Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

Well, a year ago today you died.  Technically, it's tomorrow.  But it was a Saturday afternoon, so I think I'll always think of it then.  Mom and I were talking the other night about you, wondering what you were up to.  She wondered if you were teaching or learning something.  She got a little sad, I think, so I suggested that you were probably caught up in heavenly bureaucracy and  had been standing in line all this time waiting to get your paperwork processed.  She thought it was an appalling idea, but laughed anyway.  Mission accomplished.

Lots going on with us.  Travis is doing well, but I've gone back to school "just in case."  I'm working on my pre-req's for nursing, but there's a pretty good chance I won't even get in the program, so I'm thinking of back-up ideas.  Science and math aren't my strong points, as you well know.  Chris is trying to figure out what he wants to do when he finishes school.  We're trying to talk him into doing a Study Abroad in Berlin/Vienna next summer.  I think he'd love it.  Ellie graduated from high school and got into BYU!  She's just starting her first finals week.  She's majoring in Asian Studies, and next semester she'll take Chinese and Japanese.  Crazy, I know, but she says she can do it.  Hmm...  Nate is six feet tall now--getting close to you!  He's the only one with feet big enough to wear your shoes, and he wears your cowboy boots all the time.  He thinks you're very cool (which of course, you are!).  Maddie is in 6th grade now.  She won an art contest at school last month, and is doing the district gifted writing program again this year.  She got braces on in January, and she doesn't look little anymore.

I was a complete slacker this year in the yard.  I didn't pick a single currant.  Nate picked a bunch, but I didn't do anything with them and had to throw them out.  We had to get rid of our demon puppy after he kept on attacking Chris.  It was really sad, but Chris was here first, after all.  And he attacked lots of the kids' friends, too, so it was more than just poor Chris.  He was really hard on the yard, though, so we have some major work to do back there.  Travis got the bathroom done!!  We finally have two baths, and the new one has a granite counter.  I feel very spoiled, and now I want it everywhere.  The housing market stinks, and our house lost a lot of value.  Looks like we'll be staying put for awhile, but you always tell me to do that.  I don't know why you like this tiny house so much, but you have a good real estate track record, so I guess I'd better listen.

So much going on in the world.  Arab Spring, Occupy, GOP race for next year...  Every single day I think of something I just want to call and talk to you about.  I'd love to get your thoughts on it all.  I'm sure you have much more interesting things to think about, but still...

Well, I'd better get back to studying.  I miss you tons and love you lots.  Try to visit me sometime.

XOXOXO
Love,
Di

A Life of Less Than

I'm back to my old tricks.  Back in school--again--with nursing as a goal--again.  Taking Math 110--again.  Worried about a certain child of mine--again. 

I find myself in this cyclical life, "Groundhog Day" without the laughs.  Every week is a repeat of the last, but with greater intensity and urgency.  Three days a week the kids do martial arts, two nights a week I go to class, every night I do homework for three or more hours, every day I work nearly 7 hours at my paid job, every night I work at my unpaid job.  As any mom knows, the unpaid stuff is the most important, and it's getting the least attention at the moment.  Sad kids (one in particular) that would love to talk but I don't have time.  I kiss their heads on my way out the door and try to get up enough energy to cook them dinner before bedtime. 

I want to say that I'm doing all of this for them.  Partly I am.  I don't want to show up on their doorsteps with my bags in hand and try to explain why Mommy couldn't get her act together and be self-supporting in her 70s and 80s.  I do worry about that, I'm not going to lie, but mostly it's for me.  I'm terrified of being poor.  I know, blessed are the poor and all that, but there is no glory at all in being old and poor.  None.  I've seen it up close and personal, and I will move heaven and earth before I end up like that.  So I'm pursuing a career that I can work at until I physically can't work anymore, and hope that's enough. 

My trade-off for this ambition, misplaced as it may be, is that I'm living a life I never imagined.  Everything about it is shabby.  I look like death, with dark circles under my eyes on top of all the other flaws.  My clothes are Wal Mart special, and I wear the same stupid pair of jeans every day until one morning they will wear out and I'll head back out to the Evil Empire and buy another pair for under $20.  My house is a wreck, there are holes in the furniture, my children are DVD/internet addicts, and spiders are building webs in the corners.  My mother is coming this week, and I know she'll be so sad for me, which I can't handle.  I'm the toughest person I know, apart from her, and the last thing I need is pity, thank you very much.  But isn't that what I'm asking for?  Pity would cover a multitude of sins.  Oh, poor thing.  She just can't do it all, can she?  That's not who I want to be.  I do want to do it all.  Every last bit of it, and better than 'well'.   


My mom wants to know what she can do to help.  What do I tell her?  Please iron these shirts?  The fridge is a little scary.  The pantry needs to be organized.  The walls are a forensic scientist's dream-come-true.  It's not the obvious things I need help with.  It's this internal struggle that I've faced since I was first conscious of it.  I want this "life" that I grew up with, that I was conditioned to want.  It's a beautiful picture, and I've lived it as a reality.  But for the life of me I can't create it.  The 'how' of it all eludes me.  It's a secret code I haven't yet cracked, that illiterate women for centuries have been able to figure out.  But I can't give up the picture.  This happy family sitting down to dinner when it's still light outside, with money in the bank and smiles on the kids' faces.  Children who know they are loved and are well on their way to creating their own beautiful lives.  Okay, my kids do know they're loved, but the rest of the picture is out of focus with curled edges.  My children suffer.  My marriage suffers, and I feel lost.

So I keep working at everything that won't fix the problem.  Because I already have a degree, and we both have jobs, and we're both artistic enough that we are capable of creating beauty.  So in desperation I'm doing what I know how to do.  Work harder.  Sleep less.  Worry more.  Run faster.

What would really fix it?  That's what I want my mom to help me with, because she figured it out decades ago.

Next Summer's Plans

I know where we'll be next summer!

Grilled Chicken & Pasta Salad

My friend Julie passed on this recipe to me, which she originally got from our local ABC channel here. I couldn't find it in the archive to link to it, so I'm reposting it here. Credit goes to Angie Larsen of KTVX here in Salt Lake City. Julie served this at a luncheon that Isabelle attended a few weeks ago, and she raved about it--with good reason! We loved it.

Grilled Chicken and Pasta Salad

For Salad:
1 small pkg. spinach
1 8 oz. pkg. bowtie pasta--cooked, drained, and cooled
2-4 T sesame seeds
1/2 c. sunflower seeds
1 can sliced water chestnuts
3 chicken breasts--seasoned heavily with lemon pepper seasoning, grilled (or baked), and cut into bite-size pieces
1 c. bean sprouts

mix well all ingredients and toss with dressing just before serving.

Dressing:
1/2 c. oil
1/2 c. sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. sesame seeds
3 T. soy sauce
2 T. seasoned rice vinegar
1/2 tsp. sesame seed oil (optional)
1 tsp. grated fresh garlic

Stir ingredients well to dissolve sugar, store in refrigerator. Let dressing warm to room temperature before tossing into salad.

This has a real Asian taste to it. You could add strawberries or craisins to it, or even chow mein noodles for a crunchy texture. I added more spinach and pasta and it made a huge bowl. There was plenty of dressing to cover it all. So good, and very pretty.  And homemade breadsticks weren't so bad, either!

Day 1 of Summer Vacation

I have been looking forward to this day for many, many months. At last, work is done for a few months, or close to it anyway.

When I was a kid, we were so exhausted at the end of summer break we couldn't wait to get back to school. Everything was cleaned, sorted, purged, arranged, gone through, and any other thing we could do to it. Each drawer, closet, shelf, book, and knick knack was re-evaluated for its' usefulness and sentimental value. If it didn't make the grade, out it went. My mom was absolutely ruthless about it, which she really had to be. We moved nearly every summer, and we had a certain weight limit that our household goods had to fit within or we would have to pay the Army extra to move it. That would never happen as long as my mom and dad had a say in it, so we made that limit no matter what. Honestly, there are very few things I even remember getting rid of, so I'm hardly emotionally scarred by the experience.

In fact, I have often wished that we had a big move coming up. As overwhelming as it would be, knowing you have a concrete number to make makes everything look much less attractive to you. I've lived in this house for over 16 years now, and boy does it show. We have so much stuff, and it completely drowns me. I get so paralyzed at the sight of it all that I don't know where to start.

Since becoming a mom, summer vacation has typically become a blur as soon as the kids have gone back to school. I feel like I have absolutely nothing to show for it, and rather than having all sorts of educational enrichment activities, they're sticking straws in their noses or something equally disgusting. So in order to feel less like a complete failure in life, I'm going to chronicle our summer vacation. Boring for you, dear reader, but most entertaining for me.

Here goes:

On the first day of summer, the weather gave to me
A day full of pouring down rain.
So we went off to do errands, which needed to be done:
One trip to Petsmart, one new paper towel holder,
And a salad chopper that makes Kitty Boy smile.
Then off to Best Buy, to look at X-Boxes which I'll regret.
Lots of 'M' rated games, way too much money,
but Sweetie went and made a deal with the boy.
Thread at the fabric store, and a pattern for Tinkerbell,
A summer full of sewing for me.

Okay, that's enough of that. Then Kitty Boy made an amazing salad bar for us, I went through a few more papers and threw some out, I'm about to take the dog for a walk, and I've only played two levels of Wedding Dash today. Oh, and Tinkerbell played with Kylie all day long, and I took the kids to Macey's for frozen yoghurt. I also found the fabric that goes with the pattern I bought and am going to preshrink it tonight.

I talked to Mom and Suzy, but forgot to call Suzy back. Will do that during our walk. No reading yet, or pulling weeds. I'll try to remedy both.

Okay, I don't feel like a total slacker today. I got a fair amount done (plus dishes and the usual "stuff."). But I want each day to stretch out as long as it can. I'm in no hurry for it to end yet.

Dear Ben (and Jerry)

Dear Ben and Jerry,

I watched Jimmy Fallon awhile back when you unveiled your new flavor in his honor. You were very funny (and you both look great--congrats on the weight loss!), and I could tell Jimmy was really excited about having his very own ice cream. I happen to love your ice cream, though perhaps a bit too much, if you know what I mean. But in my quest to acquire a healthier lifestyle, I decided to forgo dairy products. After that show, all my vegan hankerings went completely out the window. Vanilla ice cream, potato chips, chocolate, caramel! Heart attack in a carton, more likely, but impossible to resist.

But I've been thwarted at every turn! I've searched store after store in our lovely state of Utah, but to no avail. Then I found your Flavor Locator online. At last! I would know where to look! I believe your little gadget has a glitch in it, as it tells me it's not available in Utah yet! My sister in St. Louis can find it at Dierberg's, for crying out loud! (You can thank me later, Em). We're the #1 Ice Cream Consumption state in the country here in Utah!

I guess begging won't do much to speed things up. Please note, however, that a very devoted family is anxiously awaiting Late Night Snack.

Yours Sincerely,
Diane


UPDATE:
Well, their precious little Flavor Locator is defective! On a whim, I checked for it at Macey's here in Provo, and there it was! So excited I actually screamed (not too loud, but my kids were amused). Couldn't wait to try it, expecting something amazing, and.... it was pretty good, but not earth-shattering. I like Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream better. Sorry Jimmy!

Baby, Ride Your Firebolt

Feeling a little lost without a Harry Potter book coming out, but thanks to my friend Sally, I got my fix today. Enjoy BYU's Divine Comedy's "Firebolt" video--made me laugh and filled the gap a little bit! Make sure you turn on the "CC" button at the bottom to read the lyrics!

Why I Hate Guns

I think that most people don't believe I could possibly be well-informed when they find out how much I dislike guns. "Oh, you'd feel differently if (insert any number of reasons here), believe you me!" In their estimation, I've had a liberal, left-wing, East Coast (Military/Missouri--really?) upbringing where men wear pink and drink lattes. Au contraire, my ultra-conservative, right-wing, FOX News-watching compadres--nothing could be further from the truth. I come by my opinions honestly, and with a surprising amount of real-world, first-hand experience.

Awhile back, I wrote a post about my memories of living with terrorism in 1970s Europe. This shaped my views to a large extent, but apart from the armed guards at the airport, most of the damage was done by large amounts of explosives. So why my hatred of weapons? I know that guns don't do any harm by themselves, only in the hands of psycho nut-jobs. But who decides who the psychos are? Certainly not the neighborhood guy who takes his six year-old out hunting with him, right? After all, what could possibly go wrong when you get a bunch of guys up in the mountains with a few coolers of beer and firearms? I'm sure that many people do have lovely memories of hunting with their families and blowing away animals. Not only do they eat the meat (which let's face it, with ammunition costing what it does these days is hardly cost-effective), but they get an attractive animal head to mount on their wall. But let's leave the hunters out of this. I live in "Gun Land" where elementary school kids really do get .22's for Christmas. I teach any number of these kids, and I like them just fine, as long as we're not talking firearms, which they seem to be obsessed with.

No, the reason I hate firearms is that I have been the victim of gun violence, and even after all of that, the last thing on earth I would want is a gun.

In April of 1979 when I was nearly 16, my family was living in San Antonio, Texas. My dad, four year-old sister Emily, and I went downtown to watch the annual Battle of Flowers parade, a local Fiesta tradition commemorating the Battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto in 1836. A psycho nut-job who hated the police set up shop in an RV parked in a lot right where the parade was to start. We walked right past it, and stood kitty-corner and blissfully unawares in front of Fox Photo. Just before the parade began, Psycho Man opened the door to his RV and fired much of his 3,000 rounds of ammunition into the crowd, felling a motorcycle cop immediately in front of us. There was screaming and outright pandemonium everywhere, as the fallen officer's blood slowly pooled in the street. We were surrounded by men from Fort Sam Houston where my dad was stationed, most of whom were Viet Nam vets. I pulled Emily out of her stroller and collapsed it as Dad threw me and my sister to the ground and covered us with his body. The glass of the store windows shattered behind us, but we stayed calm because Dad told us to. We started to crawl towards the alley that ran perpendicular to the end of the block, reaching it just as the SWAT team arrived. One of us grabbed Emily and we ran as fast as we could to our car a few blocks away. We had to cross the street this guy was on a few blocks up from where he was shooting, but Dad assured me his bullets wouldn't reach that far. I had no idea if that was true or not, but I wasn't about to argue with him for once.

When we got home, I was so shocked that I just lay down on my bed with the blinds drawn. My mom and older sister were out shopping for wedding things, and had no idea until they arrived home what had happened. My dad came in a bit later and awarded me his Combat Infantry Badge (CIB) for witnessing my first enemy fire. I still have it, and I do believe that I earned it. We talked about that day often over the next 31 years, even soon before he died. It had a huge effect on both of us.

I had no idea at that time what an impact that morning would have on me. I had recurring nightmares for a good 8-10 years after that, developed irrational phobias, and a massive fear of guns. The dreams and panic attacks eventually worked their way out of my head, but the revulsion of firearms is still alive and well in me.

I was in the most well-armed state in the country (sorry Utah, but you've got nothing on Texas), surrounded by active military, and this guy blew his own brains out. Being armed wouldn't have changed things for us one single bit. In fact, if someone had tried to be a hero and rushed the trailer, it would have been even more disastrous than it was. This was better left to the professionals, and they did a splendid job.

So there you have it, a little blast from the past to brighten your day. You'll never convince me that owning guns is a good idea, but I know I'm a lone voice in the wilderness on that one. Sweetie wants a gun in the worst way, but his mean wife won't give in. Who will prevail? All I know is, if he does get one, I'm not touching it.

For a great first-hand account of the above incident, check out Gary DeLaune's blog post.

Who Do You Think You Are?

I used to drive my dad seriously crazy. Like, foam at the mouth crazy. And it was very mutual, I assure you. We went through a very rough patch from when I was 14 until my early 30s. Is it still a patch after 16+ years? Not sure when a patch becomes a spell ...

We were just so different. He was so stubborn and opinionated, quick to anger, and had this uncanny ability to say extremely offensive and mean things. So completely unlike me! It took me years and years to figure out that it was like looking in a mirror. We're alike in lots of other ways, too. We have the same cheeks, fair skin, curly hair, and love of family stories.

Dad could classify all people into the following categories:

1. People from St. Louis
2. People who were Mormon
3. People who were members of the Sigma Chi fraternity
4. People we were related to
5. People who wish they belonged to one of the previous four categories

It's like "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" on a grander scale.

When I was a kid, we were members of the Presbyterian church, and our family had been for many years. Dad had an irreversible falling-out with the church after he returned from the Viet Nam war and disagreed with their politics concerning the war itself and the military in particular. We moved next door to an LDS (Mormon) family with kids our ages, and I started going to church activities with them. It was fun, I liked the songs, and I even got to be an angel in the Christmas play. But we still went to Presbyterian Sunday School every week with our little white gloves on and carried our donation envelopes with our dimes. All except for Dad, who stayed in bed. Whoever drew the short straw had to wake him up and take him his orange juice before we walked out the door. Wo unto him/her who is chosen. Wo!!!

The summer before I turned eight, Dad got serious about finding a new church for us all to attend. He had a Sergeant Major in Viet Nam who was LDS, and he had a great-great uncle who came out to Utah back in the 1860s, converted to Mormonism and stayed. He had contacted the missionaries at some point, but they never returned his call. We were living in suburban Kansas City, MO at the time, and he was driving around when he saw the Liberty Jail. As I understand it, he parked the car, went inside, and asked how he would go about joining their church. They responded by saying, "Don't move. Just stay right there," and ran off to arrange for missionaries to visit our family. We took the discussions during the summer of 1971, but my parents waited to be baptized until I turned eight in late August so we could all "jump in" together. It wasn't really an option at the time, it was something that we were doing next Saturday and you will be present and wearing a smile.

I was excited about it, but I was the lone sibling who was 100% on board. Everyone in the ward was really nice, there were lots of kids my age, I could dress up like a pioneer every July--what exactly is the problem here? Though my faith and I have had our differences over the years, I still go to church, and I still think dressing up like a pioneer is kind of cute, though I leave that to my daughter these days.

While waiting for my birthday to come, Mom and Dad took us all on a genealogy "trek" across much of the US. We went from Missouri all the way to New Jersey, visiting Mormon history sites in our path and sifting through records in countless local historical societies, searching for missing ancestors in our family tree. It was hot, muggy, filthy work, and most of the time we three kids had to amuse ourselves while our parents went into raptures over scraps of paper. We even met some distant cousins of Dad's, though to be honest, if they had the right surname Dad would figure out some kind of connection to make them cousins, since they didn't appear to be Sigma Chis.

But I had been bit by the Genealogy Bug, an incurable condition that can strike at anytime. I loved looking through my parents' pedigree charts and family group records, imagining what life was like for these people that shared my DNA. Over the years I've done a fair amount of my own research, though nothing compared to my mom, who now runs the Family History Center in her area of Missouri. Dad's side is colorful, respectable, and inspiring. Apparently we are related to nearly all European royalty and have never had a horse thief or bigamist in the family, though we did ride with Quantrill's Raiders and fight off our share of bushwhackers. Our ancestors have been disemboweled by wild Indians, tied to a tree by their entrails, and gone on to give birth to 13 children. They swam the mighty Missouri river (with a watermelon under each arm for buoyancy), fought for both sides in the Civil War and American Revolution, and settled the wilderness with Daniel Boone. We have great stories that my parents have written down for us, and they really do give me a bit of backbone when I'm in need of it. We're fortunate that our parents took the time (over many, many years) to assemble these records and stories for us. We still have our dead ends (Murphys from somewhere in Ireland--wow, that really narrows it down), but there is so much that we do know about our family.

Of my four children, Tinkerbell seems to be the one who inherited the Bug from me. She and I discovered a TV show last year called "Who Do You Think You Are?" that traces the lineages of different celebrities. Season 2 starts tonight on NBC, and I'm so excited to watch it. It's fun to see their stories unfold, but it also gives me some good resources to check that might break through some of my genealogical "brick walls." In addition, it reaffirms my personal belief/mantra: Everyone, no matter how insignificant they feel, has a fascinating story to tell. No two lives are the same, even within one family.

So I'll pop some popcorn, fix a glass of lemonade, grab a notepad, and sit down with my kiddo to see the disease spread to others. Cheers!

Enchiladas Suizas

I first tasted these back in Chicago when our friend Judi Barnhill made them. Her recipe came from an old Southwest Cooking cookbook, and she copied the page for me. Since then, I have made it probably 50 times through many alterations, and we love it every single time. Suizas refers to Swiss immigrants to Mexico who started dairies to make cream and cheeses. These enchiladas are topped with a cup of cream, which gives them a fabulous flavor.

Since burning my foot and hand last year with boiling oil, I've been a bit leery of cooking with the stuff more than I absolutely have to. This led to a much faster way of assembling this dish, with a big reduction in fat grams. I'm sharing both techniques with you, so you can choose whichever you prefer.

This is my version.

Enchiladas Suizas

2 Spanish onions (or 1 yellow/white)
7 oz. can diced green chilies
1 clove garlic
2 T. butter or olive oil
2 T. flour
1 1/2 c. chicken broth
salt to taste
1/4 tsp. ground cumin

2 1/2 c. grated Cheddar-Jack cheese
2-3 scallions
oil for frying (optional--see below)
14-16 corn tortillas
2 c. cooked and shredded chicken or pork
1 c. whipping cream
1 c. diced tomatoes

Chop the onions and mince the garlic. Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and saute until soft, about 2 minutes. Stir in the flour and chicken broth. Add the chilies, garlic, salt to taste, and cumin and simmer about 15 minutes to blend the flavors of the sauce. Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9x13 baking dish. Grate the cheese and slice the scallions.

Oil version:
Put about 1/2" of oil in a large frying pan and set over medium-high heat. When hot, fry the tortillas briefly, about 15 seconds, being careful not to let them get crisp. Drain on paper towels. Put some of the meat in a strip on each tortilla. Top with 2-3 T. cheese. Roll up the enchiladas and put in the prepared baking dish seam side down. Pour the sauce over them, and then the cream. Sprinkle with the remaining cheese and the scallions. The dish can be assembled several days ahead. Bake until hot and bubbly, about 2o minutes. Serve hot and garnished with tomatoes.


Non-oil version:
Tear the corn tortillas into small pieces and spread 1/3 of them evenly on bottom of the pan. Arrange 1/2 of the meat evenly over the tortillas, then sprinkle with 1/3 of the cheese. Place another 1/3 of the tortilla pieces on top, then the remaining chicken and 1/3 of the cheese. Spread the remainder of the tortillas on the top, then pour the sauce over the top. Pour the cream over the top of that, and sprinkle with the final 1/3 of the cheese. Slice the scallions and scatter over the top. Bake until hot and bubbly, about 20 minutes. Serve hot and garnished with tomatoes.

I can fit 10 rolled up enchiladas across the length of my 9x13 pan, then two sets of two perpendicular to those for a total of 14.

Serve with sour cream, rice, refried beans, and a green salad.

Starting Over

I feel a bit at sea these days. Sweetie and I were talking about something this evening and we didn't know the answer to it. I decided to call my dad when we got home and ask him, because I know that he knows the answer. But of course, that's a bit difficult right now. Technology is an amazing thing (I'm still astounded by email), but to my knowledge there is no reception where he is at the moment. Pity. He would have plenty to say on the subject. I've been so lucky to have both my parents for so long, and becoming fatherless, even at the age of 47, is a bit of a change. I asked my dad for advice on so many practical things, from refinancing to career moves, real estate to books. Thank goodness there's Google, though it isn't quite the same.

My mom is having a tough time. She and my dad were sweethearts for nearly 60 years, and now he's gone. Then yesterday their poor dog died. He had been declining, but we hoped it was because he was sad about Dad. But no, turns out he probably had cancer. That dog had lousy timing. Well, I guess it's good he didn't get super sick when my dad would have known about it. But still, a death per month is not a good statistical move. I volunteered my lovely pooch (said very tongue in cheek, though he's getting better) to soften the blow, but it wasn't particularly appreciated. Lots of changes for Mom, none of them easy.

Sweetie and I went up to Park City today for the Sundance Film Festival. It felt fabulous to be up above the inversion and see blue skies and sunshine. The air was surprisingly warm up there, and even though I haven't skied for years, I sure wanted to today! The movie, "Flypaper" with Patrick Dempsey and Ashley Judd, was stupid and unbelievably profane. Their talents were completely wasted in it, and I wouldn't be surprised if it went straight to DVD, if even that. The people-watching was fabulous, though! Lots of affluent ski-resort babes with their skinny jeans tucked into their boots, hair in pony tails with ski caps on and their Ray Bans perched on top. Tan skin, crows feet from too much sun, all blonde for some reason. Pashmina wraps are still the big thing apparently, particularly in black. Can't criticize their taste--I borrowed Emily's at my dad's funeral and it was tres soft and warm. The men were weathered and generally older than the women. Silver hair is big with that crowd, but the women mostly color theirs. There were about 3,000 of us in the theater, which was lovely as theaters go. Then we drove back through Provo Canyon and had dinner at Shoots in Riverwoods, which I remembered as being better than it was. Still nice, but a little bland--must have changed chefs. But it was still great, and I didn't have to cook it (I did make the kids thai chicken when I got home, so they weren't too jealous). Riverwoods had a big facelift last year, and there were cobalt blue lights on all the trees and fire pits set up high everywhere. Very pretty, and it was a nice date.

I've seen some great progress in my students recently, but I'm not sure how much can be attributed to me. Sometimes, and more often lately, I think I might not have "what it takes" to really make a difference in these kids' lives. We have them for such a short period of time every day, and they have so many things going on in their lives. I want them to have the absolute best skills so they have a chance to get out of their situations when they're older and make better choices for themselves and their families. I do try to be diligent, but I think some people have a natural gift for it that I feel I'm lacking. But what would I do instead? There is much to be said for doing something that doesn't pay well because you feel like it's the right thing to do and that you're helping to make life better for someone. There is also much to be said for getting the "most bang for your buck," and if I'm going to be gone from home for 6.5 hours every day, it would be nice to have things like a larger salary and benefits.

I haven't used my degree since I left Leo Burnett back in 1987, which the angel/devil on my shoulder tells me is a change for the better since I was in the morally corrupt field of advertising and what good could possibly come from a life in that? But then the angel/devil on the other shoulder says that I had a real talent for that morally corrupt world and if I used that talent for good instead of evil, I could have a very fulfilling career, make money, teach, and buy really nice shoes and pashmina wraps. Can't really think about that with such a skimpy resume, though. I took some sample GRE test questions online and confirmed that I am actually quite stupid and should definitely not consider grad school. And yet I keep going back to it, as I have since 1986 when I took the GMAT and planned on getting my MBA.

Oh I don't know. I may never know. I doubt there is one right answer, anyway. Just pick something and do it. That's what my dad asked me to do when I couldn't decide on a major. So I figured out that my hodgepodge of credits seemed to fit in with the Communications department, and Advertising looked like the most interesting major in there. There was no divine reason that I majored in it--I just needed to pick something. I suspect that the same will be true with grad school. I have accepted that it will always gnaw at me if I don't just do it, so I might as well. And since I'm much too cheap to pay full tuition at UVU, I'd better figure out something here at BYU so I get free tuition.

I wonder if they would actually let me into the MBA program here.....?

The Long Winter

After a two month hiatus, mostly due to computer problems but partly due to a lack of desire to write, I am back. It has been eventful, to say the least.

I spent nearly two weeks of December back in St. Louis with my family. After 20 years, my dad passed away from cancer. I got home on a Wednesday, but by then he wasn't able to open his eyes or talk, which was very sad for me. My mom and sisters said he knew I was there, and I really am trusting that that's true. I was able to be with him, as were all of my siblings, until he died Saturday afternoon, December 11.

My siblings and I are spread out over a 25 year span, and by the time Caroline was born, Jim and Suzy were married and I was starting my second year of college. I realized that Saturday that for the very first time ever, my mom and dad were alone with their five kids. No spouses, no grandchildren, just five kids and their parents. It happened on Friday and again on Saturday, and then he was gone and it was the five of us with Mom. To me, that was a huge gift, and one which was so many years overdue.

The funeral was a sight to behold. Though I've traditionally identified myself with the German side of the family (Mom's), Dad wanted to celebrate his Scots-Irish side. We were decked out in our Campbell family tartan--scarves, ribbons, and ties were in abundance. The three older girls got silver claddagh rings to match Caroline's, and we wear them on our right hands. We all wore tall black boots, because Dad always said that every girl needs a good-looking pair of boots. There was a bagpiper who played "The Campbells Are Coming" as we left the church, and "Scotland the Brave" and "Amazing Grace" to walk us to the cemetery. Army personnel came up from Fort Leonardwood to give Dad military honors. He had an 18 gun salute, taps, and Mom was presented with the flag from his casket. Lots of music in the ceremony, glowing eulogies, the extended family, four of the grandkids, a nice lunch afterwards--all very nice. Suzy's son Robert was decked out in his Marines uniform and I'm sure Dad was very proud of that.

I miss him.

He had a bad turn back in July, and since then I had gotten a bit used to calling home and usually just talking to Mom because Dad was asleep. But when I did get to talk to him, he always sounded just like Dad, funny, completely up on current events, opinionated, concerned about me and the kids. I miss talking to him so much. I moved away from home so very many years ago, that seeing him in person was a rare luxury. Most of our relationship, arguably the best part of it, took place on the phone. Not a day goes by that I don't wish I could call him up and talk to him.

A number of my mythological suspicions about death were debunked during this experience.

1. The dogs did not howl when he died. They ran out and barked at a blowing leaf, but were oblivious to the rest.
2. There was no "deathbed miracle" when Dad opened his eyes, remarked on the beautiful angels coming for him, told us he loved us all, and fell back on the pillow with a smile on his face.
3. Just because you have suffered (and I mean truly suffered) for 20 years with cancer, does not mean that God will grant you an easy death. It was long (11 days), painful, and excruciating for him and for us to watch. And I was only there for the last four days.
4. There were moments of great happiness mixed in with the sorrow. I will always remember sitting on Mom and Dad's bed and seeing all of us girls wearing bright socks that Mom knit for us all. Little moments, but very happy ones.

I was truly overwhelmed by the kindness shown to me and my family throughout this whole experience. The day after I got there, darling Dave and his wife sent over two pies from a bakery in town, even though I haven't seen him in probably 25 years. Brent and Tricia sent flowers, which ended up right in front of me during the service and provided a focal point for me so I didn't fall apart and embarrass my dad, should he happen to be watching. Two of Mom's friends showed up on separate days and brought us amazing breakfasts. Jon and Holly run a gumbo shop and drove nearly an hour in freezing weather to bring us enough jambalaya and gumbo to feed an army. Cindy, who is exhausted from undergoing chemo, drove all the way out with her family to the visitation. So many, many kindnesses from so many people--thank you so much to all of you.

Peter Campbell Hixson

Hixson, Peter Campbell died December 11, 2010, at his home in Washington, MO, following a long battle with cancer. He was 74 years old. He was born October 18, 1936, in Saint Louis, MO, the son of Patricia Helen Larkin and James Campbell Hixson, and was raised in Webster Groves, MO. He was a graduate of Webster Groves High School, Washington University, and University of Missouri at Kansas City. He was a retired Army Officer, and Viet Nam veteran. Following his military career, Colonel Hixson enjoyed a second career as a banker, working at a number of Saint Louis area lending institutions. He lived in Franklin County for many years, first on a farm near Leslie, then in a home outside of Washington. He was an active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints, serving in many callings. He is survived by his wife of 54 years, Anne Seeman Hixson, by five children, James Thomas Hixson (Lori Stephenson), Suzanne Hixson, Diane Anderson (Travis), Emily Hixson, Caroline Hixson, as well as a greatly loved daughter-in-law, Margaret Rashford Hixson, by twelve grandchildren, and by his sister Nancy Hixson Yancey. Services: Visitation from 5pm to 7pm, on December 16, at OLTMANN FUNERAL HOME, 508 E. 14th St. in Washington, MO. Funeral service at 1pm on December 17 at the LDS Church (110 East 14th Street, Washington, MO), with burial in Saint Francis Borgia Cemetery, adjacent to the chapel. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to the U.S.O. or the charity of your choice.