500 Days of Summer

This seemed like an appropriate film to watch just as summer ends. Sweetie and I actually had a real date today--dinner and a movie! I really liked this film; him--not as much but still enjoyed it. I think Zooey Deschanel is lovely, and her clothes are to die for. Great soundtrack--in fact, you're listening to my favorite cut from it right now! It's not squeaky clean, but I wasn't offended. Then I again, I rarely am :)

All in all, a great day.

Coldplay - Life In Technicolor ii (HD)

Brilliant! I love this video. Reminds me of the glory days of MTV in the 80s.

Living With Terrorists

This morning I read on CNN.com about a terror investigation in New York City. I was working on a post a few weeks ago on a related topic that I ended up deleting, but after reminiscing with my sister last night I thought I'd rewrite it a bit. Most people probably know nothing about what was going on in Europe in the mid-70s, so this might prove a little enlightening.

My family lived in Germany twice--1962-1965 (I was born in Munich in 1963), and then again from 1973-1977. It was gorgeous, interesting, exciting--all the things you would imagine growing up in a foreign country to be. It was also very dangerous. At the time, there was a very active terrorist group there called the Baader-Meinhof Gang, a self-described communist urban-guerrilla group. They fought against all sorts of things, but one of their favorite targets was the US military. A year before we moved to Heidelberg, they detonated two car bombs at Campbell Barracks. (See 24 May 1972 in link) When my father began working there, they were still in the middle of reconstruction which took several more years. They also launched a missile from the mountain and blew up a general on his way to work. Bomb threats at school were a weekly occurrence, sometimes more often than that. Suzanne and I have vivid memories of standing outside Heidelberg High School in the freezing cold while our school was searched--yet again. On 4 July, 1976 when our peers in the States were celebrating the Bicentennial, I was grounded from the fireworks display in Heidelberg because yet another bomb was rumored to be planted at the big beer tent on post. Stupid terrorists--always ruining my fun.

Later that summer, my family moved to Giessen, a city two hours north of Heidelberg and in a more hostile part of the country, at least towards Americans. My father was the battalion commander of a Nike missile battalion, which brought some perks with it, namely cute soldiers falling all over me and my sister so we would let my dad know how helpful they were. It also put a big bulls-eye target on us.

Every Friday evening in the winter I went ice skating at Rhein-Main AFB about an hour or so south of us. I came home around midnight one early January night to find the junior high school, which was right next door to our apartment building, engulfed in flames. Military police were running around shouting at everyone to evacuate and I ran upstairs to wake my parents and little sister to get them out of the building. It was speculated that our fastidious science teacher had accidentally mixed the solid and liquid chemicals from class in the same container, which had caused the massive explosion. But my father always strongly suspected that the school had been bombed. Nearly the same night the Red Army Faction, a more violent incarnation of Baader-Meinhof, hit the fuel tank at the depot with explosives in an attempt to blow the army post into the stratosphere. Fortunately, the fuel level had dropped just below the explosion line, which saved all of us. (See 4 January 1977 in link). The two explosions seem a little too coincidental to not be related, at least to us.

In November 1977 we were traveling across the Austrian border when guards stopped us and made us unpack the back of our car, searched it, and then handed us a flyer with the photos of the primary Baader-Meinhof terrorists on it (see the photo at the top). At home, we were told not to speak English in public or to wear clothing that identified us as Americans. When we left the country in December to move to San Antonio, Texas we were surrounded by guards carrying sub-machine guns. Did the people back home know what was going on over there? I have no idea.

A couple of years ago someone phoned in a bomb threat at Provo High School. My kids evacuated with the others, and I must admit I was a little sentimental when I learned of my babies' first exposure to bomb threats. "Oh, that brings back so many memories! I'm so proud of you both--your first evacuation!" Lots of pats on the back, so proud that they didn't panic or cry like some other kids did. We're a tough breed in my family!

So there's yet another interesting tidbit from my very interesting life so far. Maybe next I'll tell you about the sniper attack we survived in San Antonio. Bet you can't wait!

Miss Capucine - Once Upon A Time...

I Can't Wait For New Moon!!!

I Rock

I just walked five miles on the Provo River Trail! I'm a little sore and tired, but I can't believe I did it! Next weekend I have another big challenge--hiking the Y. I rock!

Our 9/11 Story

On VE Day in 1945 my mother was on the top of the Empire State Building in New York City. She looked off the top of the observation deck and saw the air fill with ticker tape as the whole city poured into the streets. I was only three months old in 1963 when JFK was killed, but my parents remember where they were. Mom was in Germany with the three of us and my dad was in Texas that day while half his group was stuck across the Mexican border when it closed. I remember when Ronald Reagan was shot, too. It was my senior year of high school (1981) and I was in either accounting or notehand class that March afternoon when they announced it over the PA system. By the time I drove home after school they were reporting his death (erroneously) on the radio.

9/11/01 started out with a bang. I woke up that Tuesday morning to the radio on my alarm clock. The DJs were talking about a small airplane that hit one of the Trade Towers. Weird. How does that happen on accident? I immediately thought something really bad was up. I got the three older kids ready for school, trying not to let them know the things we were all learning that morning. Tinkerbell was barely a year old and blissfully unaware. At least the kids would be sheltered at school, I thought. But the school had all the TVs on in their rooms that morning, and the kids saw the world go to hell in real time. Their teachers didn't understand why my children were so scared--they didn't know that Sweetie was across the Canadian border at the Toronto Film Festival. The kids were too young to pay attention to Festival dates and itineraries. He left on a plane and in their minds he just flew around in the sky until it was time to come home. Why couldn't one of the planes have been his?

My dad called. He was sure it was those crazy liberal environmentalists that had been protesting in New York the week before. For some reason I knew right away that it was Osama bin Laden, and I tried to convince my father of that. Interesting theory, he thought, but way off base. Then the towers crumbled to the ground. All the firefighters and police were dead? Not possible. Their radios just weren't working. These things never have the high body count initially projected. Right? Then the Pentagon and Flight 93. What is happening to us?

One thing I appreciate about myself is that I'm very efficient and calm in a crisis. After I hung up with my dad, I called Sweetie to make sure he was all right. I knew he was, but I still wanted to hear it from him. It took hours to get an open line, but the call finally went through. Things were weird up there. He had been in a film screening when they interrupted and announced that the towers had fallen. Most of the Americans ran out at that point. Some of our lovely neighbors to the north were full of theories that asserted that the US had it coming and we greedy Americans were finally reaping what we sowed. It's tempting to think that Canada is just sort of an extension of America, but there are some pretty strong philosophical differences there. Being in a foreign country during a national tragedy can be logistically complicating as well, as we were about to discover.

How does one get a stranded husband back across a sealed border when all the flights are cancelled and the airports shut down? First off, you call BYU travel, make yourself a complete nuisance until they listen to you, then beg. But begging doesn't work, so you then offer to do as much of the work as possible yourself. They like that. Lots of professors were renting cars and driving back from Canada, couldn't he do that? Or just buy a car? You would think that travel agents would have some basic knowledge of Canadian geography, but they seemed to think Alberta and British Columbia were right next to Ontario. I made call after call to the airline, railroads, rental car places, bus lines. I found the bishop's number in Toronto, the mission president's, that neighbor who moved to Ontario a few years ago that would never remember us but who might help.

Days passed by, and nothing was happening. He was running out of money. Eating became a rare occurrence so he could conserve any cash he had to use as bribe money if necessary (he went on his mission to Mexico--old habits die hard). Finally he called and said the border was opening for a few hours and he was taking a bus across it to the Buffalo, NY airport. What could I find out about planes? We didn't have our cell phones back then, so he called from any payphone he could find. They crossed the border at midnight, and it sealed shut again after they got through. He spent the night on the floor of the terminal, and got out on one of the only planes the next morning before the airport shut down again. I got him as far as Denver, but that's the best I could do. Just before I was about to drive the 10 hours to pick him up, he found one seat on a plane to Salt Lake City. He arrived home tired, hungry, and stressed, but whole, and the amazing good fortune of that was not lost on me. Total time--five days.

I will never forget 9/11. The images are etched in my brain forever and I will probably take them to the grave with me. My children have only the vaguest memories of that day, for which I am grateful. Someday we will face another unforgettable event in American history, and my kids, one of whom is an adult now, can talk about our family's unique 9/11 experience. I just hope that when that day comes, as I know it will, that both my family and yours are far away from the action.

Its Been Real, and Its Been Fun

I won't be writing as much in the future. Turns out that having a kid in college and three more coming up gets a little expensive, so I've taken on a second job at the school. I'll be helping Annette run the afterschool program until 5 everyday, so what little time I have at home is going to need to be spend productively in more tangible ways than a blog post. Like, folded laundry and dinner on the table before 10 at night (you think I jest). I will miss it very much, but in all honesty I've been getting way too introspective lately and am boring myself a bit, which probably means I'm boring you a lot.

I'll still pop on and update from time to time, just not as often.

Gravity

Homework: Do any or all, or be inspired. (If your real life is too real right now, be your own private tutor and do an assignment in your head.)

~Search through the drawer in your heart. Are there memories that shaped your self image? Write about a time when your feelings were hurt. Why do you think you still remember the incident? How does that help you understand yourself better?

~Describe yourself from a friend's point of view. Does she know the real you? Do you want her to?

~As a trusted mentor, write a letter advising yourself what to do about a current situation in your life. Prompt: "Dear Friend, I know you're worried about ____. Knowing you like I do, I'm sure you feel____, but I trust your instincts. You seem so____."

My homework assignment yesterday was to write about an experience that shaped me into the person I am today. That was so easy! I immediately sat down and wrote a post about a really traumatic moment in my life when I was 15. It was a fabulous bit of writing, in all modesty, one which even made me shed a tear as I wrote it. I waited to publish it so I could rework a few things, listened to sad music, cried a bit more--and then slapped myself in disgust.

Of all the things I've experienced in my life, the thousands upon thousands of happy moments, why would I go right to something sad and believe that it shaped me more than the good things? So stupid and self-indulgent. Like that idiotic Janis Ian song, "At 17". I hate that song! And I can't stand being around people who are always dwelling on past failures and tragedy. I feel sorry for them, not because of what they've experienced (though I do actually feel sorry for that), but because they got stuck there in their heads. Why would I want to go there and wallow in it? Do I have sad stories? You bet I do--some that would leave you speechless. Do you have sad stories? Some that would make me grateful that I only had my little traumas to deal with. But dwelling on those things just pulls us into their gravity, sucking the very life out of us until there is nothing but despair and hopelessness.

I consciously choose not to go there. I've got lots to be happy about, and in spite of the occasional blip over the years, I've had a remarkably happy life. Those little moments that are almost a blur because there are so very many of them, yet with enough impact that they have left smile lines on my face.

So I got out of bed this morning, threw on my walking clothes, popped in my ear buds and listened to The New Radicals, who never fail to put things into perspective for me. Then I deleted my old post and wrote this instead. I feel much better.

Overheard

Elvira: You're spending too much time playing Mafia Wars.
Kitty Boy: You. In my grill. Out (as he pushes away with his hand).

I found this inexplicably hilarious.

Book Review: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

I'm not taking a class at BYU this semester, and am instead going to focus on improving my writing. Check out the "School Days" button on the sidebar if you want to join me!

Homework: Pick one or the other, or be inspired. ~Read something on your book shelf for sheer pleasure.
~Blog about a book you've read over and over. Prompt: "I can rifle the pages of ____and easily find my favorite part about____."

Do you ever close a book that you've loved and just clutch it tightly to your chest when you've finished it? That's the mark of a truly beloved read and it is exactly what I did when I finished "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. I first heard of this book from my friend Pat, who read it following an actual visit to the Isle of Guernsey. We generally have very similar reading tastes, and the fact that she loved it was enough for me to put the next few days of my life in Mrs. Shaffer's capable hands.

The story is set in post-WW2 British Isles and is written in letter form, primarily between Juliet, a newspaper columnist/author, and a fascinating collection of people in her life. She is a bit lost concerning what to write about next when she receives a letter from Dawsey, a man on the Isle of Guernsey who has a used copy of a book that used to belong to Juliet. He contacts her through the address she wrote inside the cover, and that one letter changes her life and the lives of everyone surrounding both of them.

It's laugh out loud funny in many parts, and deeply moving in others. Though my mother-in-law was born and raised in England and spent her late teens and early twenties surviving WW2, I knew absolutely nothing about the Channel Islands or the events that took place there during the war. The voices of the characters came through so clearly it was almost as though they were reading their letters out loud right over my shoulder. Such an amazing story of survival in all respects--physically, socially, spiritually, and intellectually.

I nearly always check my books out of the library, but after reading this I had to have my own copy. It was a great read, and is also an amazing audio book. I still laugh when I think of my favorite quote from the book: "My friend Mrs. Maugery bought a pamphlet that once belonged to you too. It is called 'Was There A Burning Bush? A Defense of Moses and the Ten Commandments.' She liked your margin note: 'Word of God or crowd control???' Did you ever decide which?"

If you would like to see the other books that I've enjoyed, click on the Goodreads button on the right sidebar. I try to review them all and not just give a star rating. Your suggestions are most welcome, as I usually have three or four books going at a time anyway!

Weird

Just when I thought my life was as weird as it could get, it got a bit weirder tonight. I need some fresh air, so I'm headed over to Ambrosia to visit.