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.
Oct 16, 2013
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.
Aug 2, 2013
Tasers and 2nd Amendment
With all the controversy over banning guns in the United States, I've never really had to put much thought into my stance. Of course not! No, I'm very much opposed to this infringement on the 2nd amendment. I do not personally own a gun, but people in my family do, my friends do; in fact, probably my whole town does! Protecting yourself is a right, and I do not believe government should ever take control of our right to protect ourselves.
Like I said, I've always been against gun control, but recently I've become much more impassioned about it. Boston is a wonderful place; there are so many great things to do and see, but Massachusettes has a fault, and I'm not talking about their absurd roads or their terrible sidewalks. It is illegal to own or to sell a Taser or any other type of stun gun in Massachusetts under the Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 140, Section 131J. A civilian in possession of a taser may punished by "a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 or by imprisonment in the house of correction for not less than 6 months nor more than 21/2 years, or by both such fine and imprisonment."
What?!?
Seriously. As I explained in my last post, I am scared of this place, so Steve and I have been thinking about getting a small taser for me to carry. I'm sure it will never need to be used, but it would make me feel better as I travel the subways, buses and streets by myself. However, I guess that won't be happening.
Like I said, I've always known I am against laws that constrict the 2nd amendment, but now that I slightly understand how it feels to have my right to feel safe taken away, I definitely am against all and any laws that leave civilians unprotected.
On a less serious note, read my favorite story about tasers and I dare you to not laugh:
Taser Story
Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I
was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came
across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of
the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse
affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to
safety.
WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it
home.
I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.
Nothing! I was disappointed.I learned, however, that if I pushed the
I learned, however, that if I pushed the
button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get
the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that
burn spot is on the face of her microwave.
Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it
couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?
There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting
little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I
really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving
target.
I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second)
and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going
to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did
want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading
glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions
in one hand, and taser in another.
The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient
your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms
and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would
purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of
water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the
batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring
about 5' long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really
and (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to
myself, 'no possible way!'
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my
best...
I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to
one side as if to say, 'don't do it dipshit,' reasoning that a one
second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I
decided to give myself a one second burst just for the heck of it. I
touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . .
WHAT THE HELL!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me
up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and
over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal
position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on
fire ,testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in
the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.
The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to
a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt
to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.
Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a taser, one
note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you
zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged
from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three
second burst would be considered conservative.
THAT HURT LIKE HELL!!!
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at
that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and
surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of
the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so
from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both
nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain,
and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.
Apparently I shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure and my
sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which
believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and I'm
offering a significant reward for their safe return!!
P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!
Like I said, I've always been against gun control, but recently I've become much more impassioned about it. Boston is a wonderful place; there are so many great things to do and see, but Massachusettes has a fault, and I'm not talking about their absurd roads or their terrible sidewalks. It is illegal to own or to sell a Taser or any other type of stun gun in Massachusetts under the Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 140, Section 131J. A civilian in possession of a taser may punished by "a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 or by imprisonment in the house of correction for not less than 6 months nor more than 21/2 years, or by both such fine and imprisonment."
What?!?
Seriously. As I explained in my last post, I am scared of this place, so Steve and I have been thinking about getting a small taser for me to carry. I'm sure it will never need to be used, but it would make me feel better as I travel the subways, buses and streets by myself. However, I guess that won't be happening.
Like I said, I've always known I am against laws that constrict the 2nd amendment, but now that I slightly understand how it feels to have my right to feel safe taken away, I definitely am against all and any laws that leave civilians unprotected.
On a less serious note, read my favorite story about tasers and I dare you to not laugh:
Taser Story
Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I
was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came
across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of
the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse
affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to
safety.
WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it
home.
I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.
Nothing! I was disappointed.I learned, however, that if I pushed the
I learned, however, that if I pushed the
button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get
the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.
AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that
burn spot is on the face of her microwave.
Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it
couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?
There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting
little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I
really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving
target.
I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second)
and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going
to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did
want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading
glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions
in one hand, and taser in another.
The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient
your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms
and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would
purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of
water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the
batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring
about 5' long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really
and (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to
myself, 'no possible way!'
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my
best...
I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to
one side as if to say, 'don't do it dipshit,' reasoning that a one
second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I
decided to give myself a one second burst just for the heck of it. I
touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . .
WHAT THE HELL!!!
I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me
up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and
over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal
position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on
fire ,testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in
the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.
The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to
a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt
to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.
Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a taser, one
note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you
zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged
from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three
second burst would be considered conservative.
THAT HURT LIKE HELL!!!
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at
that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and
surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of
the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so
from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both
nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain,
and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.
Apparently I shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure and my
sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which
believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and I'm
offering a significant reward for their safe return!!
P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!
Jul 27, 2013
Cats and Crosswalks
Tonight I realized something: I am a pathological scaredy cat.
My mother taught me well; in fact, she taught me too well. I can always remember her jumping to my defense whenever my dad asked me to go get some drill or rope or chain or any other odd tool from over at the barn. She'd say, "Oh, Todd, it's too dark!" He'd always counter with questions of why that mattered asking, "Does the tool disappear if it's dark?" I always loved it when my mom did this because I was usually spared the annoyance of running over to the machine shed, fighting off the ever present dog at the door, hoping in vain the light wasn't burned out, fumbling around in the dark for some obscure tool either on the massive table, our old kitchen table (which I always rather liked), the old truck seat, or in the fridge that stood as a medicine cabinet/Diet Coke stash. By the time I found it and returned home, the job was either finished without whatever I'd spent too much time trying to find, or, and most often this was the case, I came back with the wrong something-or-other. If my mom jumped to my rescue my dad would usually just go get whatever he needed himself, which would leave me safely at home and out of the dark.
This was how I was raised.
If it was dark, you stay inside. If you don't, you end up locked inside a dark, old, run-down, milk barn with a crazed and angry raccoon who can see in the dark whereas you're painfully rooted in rubber boots and over-sized gloves holding a horseshoeing rasp and trembling with fear as you hear the little rodent scurrying around you, but that's a story for another post.
Point: Be scared. My mother was very good at teaching me to be scared.
I think that's what I've learned the most in Boston this summer is that I'm scared. I'm scared of the buildings, the subway, the people--definitely the people, and even crossing the roads outside of a crosswalk.
So, why did the chicken cross the road? Well, maybe it was trying to get over its fear and cross the blasted road!
My mother taught me well; in fact, she taught me too well. I can always remember her jumping to my defense whenever my dad asked me to go get some drill or rope or chain or any other odd tool from over at the barn. She'd say, "Oh, Todd, it's too dark!" He'd always counter with questions of why that mattered asking, "Does the tool disappear if it's dark?" I always loved it when my mom did this because I was usually spared the annoyance of running over to the machine shed, fighting off the ever present dog at the door, hoping in vain the light wasn't burned out, fumbling around in the dark for some obscure tool either on the massive table, our old kitchen table (which I always rather liked), the old truck seat, or in the fridge that stood as a medicine cabinet/Diet Coke stash. By the time I found it and returned home, the job was either finished without whatever I'd spent too much time trying to find, or, and most often this was the case, I came back with the wrong something-or-other. If my mom jumped to my rescue my dad would usually just go get whatever he needed himself, which would leave me safely at home and out of the dark.
This was how I was raised.
If it was dark, you stay inside. If you don't, you end up locked inside a dark, old, run-down, milk barn with a crazed and angry raccoon who can see in the dark whereas you're painfully rooted in rubber boots and over-sized gloves holding a horseshoeing rasp and trembling with fear as you hear the little rodent scurrying around you, but that's a story for another post.
Point: Be scared. My mother was very good at teaching me to be scared.
I think that's what I've learned the most in Boston this summer is that I'm scared. I'm scared of the buildings, the subway, the people--definitely the people, and even crossing the roads outside of a crosswalk.
So, why did the chicken cross the road? Well, maybe it was trying to get over its fear and cross the blasted road!
Jun 17, 2013
Dear Dad
I know I'm a day or two late on this, but I wanted to write down some of my favorite memories of my Dad for Father's day:
Love, your favorite daughter
- This past Sunday the speaker told a story about her dad making her a play house. This had me thinking about when my dad built a play house for my sister and me. This wasn't just any play house. No, this was a matching miniature house of own house. I remember my dad and his friend Sparky or Sporty or something like that would measure and cut and drill this house. It was painted such a pretty pale peach color that matched our big house's siding. It came complete with a white porch, a mailbox with our names on it and even a sliding window! We had desks, a table and chairs, a mini kitchenette, plastic food and even a broom and dustpan. I remember playing in this house in the heat of summer when I sticky sheen of sweat would cling to our skin inside the house, but it was a small price to pay for such a magnificent house. Today it functions more as a storage shed since my sisters and I have grown old, and I don't know if my dad knows how much I loved that house he built for us just because he loved us.
- It seems that a lot of my favorite memories consists of building things. One late fall we stated building "the facilities." We remodeled the squeeze chute, alley way, watering hole and other corrals around. It was and is still to this day one of the better alley ways every built in the Bear Lake valley. It has a side walk on the side so you can easily walk on it above the cows' backs and have easy access to hot shots and such. There's gates behind the shiny, red chute that inter lock to make it easy to get behind cows. They corrals or funneled to make it easy to herd the cows, the gates are all perfectly hung a foot or so off the ground so they don't drag but calves don't get out. There's gates that have solid wood panels on the front with a hole to dead bolt it from the other side; there's horseshoe hooks that make it easy to shut the big wooden gate that it is handmade. Everything is made with solid wood that's backed by railroad ties and lag bolts. These lags I remember the most. It was during an early snowfall that I was huddled down in the bucket of the skid steer as I threaded washers onto lags. One after another until I finished the boxes. But it didn't matter, because I was so proud (and still am today) of "the facilities" I helped my dad build.
- I was so not happy with my little brother's appearence into my life. When my mom told us she was pregnant I cried and cried. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't come out all Sunday afternoon. This wasn't just because I didn't want to surrender my last child baby status, but because he was a boy. I just knew my dad would love him more because he was a boy. With a family of 4 girls I'm sure my dad wished for some manly relief from all the pigtails and pink, but, to me, a new baby brother meant I wasn't going to be my dad's little buddy anymore. I remember my dad coming into my room and telling me that it didn't matter if we had a little boy, I would always be his favorite, and I am pretty sure that still stands. :)
- Along with the torment of having a brother, there was the torment of naming him. My mom kept a list of names like Cade and Kyle and others on the fridge, but nothing seemed to fit. My sister, Dayna, my dad and I were lying on my bed talking about what it would be like to have a baby brother when my dad suggested the name Theron. He explained how Theron Godfrey was, and why he wanted to name my baby brother after him. It just seemed to fit, and I'll always remember my dad explaining why he picked this name.
Love, your favorite daughter
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