Annika and the Book

In the corner of the family room is a roomy chaise with crawl-on-access for a one-year-old. A big picture window backlights the chaise. When I walk into the room, the chaise whispers, “have a seat.” To the side of the chaise is a bookshelf and a cupboard filled with children’s books. When I sit on the chaise, I am immediately dog piled by two adorable children who see my physical presence on the green chaise as an invitation to read. Because I am their grandma with an agenda that only includes them, I sit down to read.

This love of books is not limited to the green chaise. When sixteen-month-old Annika goes about her business, it is usually with a book. Out of the chaise, up the stairs, out the back door, onto the deck, into the yard—all these movements are made holding a book. She is a version of Harold and the Purple Crayon: Annika and the book. From a book loving woman, whose mother was a book loving woman, whose daughter is a lover of books--to watch my granddaughter carry her books around with the importance of a purse, brings joy and laughter.

At least once a month for the last thirty-five years, my mother, aka, Annika’s great grandmother, has received a book in the mail from her Book of the Month Club. When I was a child, she would perch herself at the edge of the snack bar, indulging her joy but still readily available to her children. I always received a book or two for Christmas and birthdays. My mother bought books and took us to the library, a legacy that continues with my grandchildren: books from the library, books from book fairs, books from the bookstore, books for birthdays, books for fun, books galore for everyone!

You can never spoil a child with books; you only spoil them when they are not surrounded by books.

Fight the Beetles( not a rock group)

Almost every year for the last twenty years, I have had the joy of attending Camp MIA Shalom with a group of 12-18 year old girls. Like its name suggests, it is a place of peace. It is a place of towering pines and spruce, aspen families, wild flowers and patches of early summer snow on the north facing slopes. It is the place where we race canoes, sing around the campfire, and learn how to build fires. On a ridge overlooking the camp is where we hiked with bags of concrete and a wheelbarrow of water to place a plaque commemorating the life and death of a young woman who once reveled in the joy and peace of Camp Shalom.

Last year, the caretakers of the camp warned us about the absence of trees that were cut in an attempt to curtail the destruction caused by a native bark beetle. The trees, weakened by drought were left vunerable to the beetle invasion. It wasn’t so bad because we were still surrounded by life and its color of green. But this year, the destruction was so prevalent, the colors of gray and brown, I could hardly look at the surroundings without a feeling of deep remorse.

Camp Shalom rests in the Fairview Canyon Mountains in Utah. Utah’s forests have been hard hit by this bark beetle. When pondering the investment of a cabin, a friend warned us to buy in the Aspen forests and not the pines because of their probable destruction.

In the Brianhead ski resort, my sister-in-law owns a cabin that sits peacefully in a grove of skyscraper fir trees. But her cabin is the exception. The previous owner paid to have her cabin property sprayed with insecticide and the trees were saved.

Beetles have not been content to only ravage our forests. The Japanese beetle a non-native species, was recently cited in the center of my small city, Orem Utah. I read of its arrival in the bill that I receive for my water and garbage charge. An intense pesticide spraying is planned in the next month. “Ok,” I thought, “they’ll spray and all will be well,” but the information was followed by the consequences. Fruits and vegetables in the infested area could not be harvested for 3 years.

I learned today that my friend who lives twenty minutes away in Sundance (film festival and of Robert Redford fame), is part of an effort to place pheromone traps among the trees that for now, deceive the dastardly beetles. She prompted me and my neighbors to contact the forest service and project a plan for next spring to protect our priceless trees, the raspberries I pick every morning, the grass I so enjoy beneath my bare feet.

I am unsure of the right way to fight an insect invasion. I fear the use of pesticides but I fear the loss of forests, trees and landscapes. I believe that awareness is a key to preservation and my thoughts are a small but crucial contribution to awareness.

Here's To Good Sons-In-Law

I didn’t raise them; I didn’t choose them. I knew they would eventually enter my life, but imagining their existence, was as impossible as grasping old age when you're a twenty-year-old. Unlike hindsight which holds memories, hope and experiences for future application, foresight is imagined images and what-ifs that flutter in and out like a butterfly through the yard.

I remember praying once (only once?) that the boys, who would someday become mine by marriage, were becoming good men. Were their mothers teaching them to be gentle, responsible and kind? Were their fathers showing them how to work, love and care? Were they learning from their mistakes? Did they think about my daughters in the abstract kind of way in which they were thought of?

~~~

In hindsight, it might have been difficult for my sons-in-law to want to be my sons-in-law. I try to see this from their point of view:"She did not raise us and we did not choose her. We fell in love with her daughters. We never even thought about a mother-in-law."
Pre-marriage, I was a little hard on them. I wanted them to marry my daughters because they couldn't imagine life without them, not because they had a great mother-in-law. My reasoning is a bit self-centered but it was important that these young men loved and married my daughters in spite of their mother.
There was one man in particular who needed a family and we were his substitute. The relationship between him and my daughter lasted longer than it should have--because he had become a part of our family. As a result, my reticence towards these sons-in-law was a test as old as the knight in shining armor who must pass through the roadside quicksand, the poisonous trees in the forest and the fire breathing dragon(me).

I just spent the weekend with my daughters and sons-in-law and I really like them —these sons-in-law. Unlike love, which is a requirement and a natural spring that flows from a good mother, like is not a requirement—it is a bonus in the familial order of things. And I like them for more reasons than the all encompassing one of treasuring my daughters. I like who they are, what they do, how they love and how they respond. I can never underestimate the value of a good son-in-law.

Sister, Will You?

Sister,

Sister, will you? Let me be the princess, keep all my secrets safe and sound, be my best friend forever?

When I saw these words painted on the wall of a bedroom shared by sisters, my heart eclipsed my age and all the vulnerability, loyalty, trust, responsibility and dependance of being and having sisters, returned.

It was only the first 18 years of our lives that we shared intimately with each other. That is, in the same house, with the same parents, the same trips to Disneyland and Yellowstone, the same Sunday afternoon trips to Baskin-Robbins, the shared memories of Christmas presents, cousins and dachsund puppies.

It has now been 27 years that I have shared the house with my husband, the dinner table, clothes and hair brushes with my own daughters. Time spent with sisters are weekends, holidays, or milestones: mother's upcoming 7oth birthday party-- yet there is always a place in my heart for my sisters.

The Quality of Mercy

The quality of mercy is not strain'd
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown'
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings:
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself,
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice

I had been memorizing this Shakespeare sonnet From The Merchant of Venice without realizing at that very moment that mercy was walking up my front porch stairs. My doorbell rang and a familiar, well loved young man stood before me. He was off again on a foreign adventure with a humanitarian side and was short of funds. Each student had been assessed an extra cost to help improve a South American school. I told him we would help but I would like our gift to be a family decision. He reacted a little uncomfortably and said that he had to have the money by tomorrow. I assured him that our family would "talk about it tonight and call him back."
My husband and I discussed our young friend's dilemma and decided how much to give. He hadn't planned well but we felt the need to extend mercy. The next day the young man returned to pick up his donation. I handed him the fraction of what he needed, but, perhaps more than he expected, and he responded without hesitation, "I love you." I was so moved that I told him to, "Give me a hug." When we embraced, "It blesseth him that give and him that takes," whispered in my mind.

Coincidence

Julie has been my friend for thirty years. When she told me she was going to remarry, I was thrilled for her and an offer to host a bridal shower sprung from the love I felt for her.

Months passed and I had spontaneously enrolled in three university classes. Shakespeare, young adult literature and a technology class had taken over my life. When the time came for Julia’s shower I knew it would be a stretch. The night before the shower, my daughter injured her foot in a competitive soccer game. She wanted to go to the emergency room but the coach encouraged us to use ice and heat alternatively and wait a few days. The next morning my daughter slept in but when she awoke, I didn’t know what condition she would be in. I didn’t know if she would be able to walk, if she would be in pain, or if I would have to take her to the hospital.

The women gathered at eleven a.m. for brunch. It was a lovely day. I had prepared all week so the event wasn’t overwhelming and everything was going smooth. When Julia arrived, she inquired about each of my children. I told her of the injured soccer foot and she quickly mentioned that her fiancée would be dropping by and he could look at it.

I had only met Bill once and had forgotten that he was a doctor. Regardless of Julia’s offer, I knew how some doctor’s feel about treating out-of-office-friend’s children. I didn’t count on Bill looking at my daughter’s foot.

At party’s end, Julia remembered and asked Bill to look at the injury. He knelt down next to her, took her foot in his hand and proceeded to ask her details about the injury. Julia sided next to me and said, “You know this is Bill’s specialty, he’s a sports injury doctor.” No, I hadn’t known.

Within a few moments Dr. Bill identified the injury and with a positive diagnosis, told us we should see our doctor if it didn’t heal within the week.

I looked at the moment, the stress, the sacrifice, and my determination to give to Julia in the days before she began her life with Bill. I felt overwhelmed by the circumstances and blessing of what she was able to give back. It was really a remarkable coincidence, but then…What is a coincidence?