Life

    Several years ago, my oldest sister Shirley, who was born in 1929, wrote:

 I have no memory of the Great Depression and didn't know we had one until I read about it in school.  In my hometown, we were all equally poor or rich, whichever way you wanted to look at it.  At any rate, there wasn't great suffering.  People farmed their small farms as they always had.  The sheepmen must have had some hard times but I was oblivious to it.  It took something bigger than a worldwide depression to dampen Mama's spirits.

As I listened to Toni Morrison book “Home” on my trike ride this morning, I found the answer to why Shirley, or any of us, never knew about The Great Depression even as we lived through it.  The story in the book takes place in Georgia.  A group of older black women have been nursing a younger woman back to health.

Quoting from the book:

As she healed, the women brought their crocheting and their embroidering.  They used Ethel Fordam’s house as their quilting center, ignoring those who preferred new soft blankets.  They practiced what they had been taught by their mothers during the period that rich people called the Depression and they called life.

There was no excess in their gardens

because they shared everything.

There was no trash or garbage in their homes

because they had a use for everything.

They took responsibility for their lives

and for whatever whoever else needed them.

The absence of common sense irritated

but did not surprise them.

Laziness was more than intolerable to them;

it was inhuman.

Whether you were in the field, the house, your own back yard;

you had to be busy.

Sleep was not for dreaming;

it was for gathering strength for the coming day.

Conversation was accompanied by tasks:

ironing, peeling, shucking, sorting, sewing, mending, washing, or nursing.

You couldn’t learn age

but adulthood was there for all.

Mourning was helpful

but God was better.

And they did not want to meet their Maker

and have to explain a wasteful life.

They knew He would ask each of them one question:

“What have you done?”  

Black or white;

Georgia or Orderville;

We were taught by our mothers

during the period that rich people

called The Depression

and we called Life.

Right, Shirley?

Oops

This is the last page of a longer story from the past.

Amy, K'Leena and I had been sightseeing in Washington DC for 8 or 9 days.  We stayed in Virginia in a hotel with a complete kitchen.  The shuttle from the hotel took us to catch the Metro into Washington DC each day.  We were scheduled to fly out on Monday, which happened to be Labor Day.

United States Capitol

K'Leena, Amy, Jeanette Washington Monument

Amy at Mt. Vernon

K'Leena, Amy.  White House

 "You don't have to blab to everyone that we went to the wrong airport," Amy scolds, "the stationmaster, the lady sitting next to you on the bus, Dad, Brent, Aunt Verla. . ."

"It's our best story and I can't tell it?  I guess I can't tell them that you left your wallet on the counter either. . ."

Because it was Labor Day, the shuttle and the metro didn't open until 7 AM.  Our plane left at 7:50 AM.  We had called a taxi, which was to cost around $25, unless it was more with the price of gas going up.  For some unknown reason the shuttle driver showed up at 6 when we went down to wait for the taxi.  He said that he thought we could make it since we were only 8 miles from the airport if he took us over at 7 and we caught the first metro.  He agreed to take us over at 6:45 so we cancelled the taxi.  Serves him right for being late.  The nice shuttle driver took us over around 6:40.  We had 7-day passes for the metro but Amy had thrown hers away.  K'Leena and I had ours.  Picking up a key at the front desk, I went back up to our room to scrounge for her pass.  In the bottom of the last garbage can I looked in, I found it.  We caught the metro about 7:07 and got to the airport around 7:25.  That's cutting it pretty close.  We can't find Delta.  We rush here, we rush there, we ask Traveler's Aid, and finally find Check-in. 
     "We have no plane leaving for Salt Lake City at 7:50.  Are you sure it's Delta?"

"Positive."  Amy handed her our computer printout.

"You're at the wrong airport."

We were at the same airport we came in on.

Arrival  Washington DC (DCA); Departure Washington DC (IAD).  Washington DC was in bold.  The initials that don't mean a thing to us were underneath in small print.  Dulles is 38 miles away.

“You can't make it.”  She called them on the phone.  They had already given our seats away.  Click.  Click.  Click.  She mulls and tries this and that.  Who knows what she's doing?

“It will cost you each $216 to transfer to this airport.  Dulles has a direct flight to Salt Lake at 3:12 in the afternoon.  I suggest you do that.  I will waive the $25 fee.  You can take a taxi or the airport shuttle; check to see which is cheaper."

We decide to try the metro.  The stationmaster told us where to get off to catch a metro bus for the airport.  While we are waiting for the metrorail--Blue to Rosslyn--Amy's name was called over the loudspeaker.  She had left her wallet at the Check-in counter.

The bus comes every hour on a holiday.  We didn't have to wait much longer than 1/2 hour.  Sixty cents for seniors; $3 each for Amy and K'Leena.

I can't believe I got clear out to Dulles for sixty cents from our hotel; and since I didn’t have any change,  K'Leena paid that.  That was the best part.  It easily could have cost $100.

They told us to be two hours early.  We were six hours early and that was just fine.

     It was a beautiful and interesting ride out and a relaxing day at the airport.

Dulles Airport

And I can’t tell this story to a soul?

I can’t tell the stationmaster, the lady sitting next to me on the bus, Dad, Brent, Aunt Verla. . .  I can’t even tell you.

Snippets from the Tapestry of Life

What I really love about Utah:

 New snow in the mountains

June 17

Ripening cherries in the valley

And Ed riding his trike.

Yesterday, no trike ride.

Eddy read the weather forecast.

Snow in the mountains; 
rainy and cold (45 degrees) in the valley.
Glacier National Park has 16" of snow since yesterday.
We were at Glacier
56 years ago in June
on our way home
from delivering a car to DeLoy
in Cardston
 when he was on a mission.

Amy left this morning to visit friends on the East coast for a month. 
“Three things, Amy:   
1) Keep safe;
2) Have fun; and
3) Keep in touch.
That’s all.”
She’ll probably do the first two;
and then the third one won’t matter so much.

“I told Dad you are more worried about the cats than you are me,”
I jest before she leaves.

“You don’t get stranded up a tree;
locked in a shed, or caught in a closet.
You can cut your own nails, brush your own hair,
get your own food and water,
and you look both ways before crossing the street,” she prompts.
She’s spent the past week training me how
to play with the cats,
cut their nails, brush them;
and reminding me of danger zones.

 As we play games four hours after she leaves, Ed chats:

“I miss Amy already, Mom.”

“I don’t know if I can manage without her for four weeks.

I’m not letting her leave town ever again.”

 “Did you have a good visit with Uncle DeLoy?" (Skype) he asks.

“We did.”

“That’s the best conversation I ever heard.”

 When I told Dr. S that we celebrated my husband’s 80^th birthday,
he said:  “You’re not as old as he is, are you?”

“I’m just a couple of years younger.”

“Oh, I thought you were just in your early seventies.”

EARLY SEVENTIES?
(And you know they say younger than they really think.)
I thought he would say,
at the very most, early sixties.
Until I look in the mirror and feel my aching bones.

 Speaking of Dr. S, when I went for my second to last paid-for visit,
he recommended I decompress and laser my lower back.
I’ve known for 40 years that I have degenerative arthritis.
When I told him how much my left leg hurt
just before DeRay’s Birthday Bash,
he thought maybe it was my lower back causing the pain
rather than my knees so he took x-rays.
Bear in mind, that nothing is covered by insurance
in chiropractic offices.
Twenty-five visits for $3,200, plus ten follow up visits.
“We’ll think about it.”
What has he done for my knees?
I still can’t walk without pain; can’t garden;
it hurts to go up and down stairs.
“You may have to have surgery,” he cajoles, “bone on bone.”
Why didn't someone tell me that $1,500 ago?
 “My brother-in-law says the body rejuvenates
with the proper supplements but it takes a while,” I tell him.
“There is no pill in the world that will cure your knees.”
Of course, he had some stuff
that he was sure was better than Ron’s
even though he doesn’t even know what Ron recommends.
I’m confused.

 My visiting teachers came Monday morning.

They had to come in through the garage

because DeRay had the sprinklers going full blast.

“I told Jean if you didn’t want us to come,

you should have just told us,” Annette laughed.

DeRay knew they were coming but he forgot.

That got us talking about old age and memory loss. 

As I was walking up to the bowery
at the Dutch oven dinner the other night,
Frank Leaver, our next door neighbor was rushing past.
He didn’t even glimpse at me.
Still I said, “What’s happening to your swimming pool?”
He hurriedly answered, “It’s all new.  Going to be fixed for good.”
But you could tell he didn’t have time for me.
He was rushing over to talk to the Taylors.
Later, I said to DeRay,
“Wouldn’t it be nice to be admired like the Taylors?"
I’m sure Frank and Blaine were bishops simultaneously
when we were in different wards; old cronies.
Annette has been Stake Relief Society President
so everyone seeks her out.

After laughing about the sprinklers,
Annette said that she is becoming
worried about her husband who is 82.
“The other night at the Dutch oven cookout,
Frank came up and asked if he ever loaned his trailer out.
Blaine told him no because someone broke it
when they borrowed it
but that he would be happy go with him
to do whatever he wanted to use it for.
When Frank left,
Blaine turned to me and asked:
'Who was that?'"

Things are not always as they seem.

Photos taken June 18, 2014

DeRay's 80th Birthday Celebration - Part V

D-DAY

To summarize. . . . .

Amy's photos - Some the same.  Some different. 

The Road Less Traveled
           By: Robert Frost                 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I feel we’ve always taken the road less traveled;

Always been a little out of step.

Haven’t always followed traditional roles.

Not necessarily intentionally.

Fate has helped.

Innate personal characteristics

Contributed;

Inbred work ethics impacted;

Personalities influenced.

* We started off our married life with me earning all the money from my fine job with United States Steel.  Oh sure, your paltry GI helped.  $139/month, I think it was.  There you were, had all your meals fixed, your laundry done, your 9x12 apartment cleaned, leaving you free to study day and night.  No wonder you ended up in the top 10% of your engineering class.  Phi Tau Sigma.   None of our kids had such an easy time getting through school (but they excelled so I guess my contribution wasn’t as great as I supposed.)

* We worked together to fix up our first home.  Wasn’t it charming?  “But are you happy?”

* Alas, we had no children.  This has been the biggest bridge separating us from society.

* When finally they came, you changed diapers, fed and tended them unlike many husbands of that era.  You were a trend setter.  Best of all, you were my natural childbirth coach.

* You built our house on the hollow.  Our dream home.  Non-traditional.  You always manage to forget that I swept and painted but I didn’t design, lay brick, do the plumbing, electricity, roof or shingle.  Traditional.

*You do the grocery shopping; I mow the lawn.  You do all the shopping.  You fix everything.  You figure things out.  You resolve, ponder.  You are brimming with tenacity and bright ideas.

* You did make the bread after you starting buying breadmakers and could afford the ingredients that were unessential when I made the bread.  And, no, you didn’t teach me to make bread.  Mama did.  (Gotja when you can’t challenge.)

* You are a good gardener and I’ve loved the vegetables through the years.  Vegetable gardens are essential.  You’ve helped me can in our later years but when the kids were growing up, you had too many jobs.  Count them.  Real Estate.  Apartments.  Taxes.  On and on and on.

* Vacation planning is your strong point.  Oh, my, DeRay, you’ve taken me to places I’ve never dreamed I would see.  I’m always reluctant; and end up loving them.

* We cancel out each other's vote.  I changed.  Things change. 

Sixty years of shared memories.  Two before we were married; 58 after.

We’re on parallel tracks going down the road less traveled.

And that has made all the difference.

I think we compliment each other.

A perfect team.

Each has strong points (and weaknesses).

Neither has lost his/her own identity or been smothered or hushed.

We work together separately.  I clean the toilets, you go to Market Square.

I’m not sorry we’ve taken the road less traveled, are you?

It’s been a great journey on the path less trod.

I love you. Jeanette

 

Thank You, Amy!