Since moving to Boston, I have come to find that, well, it's incredibly weird out here. Contrary to Steven's belief, I hold me tongue about most of them (The word "wicked." The fact that there appears to be no 'r' in my name out here, or people's inability to follow simple cross-walk etiquette. The infuriatingly disorganized grocery stores...seriously, who puts the Crisco in the dressings section? Or the indescribable state of their driving).
However, I just cannot keep my mouth shut about the newest shock I've had. This one would appear to be the most appalling and disgusting difference between my dear Idaho and Massachusetts (by the way, I still can't spell that).
I don't think I fully appreciated all the perks of growing up on a farm. Of course I understand that many people will just never know what it's like to run across the top of the haystack and have your leg fall into a hole. For a split second, you're sure you'll fall straight to the bottom. I never misunderstood those small heart attacks. Some will never know what it's like to peel hay chunks apart with fingers so cold they can barely grip the strings...which is why my dad would find so many littering the fields in the spring. I did not take for granted the chance to watch my mom pull a clumsy lamb out of the frozen water bucket, wrap him in her own coat, lay him down in the front room and use Olivia's medicine syringe to drip milk in his mouth. Don't misunderstand me, I wouldn't be who I am today without those experiences. I did take one thing for granted though...
In our basement, we've always had a big deep freezer that was always full. I see now that we were far more blessed than I ever realized. Snuggled in at the top you'd find little treasured jars of homemade freezer jam--the cloves sticking to the lid. The rare nights my mom wasn't home to make dinner, we'd fish a Totino's Pizza out--still today I'd choose that 99cent pizza over any Regina's Pizzeria dish! It usually held a whole turkey or two that I saw more than once my dad place on another's doorstep. Please just roll over the milk jugs and diet coke bottles filled with opaque liquid--waste not, want not; colostrum is a precious commodity on a farm.
Now, beneath the cheap pizza and bottles of milk, there are stacks of meat. Meat that we raised on our own farm. They're all wrapped in white butcher paper with the blue ink stamped across the top categorizing the beef from the pork. I will always giggle at the memories of each new college roommate awkwardly asking me what the white packages in our freezers were. You honestly have not tasted bacon until you have it fresh from the white wrapper! And this is what brings me back to my original topic of outrageous differences between Idaho and Massachusetts: the price of meat is insane!! I am serious, meat is so expensive! Today I bought a roast, a simple Sunday roast that would sit in the corner of the freezer till all the better meat was used up, and I was shocked that a piece of roast that was 1/4 size the ones my mom would give to me to take back with me to college would cost 13$! I am not a math major, but I'm pretty sure my mom has given me hundreds of dollars in Sunday roasts!
I admit, I took for granted those 23 years of glorious farm-raised meat. I did not realize that my mom and dad spoiled me with so much free food, and what a blessing it was to have that freezer downstairs with the incredibly expensive meat inside and the bag of salt I'd put on top the lid to make sure I was never the one in trouble for leaving the lid open.
Mar 8, 2014
Send Me Home
Occasionally something will hit me and I immediately go back fifteen or ten years to that little farm girl I once was. It's has happened twice this week, and both times I am transported back in time to very distinct memories from my childhood. Since both of these memories were about my dad, and his birthday is tomorrow, I thought I would write him a post about my week of memories.
Earlier this week on Monday, I was walking out of American Fork Junior High after a long day of teaching my incredibly irritating, beloved 7th grades, and, as I was unlocking my car door, my head whipped up to the sound of geese. I will always associate those first honks I hear with the end of winter and the heaviness of winter immediately leaving me. I was very young when I first learned about the geese coming and going each fall and spring. Ironically, I learned about their journey because of a mistaken journey.
I couldn't have been very old, maybe 10, when we had a fluke week in the middle of our very cold Bear Lake winters. We were feeding the cows with the sleigh as usual, which meant every day at 4:30pm my dad and I would hook up whatever team we had at the time, load the sled up with hay, and trek down through several fields to feed the cows waiting in the bottoms. Now, I have too many stories just about those trips, but this one in particular is one of my favorites. This fluke week was a fake spring in about February, where it gives you hope that the snow will melt and the sun will start shining every day, and I won't have to scrape the outside and inside of car windows anymore. This happens most every year, and it always fooled me (and still does) that we really might have a short winter! This year, it did fool a flock of geese. As we drove down on our sleigh we crossed through the second field, and found a whole flock of geese had come home early for this fake spring. I distinctly recall my dad saying how they were going to regret their mistake next week when they realize winter isn't over yet. Each day during this fake spring we would drive through the flock and see them moseying about in the field, and, sure enough, the next week winter resumed. The flock of geese were now out of their element as the ground filled back up with snow.
One day my dad came out of the horse barn leading the two massive horses as usual, but in his hand he had the old grain can with the dented side, which was not usual. I asked him what it was for, and he replied it was to carry grain. Thank you, father, for always pointing out the obvious. As we neared the winter geese, he hooked the reins into the V of the sled's front (again, I have several stories about how at other times this form of autopilot has gone terribly wrong), picked up the dented grain can, walked to the back of the sled (again, I could tell you many ways this could have gone wrong), and started flinging the grain onto the hard-packed snow. The geese ran for it, and lined up just like the cows did for their hay. My dad was feeding these disoriented geese. This just proves my point that my dad likes to feed things. It doesn't matter if it is a crippled work horse, a frozen Ronda lamb, an Agnus half steer/half bull, or a flock of lost geese--he feeds it...unless it happens to by my pet cow, Curly; then he sells it.
Each day for the rest of the winter we carried our Grinch-like sled of hay and dented can of grain down through the fields stopping to feed the young bulls, Jock the retired work horse, Clyde and Toby, the geese, and finally the cows.
Several years after our geese winter, I mentioned something about it to my dad, and he denied this ever happening, so either this entire story is a figment of my imagination (it isn't), or my dad was trying to act like he would never be so soft as to waste several sacks of grain on a flock of geese who were so terrible at being birds that they flew back in the middle of winter.
A few days later after hearing those signaling honks of geese fly over my head on Monday, I was sitting on the cold ground watching Steven play an intramural football game. This is a familiar evening to me as I have watched him play the last couple years, and on a cool evening a strong smell wafts across the busy road and floods the field. Usually my company remarks that it smells horrible, but, to me, it is the smell of home and spring time.
I can really tell spring is on its way by the smells in my home valley. I wouldn't trust the geese; they aren't the best judges of seasons... After the first couple of true warm days, a smell begins to take over. Thawing crap. Literally. My home is just across the street from my families own farm, and, even better, it is surrounded on both sides by more farms. But as soon as I smell my neighbor's dairy farm thawing, I know Spring is here to stay. I have these randoms memories about my dad saying spring was here because he could smell the dairy farms. So even though my football spectator companions may dislike the smell of the dairy farm across the road from the field, it sends me home instantaneously.
Earlier this week on Monday, I was walking out of American Fork Junior High after a long day of teaching my incredibly irritating, beloved 7th grades, and, as I was unlocking my car door, my head whipped up to the sound of geese. I will always associate those first honks I hear with the end of winter and the heaviness of winter immediately leaving me. I was very young when I first learned about the geese coming and going each fall and spring. Ironically, I learned about their journey because of a mistaken journey.
I couldn't have been very old, maybe 10, when we had a fluke week in the middle of our very cold Bear Lake winters. We were feeding the cows with the sleigh as usual, which meant every day at 4:30pm my dad and I would hook up whatever team we had at the time, load the sled up with hay, and trek down through several fields to feed the cows waiting in the bottoms. Now, I have too many stories just about those trips, but this one in particular is one of my favorites. This fluke week was a fake spring in about February, where it gives you hope that the snow will melt and the sun will start shining every day, and I won't have to scrape the outside and inside of car windows anymore. This happens most every year, and it always fooled me (and still does) that we really might have a short winter! This year, it did fool a flock of geese. As we drove down on our sleigh we crossed through the second field, and found a whole flock of geese had come home early for this fake spring. I distinctly recall my dad saying how they were going to regret their mistake next week when they realize winter isn't over yet. Each day during this fake spring we would drive through the flock and see them moseying about in the field, and, sure enough, the next week winter resumed. The flock of geese were now out of their element as the ground filled back up with snow.
One day my dad came out of the horse barn leading the two massive horses as usual, but in his hand he had the old grain can with the dented side, which was not usual. I asked him what it was for, and he replied it was to carry grain. Thank you, father, for always pointing out the obvious. As we neared the winter geese, he hooked the reins into the V of the sled's front (again, I have several stories about how at other times this form of autopilot has gone terribly wrong), picked up the dented grain can, walked to the back of the sled (again, I could tell you many ways this could have gone wrong), and started flinging the grain onto the hard-packed snow. The geese ran for it, and lined up just like the cows did for their hay. My dad was feeding these disoriented geese. This just proves my point that my dad likes to feed things. It doesn't matter if it is a crippled work horse, a frozen Ronda lamb, an Agnus half steer/half bull, or a flock of lost geese--he feeds it...unless it happens to by my pet cow, Curly; then he sells it.
Each day for the rest of the winter we carried our Grinch-like sled of hay and dented can of grain down through the fields stopping to feed the young bulls, Jock the retired work horse, Clyde and Toby, the geese, and finally the cows.
Several years after our geese winter, I mentioned something about it to my dad, and he denied this ever happening, so either this entire story is a figment of my imagination (it isn't), or my dad was trying to act like he would never be so soft as to waste several sacks of grain on a flock of geese who were so terrible at being birds that they flew back in the middle of winter.
A few days later after hearing those signaling honks of geese fly over my head on Monday, I was sitting on the cold ground watching Steven play an intramural football game. This is a familiar evening to me as I have watched him play the last couple years, and on a cool evening a strong smell wafts across the busy road and floods the field. Usually my company remarks that it smells horrible, but, to me, it is the smell of home and spring time.
I can really tell spring is on its way by the smells in my home valley. I wouldn't trust the geese; they aren't the best judges of seasons... After the first couple of true warm days, a smell begins to take over. Thawing crap. Literally. My home is just across the street from my families own farm, and, even better, it is surrounded on both sides by more farms. But as soon as I smell my neighbor's dairy farm thawing, I know Spring is here to stay. I have these randoms memories about my dad saying spring was here because he could smell the dairy farms. So even though my football spectator companions may dislike the smell of the dairy farm across the road from the field, it sends me home instantaneously.
Nov 1, 2013
A Post Complaining About People Complaining
Don't worry you do not have to point out the hypocrisy in writing an entire blog post complaining about other people complaining. I see it. And even though I hate hypocrisy, I hate people complaining even more. Now, I do not assume that I never complain. In fact, my husband can tell you that I definitely get into ruts where I complain about school, clothes, my hair and skin and basically everything in between.
However, I hate people complaining about their health or lack thereof. I hate it.
If I have learned anything in the last 3 years it would be an affirmation of the how incredibly true this quote is:
However, I hate people complaining about their health or lack thereof. I hate it.
If I have learned anything in the last 3 years it would be an affirmation of the how incredibly true this quote is:
Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle
Last Thursday I was in a class where for about 20 minutes I listened to a girl complain about how many doctors she has seen lately because she gets vertigo when she eats sugar. 20 minutes she complained about how hard her life is now that she can't eat sugar, but she doesn't care because she still eats it anyways and "who cares if the world is flipped upside down, right?!" Now, I 'm not saying I never complain to my husband or close friends about it, but to publicly complain only makes you look foolish. I agree, it would be hard to have sugar induced vertigo, but at the same time I think she should be grateful that's all it is, because heaven knows it could be far worse.
Now from my experiences with health problems I have learned a great deal. Much of it I wish I never needed to learn, but I am also so very grateful for the incredibly large amount that I am not forced to learn about. My health has taught be a lot, but the very most important and valuable lesson I have learned was shortly after being diagnosed with MS two years ago. Yes, I have health problems, but there is, and always will be, somebody next to me who has it worse, who is far more progressed, who is declining, who is in pain, who is terminal. I learned to never, ever utter a complaint about how bad you may have it, because the person sitting next to you is most likely fighting a harder battle.
Be thankful your battle is what it is, because it could always be worse.
Oct 16, 2013
Senioritis
5 1/2 years ago I thought I was going to die from senioritis. I was so very unmotivated it was ridiculous. I was already accepted to BYU, and they would never know my grades for this last semester. It is a miracle I finished like I did with good grades I did considering the way I had to drag myself out of bed every morning.
Fast forward five plus years to now. My senioritis has progressed to a terminal stage. There's no cure and nothing that can help. Except for binging on Grey's Anatomy and a healthy dose of Diet Coke, but mostly just a lot of McDreamy and McSteamy.
Fast forward five plus years to now. My senioritis has progressed to a terminal stage. There's no cure and nothing that can help. Except for binging on Grey's Anatomy and a healthy dose of Diet Coke, but mostly just a lot of McDreamy and McSteamy.
Aug 8, 2013
God Speaks Spanish and I Don't
Since moving to Boston, I quickly learned why Massachusetts drivers are called "massholes," and, as I have already mentioned, I am scared of Boston and the people who live here.
Early yesterday morning Steven left for a business trip to Florida--leaving me all alone in this house. Needless to say, I've been incredibly brave and only checked the dead bolt on the front door 3 times, locked my own bedroom door and left almost every light in the house on all night. This morning I decided to go to this cute little diner for lunch and read my book as I enjoyed their refills of Diet Coke. Of course it took about 20 minutes to find a parking meter that was free, and, when I did, it was on a side street about a block away. I went to the diner, enjoyed my french toast, diet coke and book. Two hours later (yes, I did just drink Diet Coke for a good hour, but, hey, I tip well so it's okay) I wandered back to the car...I should've stayed in my blissful ignorance filled with bubbly Diet Coke.
I don't know how this always happens to me. One time in high school during a raging snow storm, I drove my ancient Park Avenue Buick the 15 miles to Montpelier. I pulled up in the parking lot looking fly in this brown car. Have you ever noticed how not many cars are brown? Anyways, I pulled up and was met with the shocked and pitying look of one of the boys in my grade. I distinctly remember him asking if I noticed any strong pulling to the right as I drove through town. No, in fact, I didn't notice much except the wind almost pushing me off the right side of the road. Well, this was because the right, front tire of my car was completely flat and looked like it had been in such a state for quite some time. He was very nice to the poor girl who drove for miles with a front tire basically gone. He changed it out for me at the auto shop before school ended that day, and I went on my merry way.
So, after my euphoric two hours of Diet Coke, I was brought back to reality. Much like my Buick, this little Honda Civic had a very flat front tire. Really, this isn't my fault. It's on the right side! I have MS! My equilibrium is distorted! So really I can't be blamed for not noticing a little slanting to one side, can I?! For reals, sometimes half my body slants to one side, so really a bit of slanting is normal in my world.
I pop the trunk, lift the false bottom and pull out a spare donut tire aaaaand that's all. No, wait, there's some little brown bag that had melted to the rubber matting that had a metal stick with a hook and the lug nut stick. Hm, well, where's the jack? I search around and finally find it wedged into it's little hole and wiggle it out. I, in a dress mind you, plop the tire down with the metal sticks and this itty bitty jack.
Let me tell you about jacks for a second. I know how to use a jack. My dad taught me when I was just little, and we used it to hold the sled up when it broke one winter. However, that jack is red. And huge. It has a four foot handle. It cranks several feet in the air. It is a man's jack. The jack I had was not a man's jack. In fact, I started to doubt whether or not it was even a real jack. And that's when God spoke to me.
I always imagined God having a strong, deep voice that would leave your ears ringing, but God's voice actually had a very thick Spanish accent and sounded a bit far off.
"Senorita, you know how to? Senorita! No, deja! No! Senorita, up!"
I'm standing there thinking I had just been called as the next prophet when I realize God is still yelling at me in Spanish.
If you know anything about my college experience you will know that I very nearly flunked out of BYU because of Spanish. I took Spanish 101, then I took Spanish 101 again. Then I took Spanish 102, and then I took Spanish 101 again. Onward to Spanish 105 where I disgraced every Spanish word in the language. Spanish 106? How about no. I skipped 106 and lied my way into Spanish 205 which was the last required Spanish class I needed to graduate. I can't tell you how elated I was to pass this class and put Spanish behind me forever. So, you can imagine my utter astonishment at discovering God speaks Spanish.
I whipped around and looked up as I had been told to do. Well, there you have it folks, God was sitting on top of the roof of the Greek Orthodox Church. I looked up, mouth agape, and waved. He yells back at me, "You do it wrong. You know how?" I yell back that I'm going to try, but I'm fairly certain I don't know how to use this jack. I will spare you the blow by blow of the next five minutes as he tried to explain from his rooftop perch where to put the jack. As I am using the metal stick hook thing (that looks more like a crochet hook than a tool) to crank the car up my about a half centimeter each turn (oh how I wished I had that red jack).
After a minute my Spanish God was on the phone; he yells down to me, "Senorita, he help you." He points down the sidewalk at a man walking to me with a real jack. Oh, thank heavens! I meet Jose, him speaking in very slow Spanish for my benefit and me speaking in horrible Spanish.
For the next hour Jose and Raul (who descended the roof top throne and subsequently was not God) helped me switch out the back tire with the donut, and then put the back tire on the front tire. We talked in broken English and broken Spanish. I taught them the rhyme 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' and they laughed, but I'm pretty sure it was a courtesy laugh. Raul taught me how to fix a tire valve. He came down with a tire pump and fixing kit and showed me where the valve was cracked. He also taught me not to be swindled my the mechanics. 15 dollars is all I am supposed to pay for the tire, and if I pay more then I am "bobo," which I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one.
Raul and Jose were fixing the roof of the church, but they were kind enough to come down and help what obviously looked like a bobo in a skirt trying to decide which side is up on a city jack. People out here are busy and impatient. Not many people look up and smile on the subway, and no one waits longer than .5 seconds before laying on their horn at a green light. However, I realized today that there are good people everywhere, and that even though it took time out of their day, Jose and Raul came to my aide, and they didn't just swap out the tire, no, they made sure the car was okay and then made sure I wouldn't lose money on the tire. People are kind, and despite how leery I am of this city and its people, I need to remember that there are some unexpected, Greek Orthodox saints out there that speak Spanish.
Early yesterday morning Steven left for a business trip to Florida--leaving me all alone in this house. Needless to say, I've been incredibly brave and only checked the dead bolt on the front door 3 times, locked my own bedroom door and left almost every light in the house on all night. This morning I decided to go to this cute little diner for lunch and read my book as I enjoyed their refills of Diet Coke. Of course it took about 20 minutes to find a parking meter that was free, and, when I did, it was on a side street about a block away. I went to the diner, enjoyed my french toast, diet coke and book. Two hours later (yes, I did just drink Diet Coke for a good hour, but, hey, I tip well so it's okay) I wandered back to the car...I should've stayed in my blissful ignorance filled with bubbly Diet Coke.
I don't know how this always happens to me. One time in high school during a raging snow storm, I drove my ancient Park Avenue Buick the 15 miles to Montpelier. I pulled up in the parking lot looking fly in this brown car. Have you ever noticed how not many cars are brown? Anyways, I pulled up and was met with the shocked and pitying look of one of the boys in my grade. I distinctly remember him asking if I noticed any strong pulling to the right as I drove through town. No, in fact, I didn't notice much except the wind almost pushing me off the right side of the road. Well, this was because the right, front tire of my car was completely flat and looked like it had been in such a state for quite some time. He was very nice to the poor girl who drove for miles with a front tire basically gone. He changed it out for me at the auto shop before school ended that day, and I went on my merry way.
So, after my euphoric two hours of Diet Coke, I was brought back to reality. Much like my Buick, this little Honda Civic had a very flat front tire. Really, this isn't my fault. It's on the right side! I have MS! My equilibrium is distorted! So really I can't be blamed for not noticing a little slanting to one side, can I?! For reals, sometimes half my body slants to one side, so really a bit of slanting is normal in my world.
I pop the trunk, lift the false bottom and pull out a spare donut tire aaaaand that's all. No, wait, there's some little brown bag that had melted to the rubber matting that had a metal stick with a hook and the lug nut stick. Hm, well, where's the jack? I search around and finally find it wedged into it's little hole and wiggle it out. I, in a dress mind you, plop the tire down with the metal sticks and this itty bitty jack.
Let me tell you about jacks for a second. I know how to use a jack. My dad taught me when I was just little, and we used it to hold the sled up when it broke one winter. However, that jack is red. And huge. It has a four foot handle. It cranks several feet in the air. It is a man's jack. The jack I had was not a man's jack. In fact, I started to doubt whether or not it was even a real jack. And that's when God spoke to me.
I always imagined God having a strong, deep voice that would leave your ears ringing, but God's voice actually had a very thick Spanish accent and sounded a bit far off.
"Senorita, you know how to? Senorita! No, deja! No! Senorita, up!"
I'm standing there thinking I had just been called as the next prophet when I realize God is still yelling at me in Spanish.
If you know anything about my college experience you will know that I very nearly flunked out of BYU because of Spanish. I took Spanish 101, then I took Spanish 101 again. Then I took Spanish 102, and then I took Spanish 101 again. Onward to Spanish 105 where I disgraced every Spanish word in the language. Spanish 106? How about no. I skipped 106 and lied my way into Spanish 205 which was the last required Spanish class I needed to graduate. I can't tell you how elated I was to pass this class and put Spanish behind me forever. So, you can imagine my utter astonishment at discovering God speaks Spanish.
I whipped around and looked up as I had been told to do. Well, there you have it folks, God was sitting on top of the roof of the Greek Orthodox Church. I looked up, mouth agape, and waved. He yells back at me, "You do it wrong. You know how?" I yell back that I'm going to try, but I'm fairly certain I don't know how to use this jack. I will spare you the blow by blow of the next five minutes as he tried to explain from his rooftop perch where to put the jack. As I am using the metal stick hook thing (that looks more like a crochet hook than a tool) to crank the car up my about a half centimeter each turn (oh how I wished I had that red jack).
After a minute my Spanish God was on the phone; he yells down to me, "Senorita, he help you." He points down the sidewalk at a man walking to me with a real jack. Oh, thank heavens! I meet Jose, him speaking in very slow Spanish for my benefit and me speaking in horrible Spanish.
For the next hour Jose and Raul (who descended the roof top throne and subsequently was not God) helped me switch out the back tire with the donut, and then put the back tire on the front tire. We talked in broken English and broken Spanish. I taught them the rhyme 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' and they laughed, but I'm pretty sure it was a courtesy laugh. Raul taught me how to fix a tire valve. He came down with a tire pump and fixing kit and showed me where the valve was cracked. He also taught me not to be swindled my the mechanics. 15 dollars is all I am supposed to pay for the tire, and if I pay more then I am "bobo," which I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one.
Raul and Jose were fixing the roof of the church, but they were kind enough to come down and help what obviously looked like a bobo in a skirt trying to decide which side is up on a city jack. People out here are busy and impatient. Not many people look up and smile on the subway, and no one waits longer than .5 seconds before laying on their horn at a green light. However, I realized today that there are good people everywhere, and that even though it took time out of their day, Jose and Raul came to my aide, and they didn't just swap out the tire, no, they made sure the car was okay and then made sure I wouldn't lose money on the tire. People are kind, and despite how leery I am of this city and its people, I need to remember that there are some unexpected, Greek Orthodox saints out there that speak Spanish.
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