Good to Me

Oh, DeRay is good to me.

And so I thank DeRay

for giving me the things I need:

The sun and the rain and the apple seed;

Oh, wait!

That’s Johnny Appleseed, thanking the Lord.

And so I thank DeRay

for giving me:

a good life;

Fixing things;

Shopping;

Vacations.

Offering to go downstairs for me a glass of water.

(That’s the one that got me.

Stairs are not easy when you’re 80.

We minimize stairs climbing all possible.)

Doing the business side of life

that I detest.

Insurance.

Bills.

Finances.

It doesn’t matter so much that he hasn’t been able to learn

how to hang up his coat

Even though I’ve stepped him through it many times:

                                            1.  Open closet door.

                                            2.  Grab a hanger

                                            3.  Hang coat on rod.

                                            4.  Close closet door.

Or that he leaves his clod-hoppers and his numerous grabbers scattered around;
or can't keep his dresser cleaned off.

He gathers well water;

Plans and plants a garden

with a complex sprinkling system;

Helps with the canning;

Talks to salesmen;

Makes me laugh out loud every day;

Handles problems;

Has a keen and analytical mind;

Pays the bills;

Sure he watches too much TV;
drinks too much caffeine;

he solves all my computer problems

and downloads my pictures.

And so I thank the Lord

for giving me

DeRay.

Troubles

It wasn’t DeRay’s best weekend.

Saturday as we were pulling out of the driveway to go to the play, ***BUMP*** hard. By nature, always blaming someone else, he cursed the weight in the backseat calling us FAT _ _ _ _ _.  Innocent Eddy, Verla and Jeanette; hurt and insulted. He didn’t bother to confess that he had left 12 reams of paper in the trunk because they were so heavy he hadn’t figured out how to get them upstairs.

He thought he just hit the trailer hitch and drove on.

Sunday, Verla asks if he wants her to move her car out of the driveway before he goes to church. “Oh, no. I’ll be fine.”  CRUNCH. CRASH.  Holy Toledo.  He comes home after the sacrament to access  the damage. “Nothing,” he declares. “Wasn’t there already a dent by the front light?” Amy checks and she sees measurable damage including red paint. That’s one advantage of being old and blind. “Sorry, Verla. I’ll give you six oranges if you’ll forgive me.”

As he drives the next few days, he decides maybe the exhaust is dragging. He stops at a station.  Looks OK.  But he hears more as he drives and decides on Wednesday to have it checked at muffler place in Clearfield.  $506.40 estimate to weld up the muffler and install a catalytic converter that had buckled with the force of the jolt. “Well, at least we’re all still alive. No one was hurt.”

In the afternoon, he takes the car down to Brandon, who made the conversion on the car to natural gas. Brandon gave him an estimate of $300.  Two hundred dollar savings, my friends.  “Let’s take a look,” he suggests, so they hoist it up and with a jack they put enough pressure to unbuckle the catalytic converter and smooth it out. With that straightened out, the muffler rides in place, and DeRay can’t wipe the smile off his face.

“How much did that cost you?” I query. He makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ZERO!

Happily Ever After

For at least ten years, Ed has used a dental appliance for sleep apnea. We don’t know if it’s because he had so much surgery for so many years that he cannot tolerate a mask on his face and absolutely refuses to use a C-Pap machine, so somehow we found out about the dental thing that, of course, is not covered by insurance and cost around $500.  The first several he had hardly lasted a year so we were paying more for that than for a family gym membership.  I first read that they were covered on insurance in the Senior Sampler in St. George several years ago but when we called the insurance company and asked our dentist, both answered “no”.  So we bought more appliances at $500 each. Just before Christmas last year, there was an ad in the paper for a place in Salt Lake that promised they were covered by insurance. Ed was so happy to go to a place he had seen advertised on TV. I think he felt like a movie star. Depending on your insurance, your share of the cost is $40 or 20%. They take a mold of your mouth and make the appliance to fit. Ed only had to pay $40 and DeRay said it was the Cadillac – When they went to pick it up, it was so big and sturdy that Ed couldn’t even get it in his mouth so they had to order another one. “A Plymouth,” DeRay says. He decides to get one too since they are only $40 and he wouldn’t have to monkey with his breathing machine when he travels. He ordered a “Chrysler” – somewhere between the Cadillac and the Plymouth. He wishes he had got one like Eddy’s. It’s too much of a mouthful. Ed loves his. I don’t know what they do with the one that doesn’t work. Does insurance still pay? Anyway, this is the best part: Because DeRay told Karen about it and her daughter, Kathi, ordered one, he gets a $50 gift certificate to Wall*Mart. “Well, Eddy referred me,” DeRay tells them, "so he should get a gift certificate too." “Sure.” So, neither one has paid a penny and when they go back in next week to have them adjusted, they will subtract the $80 and give them a gift certificate for $20. And they all lived happily ever after and all through the house not a snore could be heard.

Diddle-Diddle Dumpling

Diddle-diddle dumpling, our sweet grandkids all

Neglect saying "thank you" for gifts both large & small.                          

No letter, no e-mail; not even a quick call.

Diddle-diddle dumpling, our sweet grandkids all.

Last year, in a sage grandmotherly rage, I laid the law down.

“To parents and children:

If you don’t write a thank you note—

Emails, Skype, phone calls acceptable—

NO MORE GIFTS.”

It took a little coaxing and prodding but most of them complied.

For all the good it did.

Not one thank you this Christmas or birthday season.  Not one.

I was so excited about the lanterns our Home Teacher told us about.

They are for camping, emergency preparedness, cars –

They can be solar powered and charge your cell phone.

We bought four - $50/each.

Not one word of praise for them,

much to my disappointment.

We’re not as rich as we used to be.

Pensions don’t increase anything like the cost of living.

We’re getting a little nervous.

Nonetheless, that’s not the point.

My mother taught us to write “thank you” notes.

I expect it.

Am I old-fashioned?

Am I wrong to let it gnaw away at me?

Keep me awake at night?

Amidst my stewing,

I read the following in the newspaper:

(While the problem is different;

I felt the response was directed straight to me.

God moves in mysterious ways.)

Dear Carolyn • We’re married 30 years and have raised two boys to adulthood in a supportive environment complete with a stay-at-home mom, involved parents and fully paid college.

My wife and I are crushed by the boys’ lack of appreciation for their mother’s birthday and Mother’s Day, until I asked them to call her. (I received a card and gift for my birthday and Father’s Day last year from one son.)

We spoke separately with each boy afterward, with one sincerely atoning, and sheepishly stating that the disparate treatment of me versus my wife was unintentional. The other boy refused to acknowledge the importance of my wife’s (or any other’s) important occasions on any level.

I usually nudged the boys during their adolescence to remember such occasions, but wonder how long to continue nudging. I wonder in general what, if anything, to do about a married 27-year-old son’s and 24-year-old son’s behavior toward their mom who gave so much of herself for their futures.  Involved Parents

Dear Involved Parents •

They’re adults. You say your piece and then drop it.

If your boys treat the two of you warmly and make efforts to stay in touch otherwise, by young-adult standards at least, then I hope you and your wife take that as ample thanks for a job well done. Truly. While I believe a good way to show people you care is to express affection in a way they appreciate, I also believe a good way to show people you care is to accept their affection however they choose to give it.

And, speaking only for me, I’d rather have children who were well-adjusted, independent, productive members of society to my credit than a bouquet. (Assuming I had to choose only one, which we all must do sometimes.)----Carolyn Hax’s column runs Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Salt Lake Trib. 

YES!

They are well-adjusted, independent, productive members of society.

Isn’t that enough?

BONG!

Still I yearn for a teeny, tiny thank you note;

and for the Emily Post manners of yesteryear.

Grandmothers are funny that way.

You’ll see.

From the Emily Post Foundation:
The Importance of the Handwritten Thank-you Note
As our world becomes increasingly digitalized and mobile, people seek faster, even immediate, forms of communication. The times have certainly changed and now it is easier than ever to get in touch; all it takes is a quick email or text message.
Here at Emily Post, we believe that there is still a place for handwritten notes in our fast-paced society - especially for something as important and personal as the thank-you note. In a recent edition of The Costco Connection, Daniel Post Senning explores the question of whether it is OK to thank people by email
"When I get a handwritten letter, I'm excited to open it. The art of the postage stamp, the feel of the paper, the graphic quirks of a friend's handwriting: There is simply nothing as personal as a handwritten note. In a stack of bills and flyers, it's a treasure in a sealed packet, full of promise and potential. It is a visceral reminder of someone far away.
Good manners are about more than fulfilling bare-minimum social obligations. They are an opportunity for us to connect to the people in our lives in a meaningful way. In an increasingly informal digital world, continuing to pull out pen and paper is a way to distinguish yourself. The handwritten thank-you note speaks volumes simply as a medium and sends the message that you care enough to invest yourself personally in acknowledging another.
Being part of a society means knowing how to be appropriate to a situation. Handwritten notes still have a personality, warmth and, when needed, gravitas that computer screens don't. And questions of appropriateness aside, people still enjoy opening them. More than anything, that tells me they have lasting value. So, send a little joy someone's way!"

A Mother in Heaven?

It was 1993, Ed was 20 years old when I discovered how negligent I had been to not have taught him that he has a Mother in Heaven as well as a Father.  He came up through the Primary and Sunday School systems and never heard of his Mother in Heaven? We read the scriptures every day, where unfortunately she is not mentioned. He loves Heavenly Father and Jesus.  He should love his Mother too.  Distinctly.

One Sunday, he was leaving for church when he mentioned something about Heavenly Father and I told him he ought to remember his Heavenly Mother too.  “No. NO. I don’t have a Heavenly Mother; only a Heavenly Father.”  “That doesn’t make sense, Eddy.  Of course, you have a Heavenly Mother.”  He stomped around and was adamant.

Trying to teach him through hymns, we sang O My Father.  “I love this one but it’s wrong.  This is one of my favorite hymns, Mom,” he tells me.

The next day, he says, “I love you, Mom, since you’re my only mother.”

“Just me and your Mother in Heaven,” I add.

“She doesn’t exist.  I told you that yesterday.”  Then he relents ever so slightly, “I love Heavenly Mother, who doesn’t exist, but I love her anyway.”  May 4, 1993

Later as we gathered for our daily hymns, he said, “First tune I want to do is O My Father because it’s about Heavenly Mother who doesn’t exist because I love her and I love Heavenly Father and Jesus and whoever else is in heaven.” 

I guess he’s going to be prepared for anyone else I decide to spring on him!

I had learned to call thee Father,

Thru thy Spirit from on high,

But, until the key of knowledge

Was restored, I knew not why. 

In the heav’ns are parents single?

No, the thought makes reason stare! 

Truth is reason, truth eternal

Tells me I’ve a mother there. 

When I leave this frail existence,

When I lay this mortal by,

Father, Mother, may I meet you

In your royal courts on high? 

Then, at length, when I’ve completed

All you sent me forth to do,

With your mutual approbation

Let me come and dwell with you.” 

 --Eliza R. Snow Vs 3,4 Pg 292 Hymns;

Also, Oh, What Songs of the Heart:

 Oh, what songs we’ll employ!

Oh, what welcome we’ll hear!

While our transports of love are complete,

As the heart swells with joy

In embraces most dear

When our heavenly parents we meet! 

As the heart swells with joy,

Oh, what songs we’ll employ,

When our heavenly parents  we meet!” 

--Joseph L. Townsend Vs 4 Pg 286 Hymns

“Heavenly Father,” Ed prays at the dinner table, “thank thee for the food; bless it to our use.  Tell Mom to get off MY case.  Tell Heavenly Mother that I love her.  I love thee.  In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” August 19, 1993

Then one Sunday at dinner, DeRay said something and Ed asks,  "What about our Mother in Heaven, the one I love?"  "You love our mother in heaven who doesn't exist?" I tease.  "I do."  It sure made me feel better to know that Ed believes that I have a counterpart in heaven, therefore a future.  March 3, 1997

It has been my custom when hiking through the hollow, to stop in the oak grove and utter an informal prayer to Heavenly Father.  I was clear out of the oak grove before I remembered this ritual one Saturday evening at General Conference time.  I turned around and went back in.  “Sorry. I thought You'd be in General Priesthood meeting.  Are you there?”  No answer.  “Well, what about Mrs. God?  Mother God?  She will listen to me.”  So I pray to her.  I asked her to help me not get lost (I’m not talking about the trail.)  She cares.  Some people in our Church have been excommunicated for talking about, writing about, and especially for praying to our Mother in Heaven.  I don't know why.  She's nice.  April 4, 1998

The next day, we sit down to dinner around 3 PM, right during the afternoon session of General Conference.  "We won't say the blessing because God is busy listening to conference," I explain.  (So were we.)  "What do you mean listening?" Amy questions, "He's talking.  He told them what to say; He doesn't have to listen."  "Well," I project, "we could pray to Mother God. She wasn't invited to talk in conference.  She'll listen to us."  April 5, 1998

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a pioneer for women’s rights, walked four miles to church and back each Sunday to hear the minister, Theodore Parker, invoke an androgynous “Mother and Father of us all.”