We will return. Often. And it will always be "our" temple.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
#69 - Sleep? Who Needs It?
In the twenty five or so years it has taken me to become one, I've learned that the requirements for being a "responsible adult" appear to include some sort of sleep deprivation.
This is difficult for me because I have no small amount of laziness in my psyche. If, for example, you show me a lawn mower and a yard full of towering grass, weeds, and assorted flotsam and jetsam, then tell me to decide whether to do yard work or read a book, I have no compunction whatsoever in choosing to read a book. Or take a nap. Or read a book and simply look like I'm taking a nap. Meanwhile, the yard continues to grow, Blob-like, until it consumes Steve McQueen.
This laziness goes waaaaaay back to when I was a rather young Woody and gave my parents fits whenever they tried to get me out of bed. My brother took this to an artistic level reserved for Rembrandt, but the legacy is mine. I learned early on how to ignore alarm clocks. The reason for this, of course, was refusing to get to bed anytime before the sun came up in the morning. I just couldn't do it. Not without brute force, anyway. I don't believe my parents ever resorted to lashing me into my bed with ropes or chains, but I'll bet they considered it.
As a teenager it only got worse. My nighttime habits stayed just as slovenly as before, thanks in part to my addiction to late night movies. Or, rather, my Dad's addiction to those movies. He loved them. I wasn't all that impressed with them, but it became a sort of bonding thing with us. We never talked. In fact, NO ONE spoke when Dad was watching a movie. That was the Kiss of Death in our home. But we could enjoy companionable silence with Dad if we shut up and watched.
Somewhere around midnight, Dad would cock one eye in my direction and say, "You have seminary in the morning." For the uninitiated, "seminary" is an opportunity for young people in the LDS church to wake up before the crack of dawn, drive or be driven to the church building, and fall asleep in a class where we were supposed to be learning about the Gospel. At least, that's how I handled it. My wife actually stayed awake through those classes. Those wimps in Utah have it much easier. They get to go to "release-time" seminary, which makes it part of their school day.
Anyway, Dad never pressed the point. He knew that it wouldn't work. I would tough out the movie, then make great noise about going up to bed, then sit up and read for about another hour. When the alarm would begin going off at 5:30, I knew Dad wouldn't be far behind. "Getcher butt outta that bed!" he would snarl. "Mmnmnn," I would mumble in response, then hit the snooze button. The invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks is another reason why the United States lags behind the rest of the world in productivity.
Dad operated on a "three strikes" principle. We got two snarls' worth of time to get out of bed and ready for school. The implied third strike would have meant Dad coming physically in to our rooms, risking his life on our cluttered floors, and yanking us out of our beds. We were always intimidated enough by Dad not to risk the third strike. This did NOT mean we were going to take defeat graciously. You never saw a surlier bunch of teenagers who were not addicted to recreational pharmaceuticals. We'd glower, snarl, crank, and otherwise torment our parents for having the nerve to make us get up and face the world. Dad, who was born responsible (according to his mother) and had gotten cheerfully out of bed before the crack of dawn every day of his mortal existence, would merely smirk at us and threaten to tell us how easy we had it compared to his own youth. This generally shut us up. He never actually used the "walking uphill both ways in the snow" line on us, but we have vivid recollections of dirt roads being called "Idaho superhighways," and other such nonsense.
Learning how to drive did not improve my inherent laziness. Where seminary was concerned, it only made things worse. They could get my sorry fanny out of bed at 0-dark-hundred; they could even make me drive myself to seminary. But they could NOT make me actually attend seminary. I spent the entire last two years of seminary sleeping in my car. Come to think of it, I believe I spent my last two years of high school the same way. Not that I'm proud of this.
Things started to improve when I went on my mission. In the field, you're expected to get up early, do your studying and have your prayers, then hit the "pavement" as soon as local custom allowed. This was one of the keys of success. Ironically, "pavement" in my mission looked suspiciously like "Idaho superhighways" in my Dad's day.
I might very well have lapsed back into my pre-mission laziness forever when I returned, had it not been for money. I needed a job, and employers get into this snit about having their employees show up on time. My first post-mission job was working in the stock room of a local jewelry store chain. I was to be among the first there in the morning so I could vacuum the red carpet in front of the store before it officially opened. I worked in North Hollywood, which was about a 45 minute commute from Simi Valley, and required my getting up before 7:00 every morning. What a wrench! (You veteran commuters are snorting into your caffeinated beverages with bitterness. 7:00! What you wouldn't give to sleep in until 7:00! Just wait.)
My next job, working at a factory where they made metal office furniture, began at 7:00, effectively moving my wake-up call to 6:00. I had discovered personal hygiene by that time, but could still do the whole thing in 15 minutes, thus making it out the door by 6:15. However, because of my laziness genes I had also begun to realize that I needed at least a half hour of wake up time, which meant having the alarm begin to go off (remember the snooze button?) at 5:30. The fact that I was getting into bed around 1:00 AM didn't faze me. I was an adult, I was earning money, and I could do what I darn'd well pleased!
Then I got married.
Snooze buttons are no match for a crazed half-Mexican half-Italian wife who isn't getting enough sleep herself because her deadbeat husband refuses to hear the blankety-blank alarm in the morning. Our bed suddenly seemed to acquire an ejection button. Her foot would get planted in the small of my back and -- ZINGO! -- I would find myself catapulted out onto the cold floor, ready to begin my day.
I had, by this time, acquired a desire to get to bed at a more reasonable hour every night. I was finally beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation that I had so carefully cultivated in my youth, and I actually began to see midnight as late, if you can imagine. Most unfortunately, my first wife, an inveterate talker, saw midnight as the perfect opportunity to discuss the pressing issues of our life together, and expected me to be awake for these sessions. (Note: this is NOT why my marriage to her dissolved. I'm not that shallow!) This wasn't too bad while we still lived less than an hour from my work. But when we moved to another town and I had to commute 70 miles one way every day, sleep began to take on a special significance. Now my alarm was going off at 4:00 in the morning, and my snooze buttons were decreasing. I was probably late far more often than would be strictly prudent, but that sense of "responsibility" was quickly overtaking me.
Jump ahead to a new life. New wife, new kids, old job. I'm back to commuting about 22 miles one way every day, and my alarm is back to 4:30. But my snoozes generally take me to about 5:00. I willingly choose to go into work early every day, because that allows me to come home that much earlier. My wife, bless her heart, has learned how to sleep through most of the snoozes. Because we have kids, we never get to go to bed when we want to, but we nearly always get to bed before midnight every night. I have at least that much going for me now.
These days I can rarely sleep beyond 7:00 in the morning on my off days. Either my bladder or my lower back just won't permit it. This morning I slept in until 9:00. Mom-in-law, who has been visiting with us this weekend, remarked that I slept longer than she was expecting. I replied that I was trying to make up for some of the sleep deprivation that I still have. Her comment back was, "I don't think you can ever make it up."
"I know that," I said. "I just don't think my body knows it."
This is difficult for me because I have no small amount of laziness in my psyche. If, for example, you show me a lawn mower and a yard full of towering grass, weeds, and assorted flotsam and jetsam, then tell me to decide whether to do yard work or read a book, I have no compunction whatsoever in choosing to read a book. Or take a nap. Or read a book and simply look like I'm taking a nap. Meanwhile, the yard continues to grow, Blob-like, until it consumes Steve McQueen.
This laziness goes waaaaaay back to when I was a rather young Woody and gave my parents fits whenever they tried to get me out of bed. My brother took this to an artistic level reserved for Rembrandt, but the legacy is mine. I learned early on how to ignore alarm clocks. The reason for this, of course, was refusing to get to bed anytime before the sun came up in the morning. I just couldn't do it. Not without brute force, anyway. I don't believe my parents ever resorted to lashing me into my bed with ropes or chains, but I'll bet they considered it.
As a teenager it only got worse. My nighttime habits stayed just as slovenly as before, thanks in part to my addiction to late night movies. Or, rather, my Dad's addiction to those movies. He loved them. I wasn't all that impressed with them, but it became a sort of bonding thing with us. We never talked. In fact, NO ONE spoke when Dad was watching a movie. That was the Kiss of Death in our home. But we could enjoy companionable silence with Dad if we shut up and watched.
Somewhere around midnight, Dad would cock one eye in my direction and say, "You have seminary in the morning." For the uninitiated, "seminary" is an opportunity for young people in the LDS church to wake up before the crack of dawn, drive or be driven to the church building, and fall asleep in a class where we were supposed to be learning about the Gospel. At least, that's how I handled it. My wife actually stayed awake through those classes. Those wimps in Utah have it much easier. They get to go to "release-time" seminary, which makes it part of their school day.
Anyway, Dad never pressed the point. He knew that it wouldn't work. I would tough out the movie, then make great noise about going up to bed, then sit up and read for about another hour. When the alarm would begin going off at 5:30, I knew Dad wouldn't be far behind. "Getcher butt outta that bed!" he would snarl. "Mmnmnn," I would mumble in response, then hit the snooze button. The invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks is another reason why the United States lags behind the rest of the world in productivity.
Dad operated on a "three strikes" principle. We got two snarls' worth of time to get out of bed and ready for school. The implied third strike would have meant Dad coming physically in to our rooms, risking his life on our cluttered floors, and yanking us out of our beds. We were always intimidated enough by Dad not to risk the third strike. This did NOT mean we were going to take defeat graciously. You never saw a surlier bunch of teenagers who were not addicted to recreational pharmaceuticals. We'd glower, snarl, crank, and otherwise torment our parents for having the nerve to make us get up and face the world. Dad, who was born responsible (according to his mother) and had gotten cheerfully out of bed before the crack of dawn every day of his mortal existence, would merely smirk at us and threaten to tell us how easy we had it compared to his own youth. This generally shut us up. He never actually used the "walking uphill both ways in the snow" line on us, but we have vivid recollections of dirt roads being called "Idaho superhighways," and other such nonsense.
Learning how to drive did not improve my inherent laziness. Where seminary was concerned, it only made things worse. They could get my sorry fanny out of bed at 0-dark-hundred; they could even make me drive myself to seminary. But they could NOT make me actually attend seminary. I spent the entire last two years of seminary sleeping in my car. Come to think of it, I believe I spent my last two years of high school the same way. Not that I'm proud of this.
Things started to improve when I went on my mission. In the field, you're expected to get up early, do your studying and have your prayers, then hit the "pavement" as soon as local custom allowed. This was one of the keys of success. Ironically, "pavement" in my mission looked suspiciously like "Idaho superhighways" in my Dad's day.
I might very well have lapsed back into my pre-mission laziness forever when I returned, had it not been for money. I needed a job, and employers get into this snit about having their employees show up on time. My first post-mission job was working in the stock room of a local jewelry store chain. I was to be among the first there in the morning so I could vacuum the red carpet in front of the store before it officially opened. I worked in North Hollywood, which was about a 45 minute commute from Simi Valley, and required my getting up before 7:00 every morning. What a wrench! (You veteran commuters are snorting into your caffeinated beverages with bitterness. 7:00! What you wouldn't give to sleep in until 7:00! Just wait.)
My next job, working at a factory where they made metal office furniture, began at 7:00, effectively moving my wake-up call to 6:00. I had discovered personal hygiene by that time, but could still do the whole thing in 15 minutes, thus making it out the door by 6:15. However, because of my laziness genes I had also begun to realize that I needed at least a half hour of wake up time, which meant having the alarm begin to go off (remember the snooze button?) at 5:30. The fact that I was getting into bed around 1:00 AM didn't faze me. I was an adult, I was earning money, and I could do what I darn'd well pleased!
Then I got married.
Snooze buttons are no match for a crazed half-Mexican half-Italian wife who isn't getting enough sleep herself because her deadbeat husband refuses to hear the blankety-blank alarm in the morning. Our bed suddenly seemed to acquire an ejection button. Her foot would get planted in the small of my back and -- ZINGO! -- I would find myself catapulted out onto the cold floor, ready to begin my day.
I had, by this time, acquired a desire to get to bed at a more reasonable hour every night. I was finally beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation that I had so carefully cultivated in my youth, and I actually began to see midnight as late, if you can imagine. Most unfortunately, my first wife, an inveterate talker, saw midnight as the perfect opportunity to discuss the pressing issues of our life together, and expected me to be awake for these sessions. (Note: this is NOT why my marriage to her dissolved. I'm not that shallow!) This wasn't too bad while we still lived less than an hour from my work. But when we moved to another town and I had to commute 70 miles one way every day, sleep began to take on a special significance. Now my alarm was going off at 4:00 in the morning, and my snooze buttons were decreasing. I was probably late far more often than would be strictly prudent, but that sense of "responsibility" was quickly overtaking me.
Jump ahead to a new life. New wife, new kids, old job. I'm back to commuting about 22 miles one way every day, and my alarm is back to 4:30. But my snoozes generally take me to about 5:00. I willingly choose to go into work early every day, because that allows me to come home that much earlier. My wife, bless her heart, has learned how to sleep through most of the snoozes. Because we have kids, we never get to go to bed when we want to, but we nearly always get to bed before midnight every night. I have at least that much going for me now.
These days I can rarely sleep beyond 7:00 in the morning on my off days. Either my bladder or my lower back just won't permit it. This morning I slept in until 9:00. Mom-in-law, who has been visiting with us this weekend, remarked that I slept longer than she was expecting. I replied that I was trying to make up for some of the sleep deprivation that I still have. Her comment back was, "I don't think you can ever make it up."
"I know that," I said. "I just don't think my body knows it."
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
#68 - Lost and Found. May I Help You?
"Hello? I'd like to report my summer missing."
"Ok, sir, just calm down. Let's start with your name..."
"Woody."
"Woody?"
"Yes."
"Just Woody?"
"Um, yes. Just Woody."
"Ok, 'Woody,' what can we do for you?"
"Well, as I was explaining, my summer is missing."
"Your summer is missing."
"That's right! I know I started out with it, but after vacation was over I noticed that it was gone!"
"Ooooookay. Missing summer... I don't suppose you can describe it?"
"Oh. Well, I've never tried to describe it before... this may come out a little weird..."
"That's ok. Try me."
"Ok. Um, where to begin? Well, it looks nearly the same every year. Lots of sunshine and hot, hot days. Sweaty yardwork. Backaches and allergies, of course. Oh, and lots of visits to family! Can't forget those!"
"I see. And you say you last saw it during your vacation?"
"Yeah... the details are a little fuzzy. You know how it is... I'm certain I saw it right up through the July 4th celebrations. After that it must have slipped out and I haven't seen it since."
"So your vacation was during the 4th holiday?"
"Yeah. Right around it. We took a train up to Washington, stayed with some friends... you know, that sort of thing."
"And when you came home, your summer was missing?"
"Exactly!"
"Ah, Mr. Woody, please don't take this wrong, but... what have you been doing since your vacation? That was a good month and a half ago..."
"I see your point. Well, let me think... Ok, we got sick a lot. Mrs. Woody had pneumonia for a couple of weeks, then one of my Woodyettes..."
"'Woodyettes?' You have 'Woodyettes?'"
"Yes. My daughters. Anyway, one of them got the flu, then I ended up with it. Then there's the move..."
"You moved?"
"Well, we're moving. Furniture, I mean. Like, the entire house, y'know?"
"And there's a reason for this?"
"Well, sure. We need to give the girls separate rooms now, and we can't lose our school room, so I needed to move our scrapbook cupboard into our bedroom so we could move the TV cab..."
"Spare me the details, Mr. Woody. So, this is what you've been doing with your time?"
"Pretty much. Oh! And preparing for our Temple dedication! I get to sing in one of the choirs, so I've been rehearsing a bit..."
"Ok, ok. I get the picture. Look, I'm not sure I know quite how to break this to you, Mr. Woody..."
"Just give it to me straight, officer."
"Right. Well, Mr. Woody, what you have here is your classic runaway."
"Runaway?"
"Yes, sir. Here's what happens: Summers like to be the center of everything. They expect people to go to the beach, right? I mean, all that warm weather and all those beaches you got out here. It's just natural, you know? Then, of course, there's the barbeques..."
"Barbeques?"
"Yeah! You know: firing up the ol' grill and charcoaling a few steaks or hot dogs. You done any of that this year?"
"Gee, no... I guess I haven't had time!"
"Well, there you go! And don't forget... summer can be pretty moody, too! Why, just last year, I forgot to waste one of my Saturdays at a golf tournament and actually did some yard work instead! Boy, summer didn't talk to me for nearly a week after that. You do play golf, don't you?"
"Um, no. Not really. No."
"Oh, dear. Well, look, Mr. Woody. I'll be blunt. If you don't pay attention to your summer, summer just isn't going to hang around. It's got enough to do without waiting for you to snap out of it and start paying attention. It simply went looking for someone else to play with."
"Man, that's brutal. I guess I didn't expect... Well, look, officer, I appreciate your time. I guess all I can do is try to salvage what summer I have left, huh?"
"That's right, Mr. Woody. Just try relaxing a bit and see if summer doesn't come sneaking back in. Heck, it's probably hiding right outside your front door right now. Hang up, go take a nice soothing shower, dress in some grubbies, and go have some fun. You'll feel much better."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! Gosh, thanks, officer! You've been a big help!"
"No problem, sir. Always here to help. Thanks for calling."
[sigh]
"Hey, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"I think it's time to retire the Lost and Found number. It's getting weird out there."
"Yeah."
"Ok, sir, just calm down. Let's start with your name..."
"Woody."
"Woody?"
"Yes."
"Just Woody?"
"Um, yes. Just Woody."
"Ok, 'Woody,' what can we do for you?"
"Well, as I was explaining, my summer is missing."
"Your summer is missing."
"That's right! I know I started out with it, but after vacation was over I noticed that it was gone!"
"Ooooookay. Missing summer... I don't suppose you can describe it?"
"Oh. Well, I've never tried to describe it before... this may come out a little weird..."
"That's ok. Try me."
"Ok. Um, where to begin? Well, it looks nearly the same every year. Lots of sunshine and hot, hot days. Sweaty yardwork. Backaches and allergies, of course. Oh, and lots of visits to family! Can't forget those!"
"I see. And you say you last saw it during your vacation?"
"Yeah... the details are a little fuzzy. You know how it is... I'm certain I saw it right up through the July 4th celebrations. After that it must have slipped out and I haven't seen it since."
"So your vacation was during the 4th holiday?"
"Yeah. Right around it. We took a train up to Washington, stayed with some friends... you know, that sort of thing."
"And when you came home, your summer was missing?"
"Exactly!"
"Ah, Mr. Woody, please don't take this wrong, but... what have you been doing since your vacation? That was a good month and a half ago..."
"I see your point. Well, let me think... Ok, we got sick a lot. Mrs. Woody had pneumonia for a couple of weeks, then one of my Woodyettes..."
"'Woodyettes?' You have 'Woodyettes?'"
"Yes. My daughters. Anyway, one of them got the flu, then I ended up with it. Then there's the move..."
"You moved?"
"Well, we're moving. Furniture, I mean. Like, the entire house, y'know?"
"And there's a reason for this?"
"Well, sure. We need to give the girls separate rooms now, and we can't lose our school room, so I needed to move our scrapbook cupboard into our bedroom so we could move the TV cab..."
"Spare me the details, Mr. Woody. So, this is what you've been doing with your time?"
"Pretty much. Oh! And preparing for our Temple dedication! I get to sing in one of the choirs, so I've been rehearsing a bit..."
"Ok, ok. I get the picture. Look, I'm not sure I know quite how to break this to you, Mr. Woody..."
"Just give it to me straight, officer."
"Right. Well, Mr. Woody, what you have here is your classic runaway."
"Runaway?"
"Yes, sir. Here's what happens: Summers like to be the center of everything. They expect people to go to the beach, right? I mean, all that warm weather and all those beaches you got out here. It's just natural, you know? Then, of course, there's the barbeques..."
"Barbeques?"
"Yeah! You know: firing up the ol' grill and charcoaling a few steaks or hot dogs. You done any of that this year?"
"Gee, no... I guess I haven't had time!"
"Well, there you go! And don't forget... summer can be pretty moody, too! Why, just last year, I forgot to waste one of my Saturdays at a golf tournament and actually did some yard work instead! Boy, summer didn't talk to me for nearly a week after that. You do play golf, don't you?"
"Um, no. Not really. No."
"Oh, dear. Well, look, Mr. Woody. I'll be blunt. If you don't pay attention to your summer, summer just isn't going to hang around. It's got enough to do without waiting for you to snap out of it and start paying attention. It simply went looking for someone else to play with."
"Man, that's brutal. I guess I didn't expect... Well, look, officer, I appreciate your time. I guess all I can do is try to salvage what summer I have left, huh?"
"That's right, Mr. Woody. Just try relaxing a bit and see if summer doesn't come sneaking back in. Heck, it's probably hiding right outside your front door right now. Hang up, go take a nice soothing shower, dress in some grubbies, and go have some fun. You'll feel much better."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! Gosh, thanks, officer! You've been a big help!"
"No problem, sir. Always here to help. Thanks for calling."
[sigh]
"Hey, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"I think it's time to retire the Lost and Found number. It's getting weird out there."
"Yeah."
Sunday, August 21, 2005
#67 - The Hormigaville Posse
Down in Hormigaville, the townfolk were abuzz with excitement. The dreaded outlaw, Blackeye Woody, was in the area. A wanted poster said, "Dead, Alive, or Severely Bitten." Blackeye had killed, maimed, or otherwise wiped out entire populations, and the law needed help. A posse was requested, and thousands answered the call.
No ordinary six-legged posse this; these hombres were tough. Built for strength and able to heft fifty times their own weight, they had only one disadvantage: they were about six million times smaller than their prey.
Still, you can't ignore the pleas of fellow citizens, especially when there's a harvest to bring in, and work to do before winter. Also, the queen (Yep. A queen. A grumpy one, too.) was mighty insistent. "Take him out, or don't bother coming home tonight!" she signalled.
So it was that, antennae quivering, the Hormigaville Posse rode into immortality.
They followed the trail south to Dead Ant Pass. The pass was treacherous, but a trifling inconvenience compared to what awaited them on the other side. Some fell to their deaths or lost their way, but most of the twenty or so thousand that joined up managed to stay with the pack.
Once clear of the path, the trail grew stronger. Blackeye, slob that he was, always left a trail. Crumbs of food led the way. A strong scent of protein announced that he was close. And deadly.
It happened so suddenly that the vanguard never knew what hit them. A flood of water suddenly swept through the arroyo, cutting off the advance scouts from the main group, taking hundreds of their comrades with it. Momentarily confused, the troops tried to find a way around the flood. Finally they found the scouts, after going around the canyon that had already spelled doom for their friends.
The scouts, however, did not have happy news to report. The trail had gone cold, and the crumbs that had been so plentiful earlier had somehow mysteriously vanished. Also, there was an equally mysterious smell in the air. A storm was brewing. Perhaps shelter should be sought?
"No!" shouted the leaders. "We have our orders! Blackeye must be found!"
Then, suddenly, a chilling sound filled the air. A deep, evil chuckle. "He's right here, boys," said Blackeye Woody. "And he's got a piece." With an evil sneer, Blackeye raised his dreaded weapon.
The posse began to scurry. It was every ant for himself as they looked for a hiding place. There were so many of them that they couldn't get out of each other's ways. The sneering laughter of Blackeye Woody grew louder until, suddenly, the deathly scent of mint filled each ant's nostrils (assuming, for the moment, that ants have nostrils). One breath was all it took, and thousands of the Hormigaville Posse gasped their last within minutes.
Few survived. Those that did managed to find their way back to town. For weeks afterward the legend of the Hormigaville Posse grew. In fact the ants, notorious for their ability to forget every disaster that had ever befallen them, were soon eager to return to the hunt. Another poster appeared in the window of the Sheriff. The new Sheriff, one of the survivors of the original Posse, smiled as he saw the thousands of eager recruits that had been born since the disaster that had nearly done him in. He would soon send these brave souls off to meet their certain doom.
He, of course, would be behind them.
No ordinary six-legged posse this; these hombres were tough. Built for strength and able to heft fifty times their own weight, they had only one disadvantage: they were about six million times smaller than their prey.
Still, you can't ignore the pleas of fellow citizens, especially when there's a harvest to bring in, and work to do before winter. Also, the queen (Yep. A queen. A grumpy one, too.) was mighty insistent. "Take him out, or don't bother coming home tonight!" she signalled.
So it was that, antennae quivering, the Hormigaville Posse rode into immortality.
They followed the trail south to Dead Ant Pass. The pass was treacherous, but a trifling inconvenience compared to what awaited them on the other side. Some fell to their deaths or lost their way, but most of the twenty or so thousand that joined up managed to stay with the pack.
Once clear of the path, the trail grew stronger. Blackeye, slob that he was, always left a trail. Crumbs of food led the way. A strong scent of protein announced that he was close. And deadly.
It happened so suddenly that the vanguard never knew what hit them. A flood of water suddenly swept through the arroyo, cutting off the advance scouts from the main group, taking hundreds of their comrades with it. Momentarily confused, the troops tried to find a way around the flood. Finally they found the scouts, after going around the canyon that had already spelled doom for their friends.
The scouts, however, did not have happy news to report. The trail had gone cold, and the crumbs that had been so plentiful earlier had somehow mysteriously vanished. Also, there was an equally mysterious smell in the air. A storm was brewing. Perhaps shelter should be sought?
"No!" shouted the leaders. "We have our orders! Blackeye must be found!"
Then, suddenly, a chilling sound filled the air. A deep, evil chuckle. "He's right here, boys," said Blackeye Woody. "And he's got a piece." With an evil sneer, Blackeye raised his dreaded weapon.
The posse began to scurry. It was every ant for himself as they looked for a hiding place. There were so many of them that they couldn't get out of each other's ways. The sneering laughter of Blackeye Woody grew louder until, suddenly, the deathly scent of mint filled each ant's nostrils (assuming, for the moment, that ants have nostrils). One breath was all it took, and thousands of the Hormigaville Posse gasped their last within minutes.
Few survived. Those that did managed to find their way back to town. For weeks afterward the legend of the Hormigaville Posse grew. In fact the ants, notorious for their ability to forget every disaster that had ever befallen them, were soon eager to return to the hunt. Another poster appeared in the window of the Sheriff. The new Sheriff, one of the survivors of the original Posse, smiled as he saw the thousands of eager recruits that had been born since the disaster that had nearly done him in. He would soon send these brave souls off to meet their certain doom.
He, of course, would be behind them.
#66 - Clutch Testimony
The open house for the Newport Beach Temple is officially over. Yesterday was the last day. Until Friday night, I had quite forgotten that I was supposed to work the open house as a volunteer for a four hour shift yesterday. The Move from Hades® has pretty much driven most of normal life from my fevered brain these past several days, and I was actually a little disappointed that I couldn't keep up the momentum. Still, duty calls; a chance to work at a temple open house comes only once or so in a lifetime.
Since it was our stake's turn, each ward made its plans to meet and carpool down to the temple. Our ward always meets in the parking lot of our local Albertson's. Always. Every youth activity that requires carpooling (which most do) begins at Albertson's. Since this was a temple excursion, we were all dressed in Sunday best; women in pretty dresses, and men in white shirts and ties, a few of us with coats. Our bishop commented that he wondered what people think when they see a gathering like ours. I said they probably think what I would think if I saw the same thing: "Jay-Dubs will be knocking on doors again this morning."
Anyway, we formed our pools and reported at the temple site. The temple is built adjacent to the Newport Beach Stake Center, which had been transformed temporarily into a Visitors Center. That was my assigned post. I was a "counter," which meant counting each person that came in for the tour. This was a good thing because I needed to sit frequently and save my aching feet and back. Since we who worked the doors also served as crowd control ( we could only let in groups of 35 to 40 at a time) I also had a chance to visit with many people from different parts of the country who had come to visit the temple. Many, of course, were Latter-day Saint faithfuls who wanted their families to see the temple that Mommy and Daddy would be visiting (hopefully) regularly. Others were there out of curiosity. Some had LDS neighbors or friends and wanted to get a better idea of what the temple is all about. In the five or so minutes that she waited at the door, I had a wonderful conversation with one gracious lady who wanted to know more about who could go in the temple once it was "closed" to the public, and why I thought the Church was such a fast-growing church.
This was an interesting exercise for me. I make no secret of my membership in the Church, even at work. And while I do on occasion have conversations with co-workers about the gospel, this was the first time I could recall having to explain about the temple since I had served as a stake missionary many years ago. I was also unprepared to answer the question. I thought, anyway.
It is a wonderful thing that the Spirit can fill the gaps in our own thinking. The question about who was eligible to enter the temple was relatively easy. The question about the growth of the Church, however, is pretty open-ended. There must be as many reasons why people join the Church as there are converts. But I needed a concise answer, and I felt prompted to say that, from my experience, it's our emphasis on the eternal nature of the family that would be one of our biggest draws. I talked about how the Church leads us to center our families around the Savior, and how that helps protect us from the evils of life. That (very) brief testimony seemed to resonate with the lady, and she thanked me for spending the time with her. At that moment it was their turn to enter for the tour.
I may have no way of knowing how - or even if - that testimony will affect that lady's life. The temple tour itself should have helped drive home the very simple point I tried to make in my own feeble way, and I hope it did. Looking back on the experience, I hope I wasn't too preachy. I hope I said the right things. I hope she could feel the Spirit that inevitably radiates from such a holy place, even though it isn't yet dedicated.
My family missed the open house this year. Circumstances just didn't allow it, between our own health and other extended family issues that we've been dealing with. It's disappointing, but I had an idea that I shared with Mrs. Woody. The Sacramento Temple is under construction, and I'm guessing it will be open next year some time. It would be a neat family vacation to visit the state capitol and time it to coincide with that temple's open house. Since we homeschool, we can get away with that no matter what time of year that may be. We have some good friends in the area, and I know they'd put us up for a night or two. This bears some thought, but I'm already getting excited about the trip.
I really want the Woodyettes to appreciate the blessings that come from visiting one of the holiest places on the earth today.
Since it was our stake's turn, each ward made its plans to meet and carpool down to the temple. Our ward always meets in the parking lot of our local Albertson's. Always. Every youth activity that requires carpooling (which most do) begins at Albertson's. Since this was a temple excursion, we were all dressed in Sunday best; women in pretty dresses, and men in white shirts and ties, a few of us with coats. Our bishop commented that he wondered what people think when they see a gathering like ours. I said they probably think what I would think if I saw the same thing: "Jay-Dubs will be knocking on doors again this morning."
Anyway, we formed our pools and reported at the temple site. The temple is built adjacent to the Newport Beach Stake Center, which had been transformed temporarily into a Visitors Center. That was my assigned post. I was a "counter," which meant counting each person that came in for the tour. This was a good thing because I needed to sit frequently and save my aching feet and back. Since we who worked the doors also served as crowd control ( we could only let in groups of 35 to 40 at a time) I also had a chance to visit with many people from different parts of the country who had come to visit the temple. Many, of course, were Latter-day Saint faithfuls who wanted their families to see the temple that Mommy and Daddy would be visiting (hopefully) regularly. Others were there out of curiosity. Some had LDS neighbors or friends and wanted to get a better idea of what the temple is all about. In the five or so minutes that she waited at the door, I had a wonderful conversation with one gracious lady who wanted to know more about who could go in the temple once it was "closed" to the public, and why I thought the Church was such a fast-growing church.
This was an interesting exercise for me. I make no secret of my membership in the Church, even at work. And while I do on occasion have conversations with co-workers about the gospel, this was the first time I could recall having to explain about the temple since I had served as a stake missionary many years ago. I was also unprepared to answer the question. I thought, anyway.
It is a wonderful thing that the Spirit can fill the gaps in our own thinking. The question about who was eligible to enter the temple was relatively easy. The question about the growth of the Church, however, is pretty open-ended. There must be as many reasons why people join the Church as there are converts. But I needed a concise answer, and I felt prompted to say that, from my experience, it's our emphasis on the eternal nature of the family that would be one of our biggest draws. I talked about how the Church leads us to center our families around the Savior, and how that helps protect us from the evils of life. That (very) brief testimony seemed to resonate with the lady, and she thanked me for spending the time with her. At that moment it was their turn to enter for the tour.
I may have no way of knowing how - or even if - that testimony will affect that lady's life. The temple tour itself should have helped drive home the very simple point I tried to make in my own feeble way, and I hope it did. Looking back on the experience, I hope I wasn't too preachy. I hope I said the right things. I hope she could feel the Spirit that inevitably radiates from such a holy place, even though it isn't yet dedicated.
My family missed the open house this year. Circumstances just didn't allow it, between our own health and other extended family issues that we've been dealing with. It's disappointing, but I had an idea that I shared with Mrs. Woody. The Sacramento Temple is under construction, and I'm guessing it will be open next year some time. It would be a neat family vacation to visit the state capitol and time it to coincide with that temple's open house. Since we homeschool, we can get away with that no matter what time of year that may be. We have some good friends in the area, and I know they'd put us up for a night or two. This bears some thought, but I'm already getting excited about the trip.
I really want the Woodyettes to appreciate the blessings that come from visiting one of the holiest places on the earth today.
Friday, August 19, 2005
#65 - "The Move from Hades©" - An Update
Forget Geocaching™. I've found the ultimate treasure hunting thrill right in my own home. No GPS transponder required. All you really need are a stiff back and extremely sore muscles.
Wednesday night found me rearranging the master bedroom. I hadn't intended to do it all at once. Really I hadn't. The night before I was looking through my collection of LPs. (For those of you born after 1980: LPs are to the recording industry what 8" floppy disks are the computer industry. They're like compact discs, but they're black, wobbly, and only hold about 45 minutes of music. We used to spend thousands of dollars on equipment to play them, and now I consider it a thrill to find a turntable in an electronics store. I think they call them "legacy audio equipment" now. People nowadays collect LPs for the cover art.)
My original intent was to search for any recordings I may have of Mozart's music as the girls will be studying major composers during this coming school year. We keep the LPs in a small credenza-like cabinet that has been serving as Mrs. Woody's nightstand since we moved into this house. They haven't been properly organized since the move, so I had to go through every one of them to find my classical recordings. Mrs. Woody saw me and helpfully suggested that, hey, since we're going to move that piece to another wall as part of "The Move from Hades©" anyway, I may was well move it while I had the entire collection out on the floor.
So I did.
You know how sharks begin circling whenever fish are in distress? This describes Mrs. Woody's behavior as soon as the nightstand was moved. "I'm excited to get the rest of the room done now!" she said. There was an odd sheen in her eyes as she said it. "This means it's really started, right?" she asked rhetorically.
Of course it's started. I knew only too well that once that first piece was moved, however insignificant, it would open the flood-gates and I would be committed. All the next day, when I should have had my mind on a team workshop that I was hosting, I was instead thinking, "So if I clear out all those bags of hand-me-downs for the girls and get the donatable stuff loaded in my car, I can move the armoire over to it's new place where the credenza used to be, and that would mean I could move the bookcases over..." And so it went.
No sooner did I get home than I began rearranging the bedroom. Once the armoire was moved, I figured I could just empty each bookcase (there are 5!) and move it into place, as soon as I got the bed out of the way. That meant tipping the bed up on its side so I could move all the other pieces before putting the bed back down. I first tipped the mattress, then the boxspring and - Lo! Could it be...? Maggie Raggie!
Several months ago, our Doodle Woodyette was bereft because we were certain that this particular doll had been lost forever. We assumed that on one of our frequent junkets to Ventura county, the doll had been dropped in either Grandma's house, or the cousins' house, either of which meant almost certain doom for a smallish rag doll. Searches of both houses had turned up nothing, and Doodle was nearly inconsolable for a few weeks after that. We even went on eBay a couple of months ago to find one because Doodle kept bringing up how much she missed her favorite doll. Nothing is ever as good as the original, however, and the new Maggie was smaller than the one Doodle used to have. It was okay, but it wasn't the really real Maggie.
The look on Doodle's face when she was presented with the real thing was priceless. She (Maggie) was a little the worse for dust, but otherwise in primo condition. She has not been long out of Doodle's sight since.
Anyway, happy reunions complete, I plowed ahead with the rest of the rearrangement. It took longer than I had originally estimated, but the result was a room that makes much more efficient use of space, and gives Mrs. Woody and me a sense of being in a whole new room. In fact, that first night sleeping in it reminded us both of sleeping in a hotel. Comfortable but unfamiliar.
Last night didn't feel quite as productive as I only moved one piece. It's a big piece, though, and it has a twin. Both pieces need to be in our bedroom, and represent the keystone of the remainder of "The Move from Hades©." Once those pieces are in place, we can begin moving the other rooms around, including giving the Woodyettes separate rooms for the first time. Also, it's not just a simple matter of moving a piece from point A to point B. Each piece has to be emptied first, dusted thoroughly, then moved, then items returned in an organized fashion. The carpet under each piece gets thoroughly vacuumed as well, as our furniture only gets moved once in a presidential administration. So the net move was one piece, but I'm still sore and stiff this morning.
Meet my new friend. I think he's a hip-hop star. Calls himself "Icy-Hot." I found him in the drug store under "Analgesics."
Wednesday night found me rearranging the master bedroom. I hadn't intended to do it all at once. Really I hadn't. The night before I was looking through my collection of LPs. (For those of you born after 1980: LPs are to the recording industry what 8" floppy disks are the computer industry. They're like compact discs, but they're black, wobbly, and only hold about 45 minutes of music. We used to spend thousands of dollars on equipment to play them, and now I consider it a thrill to find a turntable in an electronics store. I think they call them "legacy audio equipment" now. People nowadays collect LPs for the cover art.)
My original intent was to search for any recordings I may have of Mozart's music as the girls will be studying major composers during this coming school year. We keep the LPs in a small credenza-like cabinet that has been serving as Mrs. Woody's nightstand since we moved into this house. They haven't been properly organized since the move, so I had to go through every one of them to find my classical recordings. Mrs. Woody saw me and helpfully suggested that, hey, since we're going to move that piece to another wall as part of "The Move from Hades©" anyway, I may was well move it while I had the entire collection out on the floor.
So I did.
You know how sharks begin circling whenever fish are in distress? This describes Mrs. Woody's behavior as soon as the nightstand was moved. "I'm excited to get the rest of the room done now!" she said. There was an odd sheen in her eyes as she said it. "This means it's really started, right?" she asked rhetorically.
Of course it's started. I knew only too well that once that first piece was moved, however insignificant, it would open the flood-gates and I would be committed. All the next day, when I should have had my mind on a team workshop that I was hosting, I was instead thinking, "So if I clear out all those bags of hand-me-downs for the girls and get the donatable stuff loaded in my car, I can move the armoire over to it's new place where the credenza used to be, and that would mean I could move the bookcases over..." And so it went.
No sooner did I get home than I began rearranging the bedroom. Once the armoire was moved, I figured I could just empty each bookcase (there are 5!) and move it into place, as soon as I got the bed out of the way. That meant tipping the bed up on its side so I could move all the other pieces before putting the bed back down. I first tipped the mattress, then the boxspring and - Lo! Could it be...? Maggie Raggie!
Several months ago, our Doodle Woodyette was bereft because we were certain that this particular doll had been lost forever. We assumed that on one of our frequent junkets to Ventura county, the doll had been dropped in either Grandma's house, or the cousins' house, either of which meant almost certain doom for a smallish rag doll. Searches of both houses had turned up nothing, and Doodle was nearly inconsolable for a few weeks after that. We even went on eBay a couple of months ago to find one because Doodle kept bringing up how much she missed her favorite doll. Nothing is ever as good as the original, however, and the new Maggie was smaller than the one Doodle used to have. It was okay, but it wasn't the really real Maggie.
The look on Doodle's face when she was presented with the real thing was priceless. She (Maggie) was a little the worse for dust, but otherwise in primo condition. She has not been long out of Doodle's sight since.
Anyway, happy reunions complete, I plowed ahead with the rest of the rearrangement. It took longer than I had originally estimated, but the result was a room that makes much more efficient use of space, and gives Mrs. Woody and me a sense of being in a whole new room. In fact, that first night sleeping in it reminded us both of sleeping in a hotel. Comfortable but unfamiliar.
Last night didn't feel quite as productive as I only moved one piece. It's a big piece, though, and it has a twin. Both pieces need to be in our bedroom, and represent the keystone of the remainder of "The Move from Hades©." Once those pieces are in place, we can begin moving the other rooms around, including giving the Woodyettes separate rooms for the first time. Also, it's not just a simple matter of moving a piece from point A to point B. Each piece has to be emptied first, dusted thoroughly, then moved, then items returned in an organized fashion. The carpet under each piece gets thoroughly vacuumed as well, as our furniture only gets moved once in a presidential administration. So the net move was one piece, but I'm still sore and stiff this morning.
Meet my new friend. I think he's a hip-hop star. Calls himself "Icy-Hot." I found him in the drug store under "Analgesics."
Saturday, August 13, 2005
#64 - The School Year Approacheth!
Well, a number of circumstances have conspired against us this summer, and I am nowhere near ready to give Mrs. Woody her schoolroom that we had hoped to have ready for this session. Ilnesses and family obligations have shnorked up all available time, so that we find ourselves facing yet another term gathered around the dining room table.
This is not a problem.
Headmistress and Teacher Mrs. Woody is deep into her preparations for the coming year. I have mentioned elsewhere that she has so much material available to her that our out-of-pocket expenses are once again minimal. A couple of new curriculum aids and a few more books. All set!
She has had the printer working overtime. In fact, we're becoming disgruntled with our generally reliable HP 960c (yeah, it's old, but it's been terrific!) because it isn't handling cardstock very well, and cardstock is one of Mrs. Woody's chief project materials. Also, our scanner has grown obsolete with an increase in school and family history scanning. So now we're eyeballing a new scanner and - if it doesn't repent soon - a new printer. I'd get one of those all-in-ones, but I really need high-speed scanning that also handles slides and transparencies. Suggestions welcomed.
Little Sis in Simi Valley is jazzed about the coming school year, but for different reasons. She knows my opinion of homeschooling, and who can or should homeschool. Little Sis is probably not one of them. Certainly not yet. She has three of the most energetic small boys I've ever witnessed, and I used to have three energetic small boys in my house in a past life. I had once upon a time harbored fantasies of teaching all three of them, but realistically I had no chance. The two smaller boys were both foster children, and the older of the two had severe behavioral problems. It required nearly all of my time and energy just keeping him from harming himself and the others.
In Little Sis's case, her three boys require so much attention that having just the oldest one begin Kindergarten this year is really something of a relief for her. Hence her exuberant "WHEEEEEE!" at the prospect. The one starting school this year is not the one requiring the most attention, by any means. That honor belongs to her middle child. He is a dear, sweet boy who also happens to be an explorer. His predominant thought must be, "What if...?" It's never malicious. It's just the result of a natural curiosity that needs to be harnessed and somehow turned over to the military for possible tactics against the enemy.
"Sir! We've found a terrorist cell in the next town! Intel says they've just whitewashed the entire town so it will blind us when we enter!"
"Hmm. Lieutenant! Send in the Joshinator!"
I believe I've said this just about everywhere but in one of my actual blogs. Certainly I've said this to both of my married sisters on one occasion or another. Homeschooling is not for everyone. Not everyone has the disposition to homeschool, or circumstances dictate another course. I do, however, feel strongly that whether a family homeschools or not, parents need to be actively involved in their kids' lives - school included. Neither of my sisters or their hubbies are the kind to simply abdicate their responsibilities to a school, no matter how good that school may be. I have no fear for their children's spiritual base, and that's really far more important than the actual quality of their education anyway.
(Note to my nieces and nephews: I am not absolving you from trying hard at school! Any attempt to construe my remarks that way will be met with swift and powerful vengeance! I will get a credential and become your teacher for the express purpose of embarrassing you for the rest of your school careers!)
We look forward to this school year. I hope you do, too.
This is not a problem.
Headmistress and Teacher Mrs. Woody is deep into her preparations for the coming year. I have mentioned elsewhere that she has so much material available to her that our out-of-pocket expenses are once again minimal. A couple of new curriculum aids and a few more books. All set!
She has had the printer working overtime. In fact, we're becoming disgruntled with our generally reliable HP 960c (yeah, it's old, but it's been terrific!) because it isn't handling cardstock very well, and cardstock is one of Mrs. Woody's chief project materials. Also, our scanner has grown obsolete with an increase in school and family history scanning. So now we're eyeballing a new scanner and - if it doesn't repent soon - a new printer. I'd get one of those all-in-ones, but I really need high-speed scanning that also handles slides and transparencies. Suggestions welcomed.
Little Sis in Simi Valley is jazzed about the coming school year, but for different reasons. She knows my opinion of homeschooling, and who can or should homeschool. Little Sis is probably not one of them. Certainly not yet. She has three of the most energetic small boys I've ever witnessed, and I used to have three energetic small boys in my house in a past life. I had once upon a time harbored fantasies of teaching all three of them, but realistically I had no chance. The two smaller boys were both foster children, and the older of the two had severe behavioral problems. It required nearly all of my time and energy just keeping him from harming himself and the others.
In Little Sis's case, her three boys require so much attention that having just the oldest one begin Kindergarten this year is really something of a relief for her. Hence her exuberant "WHEEEEEE!" at the prospect. The one starting school this year is not the one requiring the most attention, by any means. That honor belongs to her middle child. He is a dear, sweet boy who also happens to be an explorer. His predominant thought must be, "What if...?" It's never malicious. It's just the result of a natural curiosity that needs to be harnessed and somehow turned over to the military for possible tactics against the enemy.
"Sir! We've found a terrorist cell in the next town! Intel says they've just whitewashed the entire town so it will blind us when we enter!"
"Hmm. Lieutenant! Send in the Joshinator!"
I believe I've said this just about everywhere but in one of my actual blogs. Certainly I've said this to both of my married sisters on one occasion or another. Homeschooling is not for everyone. Not everyone has the disposition to homeschool, or circumstances dictate another course. I do, however, feel strongly that whether a family homeschools or not, parents need to be actively involved in their kids' lives - school included. Neither of my sisters or their hubbies are the kind to simply abdicate their responsibilities to a school, no matter how good that school may be. I have no fear for their children's spiritual base, and that's really far more important than the actual quality of their education anyway.
(Note to my nieces and nephews: I am not absolving you from trying hard at school! Any attempt to construe my remarks that way will be met with swift and powerful vengeance! I will get a credential and become your teacher for the express purpose of embarrassing you for the rest of your school careers!)
We look forward to this school year. I hope you do, too.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
#63 - Fascinated by Ants
I am not fascinated by ants. Any interest in or sympathy with these tiny terrorists dissipated about eight months after we moved to Orange County and found that the Invasion is a regular summer occurrence. We catalog infestations the way Florida catalogs hurricanes. We're up to Infestation Quincy about now. It was a Category 5 infestation at first, but has since died down to a Tropical Depression. That is, I'm already depressed about having to deal with these pygmy pantry poachers.
It's my daughters who have become fascinated by the ants. It started with the Jelly Woodyette - the older one - noticing that she could easily move ants away from their chosen path by merely blowing on them. What power! Look how they scurry! This is, I have to remind myself, the same child that will refuse to eat at the table when those same ants are scouting for crumbs the girls have dropped. Of course there are crumbs. Of course there are ants looking for them. I tell Jelly these critters are the same ones she loves to torment in the kitchen, but she refuses to eat at the table.
The younger 'Ette has now picked up the script and also begun to poke around on the trail. I can tell the girls to leave the silly things alone until I'm blue, but they won't listen. Far more powerful than a father's exhortations is the scientific curiosity that has been awakened in them.
Meanwhile, the ants exhibit some pretty interesting behaviors themselves as a result of all this unwanted attention. I've studied them in spite of myself, and have made the following observations:
1. Ants aren't so very different from your average California commuter. The California vehicle code demands that motorists automatically slow to what we call the "Lookey-Loo" crawl the moment they see anything unusual on or immediately to the side of the road. One day (true story) I was driving a commuter van down the mountain from the high desert to "The Valley" at 5:30 in the morning. We came up on a very sudden, very slow patch of traffic in an unusual place. I suspected there must be an accident ahead, but of course I was wrong. What had every driver's attention on that freeway was a lone man walking well off the side of the road wearing a fishing hat.
Ants behave much the same way. When my daughters poke at an ant, or blow one out of line, a cluster of ants soon forms around the victim (or the spot where the victim used to be), acting exactly like California commuters who are wondering what exactly happened. Perhaps some of them have tiny cell phones out to call; not 9-1-1, but the local traffic reporter who will mistakenly announce that the incident occured in the southbound lanes instead of the northbound ones. After several minutes (equal to two or three hours in ant-time) the normal flow of traffic resumes.
2. Ants do not understand the implications of road kill. I have tried just about every means available to modern man to eradicate these pests. I have bait traps set all around the house, inside and out. I have tried numerous varieties of insecticides, having now settled on one that is supposed to be "food grade," but also makes your house smell like you've suddenly sprouted wild mint in your kitchen. I will, as a matter of course, mash ants on my sink while I'm doing dishes. Similar to the California commuter phenomenon, the ants will cluster around the dead ants as if they were ambulance chasers. "We can help!" they seem to say. "We can make sure your next of kin are well cared for with a hefty settlement against the 'deep pockets' humans!" Then they leave their little business cards and scurry away.
3. Ants are probably well versed in basic battle tactics. They know they have strength in numbers. They also have no compunction about sacrificing any number of troops in anticipation that the enemy will try something on one flank, and they can bring in reinforcements from another. Take my kitchen stove, for example. Heaven help me if I cook something with a high protein content, then leave the pan on the stove for an hour or two before cleaning up. Before I know it, some 20,000 of them suddenly appear and begin crawling all around the pan. In the meantime, someone wants me to warm up some hot dogs, and I put them in another pan to boil. The ants immediately surrounding the neighboring burner will simmer right along with the weiners, and leave hundreds of little empty ant-husks on the stove. Meanwhile, in the overhead vent, I swear I can hear thousands of tiny chuckles.
Anyway, Infestation Quincy has nearly burned itself out, but I'm already seeing scouts from Tropical Infestation Reina snooping around in the kids' bathroom. Time to make the bathroom smell minty fresh, I suppose.
It's my daughters who have become fascinated by the ants. It started with the Jelly Woodyette - the older one - noticing that she could easily move ants away from their chosen path by merely blowing on them. What power! Look how they scurry! This is, I have to remind myself, the same child that will refuse to eat at the table when those same ants are scouting for crumbs the girls have dropped. Of course there are crumbs. Of course there are ants looking for them. I tell Jelly these critters are the same ones she loves to torment in the kitchen, but she refuses to eat at the table.
The younger 'Ette has now picked up the script and also begun to poke around on the trail. I can tell the girls to leave the silly things alone until I'm blue, but they won't listen. Far more powerful than a father's exhortations is the scientific curiosity that has been awakened in them.
Meanwhile, the ants exhibit some pretty interesting behaviors themselves as a result of all this unwanted attention. I've studied them in spite of myself, and have made the following observations:
1. Ants aren't so very different from your average California commuter. The California vehicle code demands that motorists automatically slow to what we call the "Lookey-Loo" crawl the moment they see anything unusual on or immediately to the side of the road. One day (true story) I was driving a commuter van down the mountain from the high desert to "The Valley" at 5:30 in the morning. We came up on a very sudden, very slow patch of traffic in an unusual place. I suspected there must be an accident ahead, but of course I was wrong. What had every driver's attention on that freeway was a lone man walking well off the side of the road wearing a fishing hat.
Ants behave much the same way. When my daughters poke at an ant, or blow one out of line, a cluster of ants soon forms around the victim (or the spot where the victim used to be), acting exactly like California commuters who are wondering what exactly happened. Perhaps some of them have tiny cell phones out to call; not 9-1-1, but the local traffic reporter who will mistakenly announce that the incident occured in the southbound lanes instead of the northbound ones. After several minutes (equal to two or three hours in ant-time) the normal flow of traffic resumes.
2. Ants do not understand the implications of road kill. I have tried just about every means available to modern man to eradicate these pests. I have bait traps set all around the house, inside and out. I have tried numerous varieties of insecticides, having now settled on one that is supposed to be "food grade," but also makes your house smell like you've suddenly sprouted wild mint in your kitchen. I will, as a matter of course, mash ants on my sink while I'm doing dishes. Similar to the California commuter phenomenon, the ants will cluster around the dead ants as if they were ambulance chasers. "We can help!" they seem to say. "We can make sure your next of kin are well cared for with a hefty settlement against the 'deep pockets' humans!" Then they leave their little business cards and scurry away.
3. Ants are probably well versed in basic battle tactics. They know they have strength in numbers. They also have no compunction about sacrificing any number of troops in anticipation that the enemy will try something on one flank, and they can bring in reinforcements from another. Take my kitchen stove, for example. Heaven help me if I cook something with a high protein content, then leave the pan on the stove for an hour or two before cleaning up. Before I know it, some 20,000 of them suddenly appear and begin crawling all around the pan. In the meantime, someone wants me to warm up some hot dogs, and I put them in another pan to boil. The ants immediately surrounding the neighboring burner will simmer right along with the weiners, and leave hundreds of little empty ant-husks on the stove. Meanwhile, in the overhead vent, I swear I can hear thousands of tiny chuckles.
Anyway, Infestation Quincy has nearly burned itself out, but I'm already seeing scouts from Tropical Infestation Reina snooping around in the kids' bathroom. Time to make the bathroom smell minty fresh, I suppose.
Monday, August 08, 2005
#62 - Taking a Look at One's Self
Dads need hobbies. Mine are blogging, family history, trains, and the performing arts.
Among the piles of videos and DVDs in our family room are a few videos of yours truly performing in a variety of musical comedies dating back to about 1989. That is, by no means, when my acting "career" began, nor does it represent the earliest known video recording of my work. There is at least one missing video of a Broadway revue I did for Church in 1983 that I haven't seen in years. Also, back in high school I was taped as part of a school project while doing "The Mikado" in my senior year. This would have been done on 3/4" broadcast tape in the days before VHS or Beta ever existed. I harbor no expectations that the school ever kept that tape around. Certainly not for nearly 30 years after I graduated.
Every once in a great while I dust off the old videos and watch them, mostly out of morbid curiosity. I always wonder whether my performance on tape ever matches my recollection. In my memory, there are always bits and pieces that I felt at the time worked very well. Then I watch them on tape and realize that the audience needed to be speed-listeners because I was tossing the delivery off at a cool 100 words per minute. I still managed to get laughs (I am always a comic relief in these affairs) at the appropriate moments, so I must have been doing something right. Appearances to the contrary.
I guess it's true that we are always our own harshest critics. When I watch these performances of mine, I watch them with a very critical eye. I catch every single move and say to myself, "Find something else to do with those hands!" They seem to flail about as if demonically possessed. I don't ever remember telling my hands to do that, but there they are, on tape, doing precisely that. (You may wonder what "that" really is. It's nothing that isn't family safe, I assure you. Neither, however, can I really describe these movements in words. It's something you need to see to understand.)
My voice has always mystified me. From inside my own head, my voice isn't really that bad. On tape it sounds like a toned-down version of Gomer Pyle. Even my singing voice astonishes me, and not always in a good way. I did some solo work for a Messiah sing-along last winter, and on tape I have a timbre that sounds like, I don't know, like someone having gargled Clorox moments before the concert. (Kids: Don't try this at home!)
My wife always gets after me when I criticize myself this way. She'll probably do so when she reads this post. She always tells me how wonderful my voice really is, and I suppose it does work well for some things. I just have to realize that, as much as I enjoy singing, I really have to be careful what music I choose to perform. Technically, I'm a tenor. However, I am nowhere near as nimble in my upper register as I was 30 years ago. I am also not a baritone, however much I'd like to be one. I just don't have the kind of timbre to pull it off. I'm really a second tenor, and no one writes solo work for second tenors.
[sigh]
On the other hand, I have been richly blessed with these talents I possess. Really, so long as I don't watch too many tapes of myself, I'm not bad at what I do. Mrs. Woody always points out that, during curtain calls, I get the loudest applause. I always assume this is out of relief that they don't have to watch me anymore, but she feels differently. Also, there is no greater rush than playing a scene for a laugh, and getting it. Or having your director come up to you and say, "I'd suggest some blocking here, but I'd rather you just follow your comic instincts in this scene!" Huh? I have comic instincts? Who'da thunk?
Also, when I do sing solos in Church, everyone is very gracious in their compliments. I even had one man come up to me after one such solo and say, "No matter where you are when I die, I want you to come and sing that for my funeral."
(On a side note: Mom-in-law related the following story. One gracious lady had been told precisely that same thing about singing at someone's funeral when he died. However, by the time the fellow died no one remembered his ever having suggested it. So, on the day of the funeral, this gracious lady showed up, ready to sing in fulfillment of her presumed obligation. The Bishop felt awkward about it, but the family agreed to let her sing. Most unfortunately, the ensuing years had not been kind to the lady's voice, and her rendition was painfully embarrassing to those in attendance. I therefore will agree to sing for funerals only when the requestor is very recently acquainted with my vocal abilities. Just to be safe.)
Every once in a great while I get a hankering to do some stage work again. The problem is that I'm now in an area where no one has heard of me, theatrically, and it's hard to break into repertory companies without having contacts. Also, I have reached a level of physical conditioning that pretty much requires parts that require little or no movement on stage (which runs very contrary to my native style!) so I won't break into a sweat after every scene. I had precisely that problem during my last full production (Mozart's "The Magic Flute") nearly eight years ago. I have not improved much on my conditioning since that time.
Also, I'm incredibly busy most of the time. I'm a group lead at work, which often requires extra hours of work, often from home. I'm a Family History Consultant at Church, and that frequently requires time during the week. We're homeschooling the kids, so when I'm not at work I'm often taking the kids on field trips, or to the library for Story Time. So, something has to take a back seat, and acting is it. At least, for now.
Although, I gotta say, if Melchior from "Amahl and the Night Visitors" ever comes my way, I'm jumping on it. I just won't watch the tapes later.
Among the piles of videos and DVDs in our family room are a few videos of yours truly performing in a variety of musical comedies dating back to about 1989. That is, by no means, when my acting "career" began, nor does it represent the earliest known video recording of my work. There is at least one missing video of a Broadway revue I did for Church in 1983 that I haven't seen in years. Also, back in high school I was taped as part of a school project while doing "The Mikado" in my senior year. This would have been done on 3/4" broadcast tape in the days before VHS or Beta ever existed. I harbor no expectations that the school ever kept that tape around. Certainly not for nearly 30 years after I graduated.
Every once in a great while I dust off the old videos and watch them, mostly out of morbid curiosity. I always wonder whether my performance on tape ever matches my recollection. In my memory, there are always bits and pieces that I felt at the time worked very well. Then I watch them on tape and realize that the audience needed to be speed-listeners because I was tossing the delivery off at a cool 100 words per minute. I still managed to get laughs (I am always a comic relief in these affairs) at the appropriate moments, so I must have been doing something right. Appearances to the contrary.
I guess it's true that we are always our own harshest critics. When I watch these performances of mine, I watch them with a very critical eye. I catch every single move and say to myself, "Find something else to do with those hands!" They seem to flail about as if demonically possessed. I don't ever remember telling my hands to do that, but there they are, on tape, doing precisely that. (You may wonder what "that" really is. It's nothing that isn't family safe, I assure you. Neither, however, can I really describe these movements in words. It's something you need to see to understand.)
My voice has always mystified me. From inside my own head, my voice isn't really that bad. On tape it sounds like a toned-down version of Gomer Pyle. Even my singing voice astonishes me, and not always in a good way. I did some solo work for a Messiah sing-along last winter, and on tape I have a timbre that sounds like, I don't know, like someone having gargled Clorox moments before the concert. (Kids: Don't try this at home!)
My wife always gets after me when I criticize myself this way. She'll probably do so when she reads this post. She always tells me how wonderful my voice really is, and I suppose it does work well for some things. I just have to realize that, as much as I enjoy singing, I really have to be careful what music I choose to perform. Technically, I'm a tenor. However, I am nowhere near as nimble in my upper register as I was 30 years ago. I am also not a baritone, however much I'd like to be one. I just don't have the kind of timbre to pull it off. I'm really a second tenor, and no one writes solo work for second tenors.
[sigh]
On the other hand, I have been richly blessed with these talents I possess. Really, so long as I don't watch too many tapes of myself, I'm not bad at what I do. Mrs. Woody always points out that, during curtain calls, I get the loudest applause. I always assume this is out of relief that they don't have to watch me anymore, but she feels differently. Also, there is no greater rush than playing a scene for a laugh, and getting it. Or having your director come up to you and say, "I'd suggest some blocking here, but I'd rather you just follow your comic instincts in this scene!" Huh? I have comic instincts? Who'da thunk?
Also, when I do sing solos in Church, everyone is very gracious in their compliments. I even had one man come up to me after one such solo and say, "No matter where you are when I die, I want you to come and sing that for my funeral."
(On a side note: Mom-in-law related the following story. One gracious lady had been told precisely that same thing about singing at someone's funeral when he died. However, by the time the fellow died no one remembered his ever having suggested it. So, on the day of the funeral, this gracious lady showed up, ready to sing in fulfillment of her presumed obligation. The Bishop felt awkward about it, but the family agreed to let her sing. Most unfortunately, the ensuing years had not been kind to the lady's voice, and her rendition was painfully embarrassing to those in attendance. I therefore will agree to sing for funerals only when the requestor is very recently acquainted with my vocal abilities. Just to be safe.)
Every once in a great while I get a hankering to do some stage work again. The problem is that I'm now in an area where no one has heard of me, theatrically, and it's hard to break into repertory companies without having contacts. Also, I have reached a level of physical conditioning that pretty much requires parts that require little or no movement on stage (which runs very contrary to my native style!) so I won't break into a sweat after every scene. I had precisely that problem during my last full production (Mozart's "The Magic Flute") nearly eight years ago. I have not improved much on my conditioning since that time.
Also, I'm incredibly busy most of the time. I'm a group lead at work, which often requires extra hours of work, often from home. I'm a Family History Consultant at Church, and that frequently requires time during the week. We're homeschooling the kids, so when I'm not at work I'm often taking the kids on field trips, or to the library for Story Time. So, something has to take a back seat, and acting is it. At least, for now.
Although, I gotta say, if Melchior from "Amahl and the Night Visitors" ever comes my way, I'm jumping on it. I just won't watch the tapes later.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
#61 - Art for the Sake of Education
The benefits of homeschooling have been well documented in numerous places, and I just can't think of a better way to prepare my children for the future. It's planning time for our Academy (yes, we have an Academy; at least the State of California thinks so!), and Mrs. Woody is deep into planning activities for the coming school year. Jelly enters the 3rd grade this year, and Doodle is now a 1st grader. So, their teacher is doing her plans, organizing her materials, and generally just going through her nearly 100 gigabytes of electronic references and mountains of paper and books that constitute the bulk of her life now.
I have little doubt that my Woodyettes are among the best-taught children in the world today (and I say that in a totally non-competitive way). And they're in for a neat treat this year; Mrs. Woody will be teaching them about art.
I freely admit it: I am an ignoramus del arte. It's true. For some reason, when I was in school, I never once attended a class where art was any more than an exercise in clay ash trays (even though my parents had both quit long before I ever made one) or construction paper chains. Probably the one year that they actually trotted out the complete history of art and the grand masters who created it was when I spent two lousy weeks at home with the measles. Otherwise, art was something that textbook editors inserted into history books to give me an idea what Queen Elizabeth I looked like (answer: Not someone I would want to meet in a dark alley).
This is not to say I don't appreciate art. Quite the contrary. My grandfather was a painter (among his many other talents) and I have several of his works here at home. Notice I do not say that I have his works hanging in my home. The Move From Hades precludes our having more than one or two paintings up on a given wall until the dust settles, which means sometime around the return of Halley's Comet. Still, Grandpa was a very talented artist, and his seascapes really resonate with me.
Also, I have deliberately visited art museums in various parts of the country. One memorable field trip as a boy took us to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. It was particularly memorable because at the time, they had a settee made of some funky material that would make glowing impressions of one's derierre for all to scoff and scorn. Boys, of course, thought this was the highlight of the entire trip. The girls were all off studying Renoir or Michaelangelo.
However broad my artistic taste, however, I still have to 'fess up that I know next to nothing about artistic styles, historical periods, or the artists themselves. I have a general idea, of course. If you show me a Botticelli, for example, I can readily identify it's period (Old) and it's style (Dark, Unless You Turn Up the Brightness Control on the Monitor). Picasso was the master of the Weird period and the Desperately in Need of Glasses style. Cubists were, I'm assuming, artists who escaped from Cuba just prior to the Bay of Pigs faux invasion.
Knowledgeable art lovers will, of course, see through my attempts at erudition. That's why I'm excited about this coming school year. Art will be one of their new topics, and Mrs. Woody has procured an Art Appreciation curriculum that has her fairly excited as well. I'm really looking forward to being able to discuss art intelligently (or, at least, less ignorantly) than I can today. Also, I do appreciate art in its various forms; the one exception being art paid for by taxpayers such as you and I. No matter where you go in this great country of ours, municipalities seem to be pathologically incapable of purchasing anything but ugly art. This is art that I wouldn't want to step on if I found it on my lawn. I would, in fact, get angry at the artist for not curbing him or herself and putting the art in little disposable baggies. That's the kind of art most cities seem to purchase for public display. Maybe this is so we'll appreciate the stuff we find in actual museums, and be willing to pay through the nose to see. Aha! A conspiracy!
Anyway, sometime during the year I'll update you an my newfound artistic knowledge. Try not to laugh at me. You might find some art on your lawn the next morning if you do.
I have little doubt that my Woodyettes are among the best-taught children in the world today (and I say that in a totally non-competitive way). And they're in for a neat treat this year; Mrs. Woody will be teaching them about art.
I freely admit it: I am an ignoramus del arte. It's true. For some reason, when I was in school, I never once attended a class where art was any more than an exercise in clay ash trays (even though my parents had both quit long before I ever made one) or construction paper chains. Probably the one year that they actually trotted out the complete history of art and the grand masters who created it was when I spent two lousy weeks at home with the measles. Otherwise, art was something that textbook editors inserted into history books to give me an idea what Queen Elizabeth I looked like (answer: Not someone I would want to meet in a dark alley).
This is not to say I don't appreciate art. Quite the contrary. My grandfather was a painter (among his many other talents) and I have several of his works here at home. Notice I do not say that I have his works hanging in my home. The Move From Hades precludes our having more than one or two paintings up on a given wall until the dust settles, which means sometime around the return of Halley's Comet. Still, Grandpa was a very talented artist, and his seascapes really resonate with me.
Also, I have deliberately visited art museums in various parts of the country. One memorable field trip as a boy took us to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena. It was particularly memorable because at the time, they had a settee made of some funky material that would make glowing impressions of one's derierre for all to scoff and scorn. Boys, of course, thought this was the highlight of the entire trip. The girls were all off studying Renoir or Michaelangelo.
However broad my artistic taste, however, I still have to 'fess up that I know next to nothing about artistic styles, historical periods, or the artists themselves. I have a general idea, of course. If you show me a Botticelli, for example, I can readily identify it's period (Old) and it's style (Dark, Unless You Turn Up the Brightness Control on the Monitor). Picasso was the master of the Weird period and the Desperately in Need of Glasses style. Cubists were, I'm assuming, artists who escaped from Cuba just prior to the Bay of Pigs faux invasion.
Knowledgeable art lovers will, of course, see through my attempts at erudition. That's why I'm excited about this coming school year. Art will be one of their new topics, and Mrs. Woody has procured an Art Appreciation curriculum that has her fairly excited as well. I'm really looking forward to being able to discuss art intelligently (or, at least, less ignorantly) than I can today. Also, I do appreciate art in its various forms; the one exception being art paid for by taxpayers such as you and I. No matter where you go in this great country of ours, municipalities seem to be pathologically incapable of purchasing anything but ugly art. This is art that I wouldn't want to step on if I found it on my lawn. I would, in fact, get angry at the artist for not curbing him or herself and putting the art in little disposable baggies. That's the kind of art most cities seem to purchase for public display. Maybe this is so we'll appreciate the stuff we find in actual museums, and be willing to pay through the nose to see. Aha! A conspiracy!
Anyway, sometime during the year I'll update you an my newfound artistic knowledge. Try not to laugh at me. You might find some art on your lawn the next morning if you do.
Friday, August 05, 2005
#60 - A Trunkful of Memories
Mrs. Woody and I have begun the dreaded "move." You may recall that we're rearranging nearly the entire house so we can simultaneously give the girls separate rooms and still have an office/school room/scrapbook area. My feet and back will be in perpetual pain for at least the next three months. At least at the rate we're currently going.
Right now the target is our bedroom. This is the lynch pin of the entire reorg, because a rather significant piece of furniture from the living room needs to come in here before we can move anything else. Most unfortunately, our room has become the salvage yard of Hacienda Woody. If it has no home, it lives in our bedroom. I project this particular room will take at least a week to get through; more if we do the closet as well.
Last night, though, was fun. Mrs. Woody had a chance to go through her trunk. Like many girls, Mrs. Woody wanted a hope chest. Girls are always squirreling things away for the future, whether or not they ever get used, and the hope chest is their (oftentimes final) resting place. In Mrs. Woody's case, her hope chest is actually an old steamer trunk that sits at the end of our bed and acts as a valet for nearly everyone's clothes. I believe I can count the number of times I've actually seen the trunk on one hand. Anyway, I finally dug it out from under the piles last night and set it on the bed for Mrs. Woody to go through.
What a treasure trove! My fascination with all things historical means that a trunk like this really becomes a sort of time capsule -- a peek into the past with a chance to remember various parts of our youth. I say "our," because Mrs. Woody and I are the same age; we spent our high school years in the same ward in Church, although we attended different high schools. Thus, a lot of the memorabilia she has from her high school days looks awfully familiar to me. Things like American Bicentennial celebration trinkets, and toys that were vogue when we were young.
In another twist of destiny, we happened to serve at least parts of our missions in the same general geographical location. I served in Guatemala from 1978 to 1980, and she spent nine months in Honduras before medical issues forced a move to Houston. Most of the trinkets she bought in Honduras look eerily like some of the stuff I bought in Guate. Of course, she also bought stuff that I, as a male of the species, would never have dreamed of purchasing: things like Honduran baby clothes, or frilly stuff with which a female might cover an end table. You know... feminine stuff. She bought hand-carved wooden salad spoons and bowls. I bought a sling. Go figure.
Since one of Mrs. Woody's stated objectives was to eliminate stuff from the trunk so she could fit other stuff into it, the Woodyettes suddenly found themselves the benefactors of a windfall. Some items merely got tossed into a "donate" pile, but the kids were given such things as a Peanuts play set. They spent the rest of the night playing with Charlie Brown, Lucy and Linus, and discovering other interesting toys that Mommy used to play with. They also each have gotten something that they can put in their separate rooms, assuming Daddy lives long enough to finish this project.
Still, the Trunk Full of Memories (my name for it) was a fascinating activity. The "new" stuff that went into the trunk last night consisted of things that have become precious since Mrs. Woody and I first incorporated. Baby clothes that she intends to pass down to the Woodyettes, for example. I have written elsewhere about our clothing supply line between Mrs. Woody and her sister. These were items that Mrs. Woody just couldn't part with and pass back to her sis. It has always amazed husbands just how quickly as simple a thing as a knitted cap that one of the babies wore home from the hospital can make wives cry. I personally didn't start crying until I looked at the growing pile of "donate" items and realized that yours truly would have to bundle it all up, place it in the car, and carry it off to some charity or other.
Some day, perhaps, Mrs. Woody will have a "proper" hope chest. A nice cedar chest that won't look as if we're constantly in a condition to move, in case the Feds ever catch up with us. I don't think she minds, though. After all, it's not what the trunk looks like that matters; it's the memories.
Thank goodness for those!
Right now the target is our bedroom. This is the lynch pin of the entire reorg, because a rather significant piece of furniture from the living room needs to come in here before we can move anything else. Most unfortunately, our room has become the salvage yard of Hacienda Woody. If it has no home, it lives in our bedroom. I project this particular room will take at least a week to get through; more if we do the closet as well.
Last night, though, was fun. Mrs. Woody had a chance to go through her trunk. Like many girls, Mrs. Woody wanted a hope chest. Girls are always squirreling things away for the future, whether or not they ever get used, and the hope chest is their (oftentimes final) resting place. In Mrs. Woody's case, her hope chest is actually an old steamer trunk that sits at the end of our bed and acts as a valet for nearly everyone's clothes. I believe I can count the number of times I've actually seen the trunk on one hand. Anyway, I finally dug it out from under the piles last night and set it on the bed for Mrs. Woody to go through.
What a treasure trove! My fascination with all things historical means that a trunk like this really becomes a sort of time capsule -- a peek into the past with a chance to remember various parts of our youth. I say "our," because Mrs. Woody and I are the same age; we spent our high school years in the same ward in Church, although we attended different high schools. Thus, a lot of the memorabilia she has from her high school days looks awfully familiar to me. Things like American Bicentennial celebration trinkets, and toys that were vogue when we were young.
In another twist of destiny, we happened to serve at least parts of our missions in the same general geographical location. I served in Guatemala from 1978 to 1980, and she spent nine months in Honduras before medical issues forced a move to Houston. Most of the trinkets she bought in Honduras look eerily like some of the stuff I bought in Guate. Of course, she also bought stuff that I, as a male of the species, would never have dreamed of purchasing: things like Honduran baby clothes, or frilly stuff with which a female might cover an end table. You know... feminine stuff. She bought hand-carved wooden salad spoons and bowls. I bought a sling. Go figure.
Since one of Mrs. Woody's stated objectives was to eliminate stuff from the trunk so she could fit other stuff into it, the Woodyettes suddenly found themselves the benefactors of a windfall. Some items merely got tossed into a "donate" pile, but the kids were given such things as a Peanuts play set. They spent the rest of the night playing with Charlie Brown, Lucy and Linus, and discovering other interesting toys that Mommy used to play with. They also each have gotten something that they can put in their separate rooms, assuming Daddy lives long enough to finish this project.
Still, the Trunk Full of Memories (my name for it) was a fascinating activity. The "new" stuff that went into the trunk last night consisted of things that have become precious since Mrs. Woody and I first incorporated. Baby clothes that she intends to pass down to the Woodyettes, for example. I have written elsewhere about our clothing supply line between Mrs. Woody and her sister. These were items that Mrs. Woody just couldn't part with and pass back to her sis. It has always amazed husbands just how quickly as simple a thing as a knitted cap that one of the babies wore home from the hospital can make wives cry. I personally didn't start crying until I looked at the growing pile of "donate" items and realized that yours truly would have to bundle it all up, place it in the car, and carry it off to some charity or other.
Some day, perhaps, Mrs. Woody will have a "proper" hope chest. A nice cedar chest that won't look as if we're constantly in a condition to move, in case the Feds ever catch up with us. I don't think she minds, though. After all, it's not what the trunk looks like that matters; it's the memories.
Thank goodness for those!
Monday, August 01, 2005
#59 - Health Returns. Mostly.
Jelly Woodyette has returned to her natural, bouncy self. This is a good thing (I tell myself) because it means that Mrs. Woody no longer has to wake up at all hours to see if her fevers have spiked again, or to make sure she's still breathing okay.
She woke up (having slept the clock around!) a little past noon yesterday, and after a somewhat slow start was off like a rocket. Literally. I can show you scorch marks on the various walls off which she bounced throughout the remainder of the day.
Curiously, noise levels increased exponentially through the day yesterday. The Woodyettes, having been separated in play by Jelly's blasted virus, were making up for lost time. It was the sort of thing that made us both happy that Jelly is recovering nicely, but also made us a little wistful for the shapeless blob lying listlessly on the couch. But only a little.
This offset the fact that Daddy himself woke up not feeling terribly bright and fearing that it was his turn at the Misery Bar. Between that, a fortnight of illness and pestilence, and a house that looked like one of Florida's hurricanes had made a quick detour, I had had enough. I declared a down-day yesterday, and got to work.
[Before I get snarky comments from those who wish to point out that I was, technically, in violation of Sabbath Day observances, let me quickly state that I don't care. You invite the Spirit when your house looks like Jerusalem after the Babylonians got there.]
The presence of a nasty headache slowed me down somewhat, but I dived into the family room and began straightening. Mrs. Woody, who shares my attitude in the "we've had enough blech around here" department, got motivated herself and pitched in with laundry and the dining room. We had the girls help out here and there, and between us we got the house in much better shape by the end of the day. In between times, when Daddy really needed to sit for a few moments (or was looking for an excuse to do so, anyway), I began transferring videos of my past theatrical exploits onto DVD. The time has come for us to take advantage of the technology and get these tapes transferred onto a somewhat more stable medium. So, whilst raising the decibel level of the house to somewhere around "spinal decalcification," the Woodyettes would occasionally stop to watch the shows. "Daddy!" they said. "You're silly!"
Everyone's a critic.
She woke up (having slept the clock around!) a little past noon yesterday, and after a somewhat slow start was off like a rocket. Literally. I can show you scorch marks on the various walls off which she bounced throughout the remainder of the day.
Curiously, noise levels increased exponentially through the day yesterday. The Woodyettes, having been separated in play by Jelly's blasted virus, were making up for lost time. It was the sort of thing that made us both happy that Jelly is recovering nicely, but also made us a little wistful for the shapeless blob lying listlessly on the couch. But only a little.
This offset the fact that Daddy himself woke up not feeling terribly bright and fearing that it was his turn at the Misery Bar. Between that, a fortnight of illness and pestilence, and a house that looked like one of Florida's hurricanes had made a quick detour, I had had enough. I declared a down-day yesterday, and got to work.
[Before I get snarky comments from those who wish to point out that I was, technically, in violation of Sabbath Day observances, let me quickly state that I don't care. You invite the Spirit when your house looks like Jerusalem after the Babylonians got there.]
The presence of a nasty headache slowed me down somewhat, but I dived into the family room and began straightening. Mrs. Woody, who shares my attitude in the "we've had enough blech around here" department, got motivated herself and pitched in with laundry and the dining room. We had the girls help out here and there, and between us we got the house in much better shape by the end of the day. In between times, when Daddy really needed to sit for a few moments (or was looking for an excuse to do so, anyway), I began transferring videos of my past theatrical exploits onto DVD. The time has come for us to take advantage of the technology and get these tapes transferred onto a somewhat more stable medium. So, whilst raising the decibel level of the house to somewhere around "spinal decalcification," the Woodyettes would occasionally stop to watch the shows. "Daddy!" they said. "You're silly!"
Everyone's a critic.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
#58 - Doodle Blogging
Her most commonly used nickname is "Doodle." This is my youngest child, the last I will have sired in this life, and pound for pound has every bit as much personality as any of her predecessors.
The Woody Household is still on the Disabled List. Mrs. Woody continues to battle the remnants of her pneumonia. Today would have been a banner day - only one breathing treatment all day! - but she started the day with a nasty migraine. Jelly, still battling a feverish flu, has rallied to the point of not needing excessive naps to maintain her running dialogs. In fact, from the time she woke up - relatively bright eyed and bushy tailed at 6:00 in the morning - she has maintained her usual stream-of-semi-consciousness banter pretty much all day. She's still miserable, but she's more alert and I feel confident that this weekend will be better for both my females.
Then, undoubtedly, it'll be my turn.
[sigh]
Anyway, back to Doodle. The Doodle Woodyette is my "Iwannadoit" girl. "Daddy," she will announce, "I wanna open the car door!" This means not just being able (barely) to pull up on the door handle and pull it open. No, this means taking Daddy's key, inserting in the lock and turning it, then opening the door. Whereas my Jelly Woodyette is generally satisfied when she can open most doors without assistance, Doodle wants to understand how they open, and how they work, and why.
Daddy will be doing the evening dishes. "Daddy," comes the inevitable pronouncement, "I wanna help with the dishes." This does not mean putting one or two dishes in the dishwasher. This means getting a chair, pulling it up to the sink, helping Daddy to rinse the dishes, then helping Daddy to put them in the dishwasher, then (if she's still hovering around later) helping Daddy take the clean dishes out and put them away.
Laundry is another Doodle Hot-button. She knows there isn't enough room in our tiny laundry area for her to drag a chair in and help load the washing machine. But she sure can help push the clothes into the dryer and almost always volunteers to help Daddy do just that.
This also, of course, adds a few extra hours to Daddy's flow time, but it will prove invaluable a few years from now when these become her chores to perform.
Of course, my girls aren't without their weaknesses. Cleaning up after themselves is still a major hangup. Doodle also likes to use her "baby of the family" status to weasel out of chores she finds inconvenient. Like cleaning her room, for instance. She will start those crocodile tears flowing and begin a well-rehearsed meltdown that has exasperated fathers from the days of Adam ("I don't wanna be my brother's keeper! Daaaaaad! It's not faaaaaair!"). It doesn't stop until after Daddy has given explicit instructions on every step of the process through to completion. "See that blue Duplo? Put that in the Duplo bag! See those doll clothes? No, not those; those are dress-up clothes. We'll get to those later. There! Those doll clothes! Put those in the doll-clothes case! If you'd stop weeping, you could see what I'm talking about!"
This isn't to say that Jelly can't do (or hasn't done) the "Iwannadoit" routine, but Jelly moves in a different plane from her sister. At those points where their planes intersect, they are an awesome team. Even when their planes only move in tandem, they still complement each other nicely. Each has their own distinct and unique gifts and talents, but both are naturally loving and helpful. Jelly loves to share with everyone. Doodle loves to be the gofer. On the other hand, Doodle has already mastered at least the mechanics of brushing her own teeth, while Jelly still regards the toothbrush with the same enthusiasm one would demonstrate upon finding a dirty bomb in their sock drawer.
Today was Doodle's last day of swimming lessons for the current session. Next week she'll move up to Jelly's level for another two week course. But today was Certificate Day. Doodle now has a nice document stating that she can do a fairly sizeable litany of swimming skills, and it truly has been wonderful to watch her confidence grow. She can't wait for Daddy to take her to our park's pool so she can swim - without floaties! - and have Daddy help her practice her bobbing and kicking and "big arms." This will undoubtedly prompt Jelly to show how well she can swim. Daddy will just float in the water like an oversized dumpling while his two daughters swim circles around him.
"Hey!" I'll say. "I wanna swim like that!"
The Woody Household is still on the Disabled List. Mrs. Woody continues to battle the remnants of her pneumonia. Today would have been a banner day - only one breathing treatment all day! - but she started the day with a nasty migraine. Jelly, still battling a feverish flu, has rallied to the point of not needing excessive naps to maintain her running dialogs. In fact, from the time she woke up - relatively bright eyed and bushy tailed at 6:00 in the morning - she has maintained her usual stream-of-semi-consciousness banter pretty much all day. She's still miserable, but she's more alert and I feel confident that this weekend will be better for both my females.
Then, undoubtedly, it'll be my turn.
[sigh]
Anyway, back to Doodle. The Doodle Woodyette is my "Iwannadoit" girl. "Daddy," she will announce, "I wanna open the car door!" This means not just being able (barely) to pull up on the door handle and pull it open. No, this means taking Daddy's key, inserting in the lock and turning it, then opening the door. Whereas my Jelly Woodyette is generally satisfied when she can open most doors without assistance, Doodle wants to understand how they open, and how they work, and why.
Daddy will be doing the evening dishes. "Daddy," comes the inevitable pronouncement, "I wanna help with the dishes." This does not mean putting one or two dishes in the dishwasher. This means getting a chair, pulling it up to the sink, helping Daddy to rinse the dishes, then helping Daddy to put them in the dishwasher, then (if she's still hovering around later) helping Daddy take the clean dishes out and put them away.
Laundry is another Doodle Hot-button. She knows there isn't enough room in our tiny laundry area for her to drag a chair in and help load the washing machine. But she sure can help push the clothes into the dryer and almost always volunteers to help Daddy do just that.
This also, of course, adds a few extra hours to Daddy's flow time, but it will prove invaluable a few years from now when these become her chores to perform.
Of course, my girls aren't without their weaknesses. Cleaning up after themselves is still a major hangup. Doodle also likes to use her "baby of the family" status to weasel out of chores she finds inconvenient. Like cleaning her room, for instance. She will start those crocodile tears flowing and begin a well-rehearsed meltdown that has exasperated fathers from the days of Adam ("I don't wanna be my brother's keeper! Daaaaaad! It's not faaaaaair!"). It doesn't stop until after Daddy has given explicit instructions on every step of the process through to completion. "See that blue Duplo? Put that in the Duplo bag! See those doll clothes? No, not those; those are dress-up clothes. We'll get to those later. There! Those doll clothes! Put those in the doll-clothes case! If you'd stop weeping, you could see what I'm talking about!"
This isn't to say that Jelly can't do (or hasn't done) the "Iwannadoit" routine, but Jelly moves in a different plane from her sister. At those points where their planes intersect, they are an awesome team. Even when their planes only move in tandem, they still complement each other nicely. Each has their own distinct and unique gifts and talents, but both are naturally loving and helpful. Jelly loves to share with everyone. Doodle loves to be the gofer. On the other hand, Doodle has already mastered at least the mechanics of brushing her own teeth, while Jelly still regards the toothbrush with the same enthusiasm one would demonstrate upon finding a dirty bomb in their sock drawer.
Today was Doodle's last day of swimming lessons for the current session. Next week she'll move up to Jelly's level for another two week course. But today was Certificate Day. Doodle now has a nice document stating that she can do a fairly sizeable litany of swimming skills, and it truly has been wonderful to watch her confidence grow. She can't wait for Daddy to take her to our park's pool so she can swim - without floaties! - and have Daddy help her practice her bobbing and kicking and "big arms." This will undoubtedly prompt Jelly to show how well she can swim. Daddy will just float in the water like an oversized dumpling while his two daughters swim circles around him.
"Hey!" I'll say. "I wanna swim like that!"
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
#57 - Down and Out at Hacienda Woody
Here at the Woody Center for Disease Suffering (motto: "Note the complete lack of the word 'control' anywhere in our name!") we pride ourselves on being able to spot a sick child the second they snuggle with us and raise the ambient temperature in the room by twenty degrees. Such was our keen diagnosis as soon as the Jelly Woodyette walked into our room at 3:19 this morning and announced that she was still having tummy trouble. Mrs. Woody took one feel of her forehead and immediately called for marshmallows and a stick.
[rim shot]
She could have actually called for just about anything, because at 3:19 in the morning I'm inclined to give her anything she wants so I can go back to sleep. She could have said, "Honey, I'd really like to buy that Pamela Anderson Edition Bengal Tiger Stole we saw in our new GreenSierraPeaceClub Mileage Program Catalog!" and I'd hand her my credit card.
Fortunately, what Mrs. Woody called for, instead, was the Children's Formula Bubble-Gum Medicine for Fevers and Other Assorted Maladies. Unfortunately this calls for my glasses. I have roughly the same visual acuity as a mole with cataracts, and any activity that requires my being able to recognize anything smaller than a tour bus means putting on my glasses. This means fumbling around near my bed for them, because I rarely put them in the same place from night to night. Thus, having fumbled for my specs and staggered through the bedroom to our kitchen, I proceeded to pour the recommended dose of medicine for our daughter.
I then promptly spilled a portion of it when I nearly broke two toes on the frame of a painting that we haven't yet hung in our living room and that my muscle memory hasn't yet accounted for. The sacrifices we make for a sick child!
The initial diagnosis is, of course, flu. For the uninitiated Dads out there: Coughs mean colds, fevers mean flu. At least, I think so. And please don't get me started on whether you feed a fever or starve a fever because, as far as I'm concerned, the fever can jolly well go out and get a job if it's that hungry. Especially at 3:19 in the morning.
A sick child (read: miserable and sick) also means Daddy gets to find new quarters for the rest of the night. Since I ostensibly only had one hour of unalarmed sleep remaining (tomorrow: How to Ignore Your Alarm and Keep Your Job), I opted for our living room couch. This couch is reasonably comfortable, and with our recent heat wave does not generally require a blanket. Still, it took a few minutes before I was able to go back to sleep. I took a loooooong shower this morning while trying to wake up. May have had something to do with the stack of recent library books I slept on that I hadn't seen and couldn't be bothered to put away.
Anyway, Jelly is sick. When Jelly complains of tummy trouble, the only real excitement comes during the Porcelain Olympics. There are two main events for these Olympics: the 20 Yard Dash, and the Hurl, Flush and Wash. As of this writing she has declined to participate, which is good news for Mrs. Woody. The HF&W, for instance, is generally accompanied by much comforting of a weeping daughter, which means Mrs. Woody is not resting so as to get rid of what's left of her own pneumonia.
Yet here I languish at work. Woe is me!
Soon, however, work will be over and I will once again return to the House of Pestilence. I will kiss Mrs. Woody and the Doodle Woodyette, then snuggle the Jelly Woodyette for a while. Then - you know how it is - I'll probably have to call in sick tomorrow with my own tummy trouble.
The Circle of Life continues.
[rim shot]
She could have actually called for just about anything, because at 3:19 in the morning I'm inclined to give her anything she wants so I can go back to sleep. She could have said, "Honey, I'd really like to buy that Pamela Anderson Edition Bengal Tiger Stole we saw in our new GreenSierraPeaceClub Mileage Program Catalog!" and I'd hand her my credit card.
Fortunately, what Mrs. Woody called for, instead, was the Children's Formula Bubble-Gum Medicine for Fevers and Other Assorted Maladies. Unfortunately this calls for my glasses. I have roughly the same visual acuity as a mole with cataracts, and any activity that requires my being able to recognize anything smaller than a tour bus means putting on my glasses. This means fumbling around near my bed for them, because I rarely put them in the same place from night to night. Thus, having fumbled for my specs and staggered through the bedroom to our kitchen, I proceeded to pour the recommended dose of medicine for our daughter.
I then promptly spilled a portion of it when I nearly broke two toes on the frame of a painting that we haven't yet hung in our living room and that my muscle memory hasn't yet accounted for. The sacrifices we make for a sick child!
The initial diagnosis is, of course, flu. For the uninitiated Dads out there: Coughs mean colds, fevers mean flu. At least, I think so. And please don't get me started on whether you feed a fever or starve a fever because, as far as I'm concerned, the fever can jolly well go out and get a job if it's that hungry. Especially at 3:19 in the morning.
A sick child (read: miserable and sick) also means Daddy gets to find new quarters for the rest of the night. Since I ostensibly only had one hour of unalarmed sleep remaining (tomorrow: How to Ignore Your Alarm and Keep Your Job), I opted for our living room couch. This couch is reasonably comfortable, and with our recent heat wave does not generally require a blanket. Still, it took a few minutes before I was able to go back to sleep. I took a loooooong shower this morning while trying to wake up. May have had something to do with the stack of recent library books I slept on that I hadn't seen and couldn't be bothered to put away.
Anyway, Jelly is sick. When Jelly complains of tummy trouble, the only real excitement comes during the Porcelain Olympics. There are two main events for these Olympics: the 20 Yard Dash, and the Hurl, Flush and Wash. As of this writing she has declined to participate, which is good news for Mrs. Woody. The HF&W, for instance, is generally accompanied by much comforting of a weeping daughter, which means Mrs. Woody is not resting so as to get rid of what's left of her own pneumonia.
Yet here I languish at work. Woe is me!
Soon, however, work will be over and I will once again return to the House of Pestilence. I will kiss Mrs. Woody and the Doodle Woodyette, then snuggle the Jelly Woodyette for a while. Then - you know how it is - I'll probably have to call in sick tomorrow with my own tummy trouble.
The Circle of Life continues.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
#56 - Ma Is Hitched
Today was Mom's wedding. It was, altogether, a very nice ceremony, and the reception afterwards was nice and chummy. We have suddenly added three new step-siblings to our nuclear family, which means three new sets of spouses and/or children's names to learn (AAAAIIIIIIYEEEEEEEE!). Learning names is not my long suit, and the first time I meet one of them after today, I'm going to look like a somewhat less than intelligent person. Mom will be living in Texas now, and I'm sure a tin-horn like me is going to make a HUGE impression on those Tejanos the first time we go out there for a visit.
Among the more significant events today (for us, anyway) was the Jelly Woodyette's first real experience with heartbreak. She suddenly realized - although we'd mentioned it several times before - that Grandma was not going to be living in her big old house anymore. When you think about it, it's Daddy and Daddy's brother and sisters who should really have mixed feelings about that house. Two of us lived in it from day one back in '63. The other three were born into it. It's like an institution; we sort of feel like maybe it should become a historical landmark. Or, truthfully, maybe it would be kinder to simply condemn it. Poor thing has survived five kids and numerous grandkids and great-grandkids, after all.
Still, this was Jelly's first major heart-rending event. She cried pretty much all the way home (90 miles, I-5, LA to OC traffic - whee). It wasn't until Mama was able to sit and snuggle with her for awhile that she finally came to grips with things, and is now
*** WOODYETTE COMES OF AGE ALERT! ***
making Texas jokes.
Yes. After all that boo-hooing, Jelly has decided it would be pretty funny if Grandma Woody - born in Wisconsin, raised in Iowa, and living in Southern Cal for her entire adult life - were to suddenly sound like she was from Texas, complete with steer-roping drawl. In fact, she also wonders if Grandma will ever refer to having a "Bob-eque" (Bob being the man she just married). Woody is in biiiiiiig trouble.
But, as I say, the wedding was lovely, and we couldn't be more thrilled that Mom is so happy. She deserves happiness, after raising the five of us. Maybe now she'll rescind the curse. You know...
...the one that begins "I hope you have kids JUST like you...!"
Among the more significant events today (for us, anyway) was the Jelly Woodyette's first real experience with heartbreak. She suddenly realized - although we'd mentioned it several times before - that Grandma was not going to be living in her big old house anymore. When you think about it, it's Daddy and Daddy's brother and sisters who should really have mixed feelings about that house. Two of us lived in it from day one back in '63. The other three were born into it. It's like an institution; we sort of feel like maybe it should become a historical landmark. Or, truthfully, maybe it would be kinder to simply condemn it. Poor thing has survived five kids and numerous grandkids and great-grandkids, after all.
Still, this was Jelly's first major heart-rending event. She cried pretty much all the way home (90 miles, I-5, LA to OC traffic - whee). It wasn't until Mama was able to sit and snuggle with her for awhile that she finally came to grips with things, and is now
*** WOODYETTE COMES OF AGE ALERT! ***
making Texas jokes.
Yes. After all that boo-hooing, Jelly has decided it would be pretty funny if Grandma Woody - born in Wisconsin, raised in Iowa, and living in Southern Cal for her entire adult life - were to suddenly sound like she was from Texas, complete with steer-roping drawl. In fact, she also wonders if Grandma will ever refer to having a "Bob-eque" (Bob being the man she just married). Woody is in biiiiiiig trouble.
But, as I say, the wedding was lovely, and we couldn't be more thrilled that Mom is so happy. She deserves happiness, after raising the five of us. Maybe now she'll rescind the curse. You know...
...the one that begins "I hope you have kids JUST like you...!"
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
#54 - Harry Potter and the Blood Shot Eyes
Well, we've been largely comatose here at La Casa Woody for the past three days. It's taken us this long to read "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" aloud as our family activity since it arrived on Saturday. This particular activity involves Daddy sitting in a comfortable chair, with two Woodyettes draped over him like mink stoles (albeit heavy minks!), while Mrs. Woody lounges in her favorite easy chair gasping for breath. She's been fighting for a decent breath for nearly a month now, but today it finally got to the point where we had to interrupt our reading and take her to the doctor.
We don't take our HP Read-a-thons lightly in this house.
No spoilers here, by the way. Well, I guess I will note that Harry and his friends have finally become the raging hormone storms that most kids really become around age 12 nowadays. One could argue that Harry's hormones finally kicked in at age 15 in "Order of the Phoenix," but now he seems to have remarkable control of the ol' testosterone until relatively late in the book this time.
Anyway, the Woodyettes have taken a much more active interest in this book. For one thing, they've both been studying via Hogwarts extension courses this past school year. They each have their own Hogwarts robe and hat, a wand, a cauldron (NOT for use on a real fire!), and even share a house elf, whose name is Canby. They've never seen Canby, but I have. I can tell you that he looks remarkably like a grumpy old man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a perpetually exasperated look on his face, but the kids think he (she?) must be cute. For that matter, so is their owl. The owl is stuffed and residing on our mantle shelf by day, but by night transmogrifies into (surprise!) a grumpy, exasperated, salt-and-pepper-bearded old man.
So, in accordance with the Freedom of Imagination Act under which this house operates, every time Daddy sits down and begins his dramatic readings of any HP book, Jelly immediately dons her Hogwarts attire, grabs her wand, and begins acting out whatever she hears during those moments when she's actually able to force herself to sit still long enough to hear a word or two of the story. Whatever she hears triggers some new playacting, or, alternatively, Q&A time.
Indeed, this particular story brought what I considered to be incredibly insightful questions from my elder 'Ette. The questions she hit me with gave me to understand that she really has been paying careful attention to her own reading, the movies she's seen, and even Mom and Dad's discussions of various plot devices and scenarios.
For her part, the Doodle Woodyette, having mastered the art of reading this past school year, has insisted on either following along with her own copy of the book (Yes. We have two. Deal with it.), or having Daddy track the words with his finger, even though she is perfectly capable of following along without my doing that.
They also love having Daddy do character voices. One of their favorites is Snape, because Daddy really goes out of his way to give him that oily sound that seems to be called for by the character. Alan Rickman is canola oil to my Crisco heavy lard on the ol' oiliness scale. I've been playing weasels since high school. Rickman wasted his time on Shakespeare, I'd like to bet. My Dumbledore is, I confess, mostly patterned after Richard Harris's muffled wheeze. Dumbledore and Hagrid are the toughest on my throat, and unfortunately, Dumbledore figures heavily in this latest installment. My throat currently feels something like sandpaper on glass.
Finally, and fortunately, we have finished the story. I say "fortunately" because the house has been largely neglected during our recreational reading. In fact (and don't I love this during the summer in Orange County!), several swarms of ants have invaded and now have control of critical sectors of my kitchen, including strategic transportation targets consisting of the kitchen floor. Tomorrow I will likely go through my entire can of "Victor's Ant Spray" so our house can have that pleasant minty odor permeate everything from our spice rack to our frozen split pea soup that will take, probably, 15 months to thaw given how cold our freezer is at the moment. Then I get to wash down and scrub every exposed surface of the kitchen so as to convince all 27 million ants that all those pheromones they laid down really are gone, and that there is nothing interesting left in this kitchen; especially that big, beautiful pork roast that we are definitely NOT cooking in our crock pot anytime soon. So there.
In other words, back to business as usual at La Casa Woody.
We don't take our HP Read-a-thons lightly in this house.
No spoilers here, by the way. Well, I guess I will note that Harry and his friends have finally become the raging hormone storms that most kids really become around age 12 nowadays. One could argue that Harry's hormones finally kicked in at age 15 in "Order of the Phoenix," but now he seems to have remarkable control of the ol' testosterone until relatively late in the book this time.
Anyway, the Woodyettes have taken a much more active interest in this book. For one thing, they've both been studying via Hogwarts extension courses this past school year. They each have their own Hogwarts robe and hat, a wand, a cauldron (NOT for use on a real fire!), and even share a house elf, whose name is Canby. They've never seen Canby, but I have. I can tell you that he looks remarkably like a grumpy old man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and a perpetually exasperated look on his face, but the kids think he (she?) must be cute. For that matter, so is their owl. The owl is stuffed and residing on our mantle shelf by day, but by night transmogrifies into (surprise!) a grumpy, exasperated, salt-and-pepper-bearded old man.
So, in accordance with the Freedom of Imagination Act under which this house operates, every time Daddy sits down and begins his dramatic readings of any HP book, Jelly immediately dons her Hogwarts attire, grabs her wand, and begins acting out whatever she hears during those moments when she's actually able to force herself to sit still long enough to hear a word or two of the story. Whatever she hears triggers some new playacting, or, alternatively, Q&A time.
Indeed, this particular story brought what I considered to be incredibly insightful questions from my elder 'Ette. The questions she hit me with gave me to understand that she really has been paying careful attention to her own reading, the movies she's seen, and even Mom and Dad's discussions of various plot devices and scenarios.
For her part, the Doodle Woodyette, having mastered the art of reading this past school year, has insisted on either following along with her own copy of the book (Yes. We have two. Deal with it.), or having Daddy track the words with his finger, even though she is perfectly capable of following along without my doing that.
They also love having Daddy do character voices. One of their favorites is Snape, because Daddy really goes out of his way to give him that oily sound that seems to be called for by the character. Alan Rickman is canola oil to my Crisco heavy lard on the ol' oiliness scale. I've been playing weasels since high school. Rickman wasted his time on Shakespeare, I'd like to bet. My Dumbledore is, I confess, mostly patterned after Richard Harris's muffled wheeze. Dumbledore and Hagrid are the toughest on my throat, and unfortunately, Dumbledore figures heavily in this latest installment. My throat currently feels something like sandpaper on glass.
Finally, and fortunately, we have finished the story. I say "fortunately" because the house has been largely neglected during our recreational reading. In fact (and don't I love this during the summer in Orange County!), several swarms of ants have invaded and now have control of critical sectors of my kitchen, including strategic transportation targets consisting of the kitchen floor. Tomorrow I will likely go through my entire can of "Victor's Ant Spray" so our house can have that pleasant minty odor permeate everything from our spice rack to our frozen split pea soup that will take, probably, 15 months to thaw given how cold our freezer is at the moment. Then I get to wash down and scrub every exposed surface of the kitchen so as to convince all 27 million ants that all those pheromones they laid down really are gone, and that there is nothing interesting left in this kitchen; especially that big, beautiful pork roast that we are definitely NOT cooking in our crock pot anytime soon. So there.
In other words, back to business as usual at La Casa Woody.
#53 - Emasculated Curmudgeonry
"Get a haircut, kid."
His head was recently shaved.
"Get a job, kid."
He starts Wednesday at a place called "CD Warehouse."
For all his incomprehensible lifestyle, he speaks to me in terms that are at once clear and well-structured. I can actually understand him.
I asked him about his girlfriend. He said he no longer had one, and what with trying to find a full-time job, get his driver's license, and just generally live, he really has no time at the moment for the ladies.
[scratches head]
Now what'll I have to complain about?
Or, maybe I don't really wanna know...
His head was recently shaved.
"Get a job, kid."
He starts Wednesday at a place called "CD Warehouse."
For all his incomprehensible lifestyle, he speaks to me in terms that are at once clear and well-structured. I can actually understand him.
I asked him about his girlfriend. He said he no longer had one, and what with trying to find a full-time job, get his driver's license, and just generally live, he really has no time at the moment for the ladies.
[scratches head]
Now what'll I have to complain about?
Or, maybe I don't really wanna know...
Friday, July 15, 2005
#52 - Wedding Bells Are Ringing
Little Sis recently stated that news of "The Wedding" was conspicuous by its absence in our family blogs. Guilty as charged, but with an explanation. I've had a dickens of time deciding how best to write about this. In the end, my need to blog has overcome my fear of waxing schmaltzy about the whole thing, so here goes:
"The Wedding" refers to that of our dear, sainted Mom. Mom will be a blushing bride a week from tomorrow in the backyard of her best friend. Then she'll move to Texas.
Hm. Must think of appropriate Texas joke later.
To be serious, we, her offspring, think this is a tremendous blessing for Mom. When Dad died suddenly five years ago, we kids worried (a lot!) about Mom. We became "Mom's Army," and formed ranks around her to get her through the most strenuous times immediately following Dad's passing. In the space of not very many years, Mom has lost husband and both parents. She also has found a new soul-mate with whom she feels she can spend the rest of her days. His name is Bob. We'd accuse her of being giddy lately, but that's not altogether true; she's only giddy when he's around.
It's funny to think about now. I mean the idea that I now know what my own parents went through when I announced I was getting married more than twenty years ago. There was apprehension on several fronts: my first wife was a very different personality type from what the family was accustomed, and I myself was still a tad immature to be considered truly "ready" for marriage. Not that anyone is ever truly ready, but some are more ready than others by the time they reach the altar.
Mom is ready.
I once teased her about needing a chaperone when Bob is visiting. She assured me that while both of their "engines are running," as they put it, he has continually been every inch the gentleman with her. Good thing, too, or we'd have to sic Deputy Bro-In-Law on him to give him a gun-cleaning demonstration while interrogating him about his intentions.
Aw, who'm I kidding? We all know Bob (although my own memories of him are iffy, he's had a wonderful reputation in our Stake for decades!), and there's no chance that his intentions are anything but honorable.
More than anything, this represents a chance for us to see Mom finally live the kind of life Dad had always envisioned for her. She will be with a man who loves the Gospel and will take her to the temple frequently. He loves listening to good music just as much as Mom enjoys creating it. He will care for her and be her helpmeet in all things. What more could we, her children, ask?
Well, we could ask for Southern California instead of Texas, but let's not start things off with sour grapes. Besides, we've been looking for new vacation destinations. Texas just might fit the bill.
Ah, young love!
On a related note: I just today received an email from a former Sunday School student of mine. This young man is quite a story. I was teaching 16-18 year olds at the time, and this one sort of stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He came to the ward at precisely the time when his young testimony was suffering its own growing pains, and some kids in the ward weren't terribly helpful. I stuck with him, though, because I saw a lot of me in him when I was his age. As his home teacher I helped counsel him through some turbulence prior to his going on a mission, and he credited me with helping him become a successful missionary.
One day in Sunday School I had made the statement that as a teacher, the best measure of success I could ask for would be to receive temple marriage announcements from them. Today I received an email from this young man's mother stating that they needed our address so he could send us one.
It's the sort of blessing we sometimes think will have to wait until the next life before we hear about it. I'm so glad I don't have to wait that long!
"The Wedding" refers to that of our dear, sainted Mom. Mom will be a blushing bride a week from tomorrow in the backyard of her best friend. Then she'll move to Texas.
Hm. Must think of appropriate Texas joke later.
To be serious, we, her offspring, think this is a tremendous blessing for Mom. When Dad died suddenly five years ago, we kids worried (a lot!) about Mom. We became "Mom's Army," and formed ranks around her to get her through the most strenuous times immediately following Dad's passing. In the space of not very many years, Mom has lost husband and both parents. She also has found a new soul-mate with whom she feels she can spend the rest of her days. His name is Bob. We'd accuse her of being giddy lately, but that's not altogether true; she's only giddy when he's around.
It's funny to think about now. I mean the idea that I now know what my own parents went through when I announced I was getting married more than twenty years ago. There was apprehension on several fronts: my first wife was a very different personality type from what the family was accustomed, and I myself was still a tad immature to be considered truly "ready" for marriage. Not that anyone is ever truly ready, but some are more ready than others by the time they reach the altar.
Mom is ready.
I once teased her about needing a chaperone when Bob is visiting. She assured me that while both of their "engines are running," as they put it, he has continually been every inch the gentleman with her. Good thing, too, or we'd have to sic Deputy Bro-In-Law on him to give him a gun-cleaning demonstration while interrogating him about his intentions.
Aw, who'm I kidding? We all know Bob (although my own memories of him are iffy, he's had a wonderful reputation in our Stake for decades!), and there's no chance that his intentions are anything but honorable.
More than anything, this represents a chance for us to see Mom finally live the kind of life Dad had always envisioned for her. She will be with a man who loves the Gospel and will take her to the temple frequently. He loves listening to good music just as much as Mom enjoys creating it. He will care for her and be her helpmeet in all things. What more could we, her children, ask?
Well, we could ask for Southern California instead of Texas, but let's not start things off with sour grapes. Besides, we've been looking for new vacation destinations. Texas just might fit the bill.
Ah, young love!
On a related note: I just today received an email from a former Sunday School student of mine. This young man is quite a story. I was teaching 16-18 year olds at the time, and this one sort of stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. He came to the ward at precisely the time when his young testimony was suffering its own growing pains, and some kids in the ward weren't terribly helpful. I stuck with him, though, because I saw a lot of me in him when I was his age. As his home teacher I helped counsel him through some turbulence prior to his going on a mission, and he credited me with helping him become a successful missionary.
One day in Sunday School I had made the statement that as a teacher, the best measure of success I could ask for would be to receive temple marriage announcements from them. Today I received an email from this young man's mother stating that they needed our address so he could send us one.
It's the sort of blessing we sometimes think will have to wait until the next life before we hear about it. I'm so glad I don't have to wait that long!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
#51 - As All Vacations Must...
...this one has come to an end.
It's always paradoxical that the end of a vacation is seen as something of a relief. Not that I'm eager to return to work; on the contrary, I know exactly what awaits me, and the thought is daunting. No, it's the idea that we are safe and sound at home (which is also safe and sound) where we will be sleeping in our own beds and grazi... er, eating our own food, and sitting in our own fit-to-form furniture. Aaaaaah.
I'm still glad we took the train. The Woodyettes have now had their experience with a train ride up and down the western coast of the country. They slept in coach going up, and first class coming back down. Jelly got to ride in a bunk bed with seat belts, for crying out loud. How cool is that?? We, of course, learned quite a lot about traveling by train. We don't sleep so well on those "mattresses" that were hand-woven by crazed monks who had been sampling too much of their own cooking. Plus, when they're being used as seats during the day, they're not all that comfortable, either. We found ourselves being a little envious of the folks ahead of us in the car that had those two-seater sleepers. Those reclined during the day.
[scribbles in a notebook entitled "Future Woody Family Train Trips"]
Also, the words "pack light" will be lasered on our foreheads for future reference. We had - as carry-ons, mind you - packed roughly the equivalent of twelve cruise trunks full of stuff in only four backpacks and one heavily bungee'd stack of stuff without which we could not live on this trip. The Doodle Woodyette literally had to lean well over forty-five degrees into the wind in order to carry her backpack. Fortunately, she only had to do this to get on and off the train. Daddy carried it the rest of the time.
Of course, the train was never on time. Amtrak has a hard-earned reputation for being anywhere from 1 to 17 hours late on the Coast Starlight, and those days when it happens to arrive somewhere on time are counted as accounting errors. Going up we were three hours late. Coming home it was five-plus. This became a huge deal when that lateness put us in Oxnard (NOT a fun town to be out in public after midnight!) at around 1:00 in the morning. This meant getting family out of bed (or, probably more accurately, keeping them up) to come pick us up. We didn't dare leave our car there. It's no darn'd fun driving a car home that no longer technically exists except for a thank-you note from the gangsters that stole it.
No, we're glad to be home. I'm even (contrary to what I said earlier) looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Yes, I know that gloom and doom will assail me the minute I step in the office. Still, if past history counts for anything, I'll have roughly six hundred emails to wade through before I can even get to my phone messages. They won't see me for at least another three days, if I work this properly.
I already can't wait for our next vacation. I hear the Sunset Limited is always on time, except for hurricane season...
It's always paradoxical that the end of a vacation is seen as something of a relief. Not that I'm eager to return to work; on the contrary, I know exactly what awaits me, and the thought is daunting. No, it's the idea that we are safe and sound at home (which is also safe and sound) where we will be sleeping in our own beds and grazi... er, eating our own food, and sitting in our own fit-to-form furniture. Aaaaaah.
I'm still glad we took the train. The Woodyettes have now had their experience with a train ride up and down the western coast of the country. They slept in coach going up, and first class coming back down. Jelly got to ride in a bunk bed with seat belts, for crying out loud. How cool is that?? We, of course, learned quite a lot about traveling by train. We don't sleep so well on those "mattresses" that were hand-woven by crazed monks who had been sampling too much of their own cooking. Plus, when they're being used as seats during the day, they're not all that comfortable, either. We found ourselves being a little envious of the folks ahead of us in the car that had those two-seater sleepers. Those reclined during the day.
[scribbles in a notebook entitled "Future Woody Family Train Trips"]
Also, the words "pack light" will be lasered on our foreheads for future reference. We had - as carry-ons, mind you - packed roughly the equivalent of twelve cruise trunks full of stuff in only four backpacks and one heavily bungee'd stack of stuff without which we could not live on this trip. The Doodle Woodyette literally had to lean well over forty-five degrees into the wind in order to carry her backpack. Fortunately, she only had to do this to get on and off the train. Daddy carried it the rest of the time.
Of course, the train was never on time. Amtrak has a hard-earned reputation for being anywhere from 1 to 17 hours late on the Coast Starlight, and those days when it happens to arrive somewhere on time are counted as accounting errors. Going up we were three hours late. Coming home it was five-plus. This became a huge deal when that lateness put us in Oxnard (NOT a fun town to be out in public after midnight!) at around 1:00 in the morning. This meant getting family out of bed (or, probably more accurately, keeping them up) to come pick us up. We didn't dare leave our car there. It's no darn'd fun driving a car home that no longer technically exists except for a thank-you note from the gangsters that stole it.
No, we're glad to be home. I'm even (contrary to what I said earlier) looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Yes, I know that gloom and doom will assail me the minute I step in the office. Still, if past history counts for anything, I'll have roughly six hundred emails to wade through before I can even get to my phone messages. They won't see me for at least another three days, if I work this properly.
I already can't wait for our next vacation. I hear the Sunset Limited is always on time, except for hurricane season...
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