Thomas Wolfe was notorious for saying that one could not go past. I am notorious for disagreeing because we can in some form or another. Included are stories from my past. They are all true.

THE FIRE

  Forgiving another is a personal process. True forgiveness takes place when the offended is ready to let go of the painful wounds that bind them to the offender. It would be considered counter-productive to assume when one is ready to forgive just because it is demanded of them. It is like forcing one to apologize when one is not ready. A child does something wrong. The parent insists that the child apologize before being able to eat or otherwise move one just to avoid further punishment. Has the child shown honest regret? No. The child apologized to avoid getting into more trouble. Nothing more.           

 Real regret and learning to apologize comes from experiencing the regret and of witnessing others express sorrow for their actions. We see great nations offended, even demanding an apology from another in an attempt to avoid retribution. Has the offended nation received proper penitence from the offending nation when demanded a proper apology? No! They avoided a war! Nothing more.            So it is with demanding one to forgive. It comes with time and is the result of healing. It bothers me when well-intentioned people insist that one is not Christ-like if they don’t forgive. Forgive when and by whose time frame? Deep hurt takes time to overcome. Who has the right to decide when that time has arrived?            Circumstances change. People turn a new leaf. Positive experiences replace negative ones. Sometimes…perpetrators work to restore the lost trust of those they have injured…and timing plays a role as well.            

It was the summer of 1974 that my mom and step-father moved from Provo, Utah to Winnemucca, Nevada. My brothers and I were staying with our dad and step-mother in Canoga Park, California. It was 1974, hot, and fun! Dad lived on Lanark Street in an apartment that was briefly displayed in the 2001 movie, Tortilla Soup, starring Hector Alizondo and Raquel Welch. The apartment was called The Lanark. It was light brown stucco with dark brown, wooden trim. We lived on the second floor in a two bedroom apartment that faced Lanark Street. When I googled the area in 2009, the picture on the internet had been taken in 2007 and showed the apartment as being white. I had to look close in order to recognize it.

Our days were spent playing at Lanark Park just across the street, roaming the street and alley behind the row of apartments that lined the north side of the street. We swam for free in its pool when we picked up trash. If we could not find enough trash on the ground we cheated by getting some from the trashcans that sat within the park limits. We justified ourselves by saying that the trash was found in the park. The apartment building also had a pool in the center of the courtyard, but that required an adult watching us and besides, the park’s pool was bigger. It even came with a high dive!

We climbed to great heights in the park’s trees. We climbed to the top of the recreation building causing the secretary to yell at us on a regular basis. What could she do? Todd was the best at it. He would often climb into the changing areas and crawl along the top of the brick walls. There was enough space between the ceiling and wall. He even climbed a time or two on to the tops of the other apartment buildings. Once, we climbed on top of the batting cage and a police officer helped me down. He was my hero until I met Adam Klein. Then Adam Klein became my hero for awhile.

The park had pavilions for barbecues. The pavilions lined the north and south sides of the block long park. They were built with rock columns that held roofs. The roofs were made from wooden beams that were a foot or two apart. It was nothing to climb on to the tops of the pavilions. We would stand on the tables, reach up, grab the beams and swing our legs up to the beams. When I looked up the park on Google.com in 2009, the pictures of the pavilions showed that the roofs were gone. They seemed naked, obviously missing something. Shameful.

Todd had a girl friend named Brenda. She had blonde hair. She wasn’t really his girlfriend but more of friend that was a girl who hung out with us. I think they kissed once or twice, but that was it.

Blake followed us anywhere we went. Adam Klein and Victor Bliss were two boys that I met in the park. One of my friends pointed to Adam and Victor, saying, “Those two boys like you.” They were sitting against a tree that sat on the edge of the playground. I went over and said with my hands on my hips, “I hear that you like me, is it true?” They ran off and then came back. Adam became my boyfriend. He was eleven and I was ten and about to turn eleven that coming November. We stayed in contact off and on until we were around eighteen. He wanted to go out with me then, but I was devotedly loyal to Billy Schumacher even though Billy was not always devotedly loyal to me. Adam I went our separate ways as did Billy and I. I have often wondered what happened them.

Todd was my brother who was 8 years old. Blake was my other brother who was 5 and ready to turn 6 that coming September. We were all mischievous to no end and not looking forward to going back with our mom and step-father.

Our step-father, Roy, had a mean streak, especially to Todd. I asked him point blank why he picked on the boys and not me. He said that it was because I was a girl, as if my being a girl justified his cruel actions. Once or twice he bobbed Blake’s head in the toilet, face first, for wetting his pants. He would hit Todd with his belt for every little infraction. It finally broke – while hitting Todd. Not long after we moved to Provo, Utah in early September 1973, I was told to sleep in my room in the newly completed basement. Scared, I went to sleep with my brothers in the hide-a-bed in the adjoining room. Roy got up in the middle of the night, telling me that if I wasn’t going to sleep in my bed then I could sleep outside. I got in his car to keep warm. He did not like that and made me sleep on the porch with a blanket.

When the Sunday comics arrived, he had to be the first one to read them. No exceptions! He would buy canned chocolate syrup just for himself. He pointed with his middle finger, a cultural no-no at the time. When I asked about it, pointing with my middle finger, he complained that I was disobeying him. I began to point with my middle finger in an innocent attempt to imitate him. He slapped my hand with his belt saying that he had told me not to do that.

While he studied in his closed bedroom, we had to be absolutely quiet or he would come out and spank us, yelling at our mom for not doing her job to keep us quiet. Another time, he pushed her outside while she was barefoot and snow was on the ground. He locked the door and lay down to watch television. Mom went to the local LDS bishop, barefoot and in the snow begging to be let back into her home! The bishop walked over with Mom and convinced Roy to let Mom in.

If the dishes were not done, he would wake us up late at night to do them, regardless of whether or not we had school the next morning. The list would go on and on.

Living in California, my dad was limited to what he could do to get us out of the situation. The laws were different than today, but not by much. Roy and my mom would have lost us today if they were caught. Back then, Dad did not have much money and my step-mother, Viki, was expecting our brother, Shannon.

The duplex in Provo gave me the creeps even though it had been recently built and we were the first tenants. I was from California where you had to lock your doors. This was Provo, Utah and they did not lock their doors. I was always afraid that someone would come in and hide in the basement. Roy had the only key to the apartment and he was at school a major part of the time. There were times when we would drive past the apartment and it looked as if someone was there who did not belong. I kept telling my mom this and she did not believe me. One night we drove past the duplex. It was dark outside.

The front door was open and a man was standing on the porch. He seemed drunk. I pointed him out to Mom. She apparently did not see him, but we went to get the male neighbor who went in with us. No one was there and the door was shut. Thirty-six years later I asked Mom about it. She only remembered my being scared but did not remember any person being there. I have since wondered if I was seeing an actual person or a ghost.

Winnemucca was a small town in Northern Nevada named after Chief Winnemucca. The population was only about 8, 000, if that. My two brothers and I went back to living with Mom and Roy. Mom was expecting her fourth child when we moved there that summer. Eric was born in September.

Our step-father had just graduated from Brigham Young University (BYU) in Provo. My understanding was that it was the only place he could get a job. In fact, his father, who lived in Reno, secured the job for him. So, in order to provide for us, he accepted a job at Sprouse-Ritz, a franchised Five and Dime store. The agreement to Roy keeping the job was that Mom had to work with him. At first Roy said that she would. Eventually, it became evident that was not going to be the case. Despite Roy pleading with the owners, he was fired. He was hired as a bagger at the local grocery store. Here is this man with a Bachelor’s degree from Brigham Young University working as a bagger at the local grocery store in a small town in the middle of Nowhere, Northern Nevada. A pretty pathetic situation!

It was a town where kids could walk all over town without fear of being attacked. For Halloween, I took my brothers, Todd and Blake trick-or-treating around the neighborhood in an effort to get the most candy. Oh so fun! I was part of the 4-H, a club for kids to learn productive skills. They had a Halloween Party that the boys and I walked to in the dark. It was the type of place where I, at least, felt safe.

The tree in our front yard was the climbing type. This meant that we could safely climb and jump into its pile of leaves. Roy initially would not allow us to climb the tree. He was concerned that we would get hurt. He must have been oblivious to our incredible summer in California where this was a normal, everyday event. I loved to climb but it was Todd who was destined to climb to new heights. Nothing stopped him. He could climb anywhere he set his mind to. Eventually Roy gave up on the rule of trying to keep us on the ground. I remember purposely climbing in that tree in front of Roy and my dad, knowing full well that Roy would not say anything with Dad standing there. When I yelled to Dad about the great tree we could climb in, he commented on how lucky we were to have one in our yard. Grinning, I looked at Roy with the I-dare-you-to say-a-word glance. It was a beautiful moment in time.

The neighbors who lived one or two houses to the north of us were always friendly to us. They were of Basque ancestry.

We belonged to the Mormon Church and had been warned when we moved there that most people in town did not like Mormons. It seems to me that their daughter, who was my age, asked me what a Mormon was when I told her what I had been told. We were friends from that moment on because she did not know the difference nor did she care. 

The father of this family worked for the railroad. One day a train loaded with cereal fell on its side. It was carrying Sugar Smacks, Corn Pops and more. Since the cereal could not be sold, it had to be given away. Mr. Neighbor kindly brought us boxes and boxes of Sugar Smacks and Corn Pops. My brothers and I would eat it at all hours, sneaking into it when we thought Mom and Roy did not notice. Imagine being that age and having all of the cereal that you could ever want? All we had to do was climb upon onto the washer, dryer, and I believe the refrigerator, and reach into the cupboards! It seems to me that it was also hidden in their room as well because we had so much of it. Mom has since said that Mr. Neighbor wanted to give us more, but she did not know where to put it.

The home we lived in was a duplex. Instead of the homes sitting side by side as they did in Provo, this one sat front to back. Each unit faced a separate street. Ours faced the east.

I remember the kitchen as feeling warm and bright from the morning sunlight. The window sat above the sink, facing south, which was a magnet for the sun. A pipe and wall connected the stove and heater. This was a gas system that did not always work. For instance, when we turned on the stove or oven, the pilot light did not come on regularly.

Blake was five and not completely potty-trained. Looking back as an adult who has studied child development as well as having worked with children from at-risk families, I believe that his lack of control was due to the fear that he was constantly under. Roy regularly punished Blake for soiling himself. Roy may have thought he was doing the right thing but he did more damage than good.

We had a female Dalmatian who was less than a year old. We got her when we lived in Provo. Her name was Dotty because of all the dots. She had more dots than were normal for a Dalmatian. It didn’t matter. She was so lovable. She frequently slept on the front porch by the door. If you took her for a walk, she was so muscular that it was Dotty taking you for a walk.

My mom loved living in that town – or so I thought. The members of the Mormon Church were a close-knit bunch, small as they were. They hardly knew her and yet gave her a big baby shower. Mind you, she was pregnant with her fourth child and these ladies were giving her a shower normally reserved to a first time mom. There was a hospital in Winnemucca called Humbolt General Hospital. The women did not recommend Mom going there because according to them “none of the doctors were competent.” Instead, they went to Pershing General Hospital in nearby Lovelock, Nevada, a simple distance of 73 miles that took a just over an hour by car. The ladies would take turns driving my mom as an excuse to go on outing on a regular basis. The hospital had a nursing home on the side. When babies were born, the elderly ladies would go next door and rock them. Eric was a recipient of their loving care.

And while Mom supposedly loved living in the town, she and Roy were distressed by their circumstances. One does not graduate from a prestigious university expecting to support a family as grocery bagger in an out-of-the-way town. They wanted a way out.

At the same time, Dad and Viki were equally, if not more, concerned about our well-being. On Friday, November 8, 1974, Dad and Viki met with their LDS bishop in Canoga Park, California asking for assistance in taking us out of the situation. The bishop could not offer any help, although he did recognize the need. One of the factors was that Dad was in California and we were in Nevada. There was the matter state’s of jurisdiction. The other obstacle was that in those days and to some extent, today, the Courts favored the rights of the mothers over the rights of the fathers. Mom had legal custody of her children, whereas, Dad only had visitation rights. In the beginning he felt that the children should be with their mother. He did not anticipate that his children would end up in such dire striates. Finally, Roy’s actions in 1974 Law did not constitute child abuse.

Saturday, November 9, 1974 we celebrated my eleventh birthday. One of my treasured gifts was a red candied apple. I was sick with tonsillitis and unable to eat it. We placed it in the kitchen window until I was well enough to savor the scrumptious gift.

On the morning of November 11 Mom made up about ten bottles of formula for Eric. The bottles had to be boiled first and then cooled. Mom set the cooling bottles on the counter.

Blake wet his pants and Roy spanked him with the warning that if it happened again he would have to stay in his room while Mom and I ran errands. The room that Blake and Todd shared had a thick blue carpet. The door frequently became stuck on that carpet, making it difficult to open or close. As predicted, Blake wet his pants. Mom, being afraid of Roy made Blake stay in his room while we left.

Mom and I went to the doctor’s. He said that my tonsils needed to be removed. We went to a few other places and home. Blake wasn’t there but there was burnt popcorn lying about the kitchen. A few of the stove burners were in the “on” position. Mom frantically turned those off but one or two were left on – either intentional or unintentionally. She received a call from the elementary school asking her to come pick up Blake. Apparently he was able to push the door open. He was hungry and since we had had popcorn the previous night, he tried to make some himself. Afterwards, he walked to the school to find Todd. We picked up Blake and took care of a few other errands.

As we were driving north onto the over pass to our home, we counted five fire engines parked around it. The stove exploded causing a fire in the kitchen. Dotty was sleeping outside the front door.

Immediately as we arrived Mrs. Neighbor bundled me up and kept Blake and I at her house. She would go back and forth between houses trying to help us. So kindly and motherly was she to us.

The window that held my treasured candied apple was the first to be broken into by the fireman. Mom worried over the wasted bottles of formula. Roy – well Roy worried over the loss of his record player and other items. He would later blame five year old Blake for causing the fire.

Roy called my dad telling him to either come take us or he was going to send us to foster care. My dad and step mother, who were on an extremely limited budget and barely making ends meet as well as having a new baby, said that he would be right out. Dad called his brother, Dean, for financial help. They arrived Friday, November 15, 1974.

In the mean time, my brothers and I stayed at various homes in the church. I remember staying with a nice young couple who had a baby. The only things I remember about that visit were of sleeping on a hard, cold floor and her cooking. I did not like it, although she tried and I got the feeling that they, too, had limited means, as well. How I wish they knew of my appreciation for their generosity. I don’t even remember their names.

Dotty was never able to hear a popping sound without going berserk. Whenever she was driven past the duplex from that point on, she would whine and become restless. She was sold to a nice, older lady who bred and pampered her. Dotty gave birth to at least five litters.

Mom and I did not spend my birthday together until I turned 46. We have spent time together around my birthday but never on it until 2009.

We were raised with Dad and Viki in both Colorado and California. It was by no means perfect, but a far cry better than what we had endured prior to that. My tonsils have never been removed – and Blake was eventually potty-trained. Toddy climbed to new heights one day in January of 1984 when he climbed upon the washer in the garage and said a permanent good-bye.

I believe that things happen for a reason and it is our responsibility to find the meaning as well as the purpose in the event. I believe the Lord was listening to my dad’s plea to the bishop the previous Friday night.

When the house caught fire, we were able to leave a horrible situation. Mom and Roy did move away from Winnemucca. It has been rumored that Mom intentionally left the stove on in an effort to get out of the area. But that is just a rumor.

Back in California, my brothers and I attended Canoga Park Elementary for a little over a year. This was the same school that Mom attended from Kindergarten until the 6^th grade. I went to James Monroe High School like Mom did. We grew up knowing my dad’s people. We also had rich experiences that have influenced my entire life for good and for bad. Mom and I have been close only since 2005 and it is because of that relationship that I am able to describe in detail the events of long ago.

I have changed Roy’s name to protect his identity. He and Mom divorced in 1988.

Roy has since remarried a wonderful woman whom I consider my friend.

It was at a going-away party for my sister in June 2007 that Roy approached me. He knew that I was going to be attending and asked Mom what my opinion was of him. “She can’t stand you” was her reply.

Roy took me aside after not seeing me for over 20 years, saying that he knew I had a rough life and that he hurt me. He apologized with a level of sincerity that supersedes any lingering malcontent.

Many were surprised when we spent a snowy Christmas Eve together in 2008. I can still smell the dank odor of smoke residue. It still exists on particular items that survive. I can pick it out from the atmosphere when least expected. Mixed are my emotions as I reminisce of a bitter-sweet memory. Peace abides in place of bitterness and a call goes out to see how they are doing. Life happens and hopefully we are better for the experience.

Kelli L. McDonald – November 14, 2009

IT’S ABOUT HAVING CONTROL

 Of all the polite memories to write about, toileting does not fall under that category. However, I find it significant when thinking back on why one does this or that. When my children went through the potty-training days, long that they were, I was not going to allow other’s poor influence shatter their experiences.            I honestly do not remember being potty-trained. I do not remember how old I was. My mother reports that I was four. It does not matter when one takes into account the long-term scheme of things. I am potty-trained now and have been for as long as I can remember, which is a long, long time. When it was time for my kid’s initiation into this great mystery, I received tons of advice from those who demanded that I respect their age-old wisdom. Never mind that I had an education on the topic and realized that one day these adorable babies would be potty-trained.My kids were not potty-trained in the expected time frame that was considered normal. They went at their own pace. I felt that eventually it would come and that it was none of anyone’s business as to when this occurred. It did bother me that I had three children at various stages of the toileting process. Sometimes I had three children in cloth diapers. Cloth diapers were still considered the norm and with a tight budget, I had to weigh the pros and cons of both. Practicality and sanity won out. Washing that many diapers on a regular basis, and at times, by hand in the bathtub, was ridiculous! And since I was the one doing the laundry, I felt the kids should learn to use the toilet at their own pace. But the comments from relatives were another issue.            Once while I was changing my child’s diaper, an arrogant relative who had not lived up to the standards she was raised with smugly commented, “Oh, (your child) isn’t potty-trained yet?” I smugly challenged, “Oh, aren’t you pregnant yet?” as she got ready to walk down the aisle during her wedding. One could feel the huffiness as she stormed out. I told her that it was none of her business whether or not my child was potty-trained yet.            Still, two years later, my child was still not potty-trained. I was expecting another baby and another child was ready to embark on the journey. My husband had gone back to Utah from California to look for work. My children and I stayed at my parent’s home in Lancaster. My step-mother had white carpet. One fine, spring day she was preparing a surprised birthday party for her dad. While she struggled to put together this family gathering, my child decided to take of their diaper, squat, and soil her fine, white carpet. In her panic to maintain order, my step-mother stressfully persuaded me to begin toileting my child by yelling, “Go to Target and get them a potty-seat!” My brother and I quickly made a trip to the nearest Target store to purchase a portable toilet-training seat. Thus, the journey began.            Eventually all three children successfully completed potty-training, although any time a call was made to the relatives, announcements were always made to us as to who was potty-trained and how long it took that child to arrive at that insignificant destination in their young lives.            I bring these to the surface when I think back on my childhood. It was not pleasant. I am both amazed and abhorred as I recollect the events and the survival. As my children went through their own struggles, I often reflected on my own. It still staggers my senses.            Learning to defecate in the toilet happens when the person is developmentally ready, both emotionally and physically. The process is slowed when changed are occurring in the child’s life. The greater the stress, the less the child is ready. When trauma challenges the child’s sense of normal, the child will revert back to a safer stage in life, such as that of an infant (Van de Zande, I., 1,2, 3, the Toddler Years. 1995).            Longmont, Colorado, 1971 – my parents had announced that they were getting a divorce. Primary, the children’s organization for the LDS church was being held during the week. They were preparing for a special program for parents. I was sitting on the front pew when I had to go to the bathroom. Out of respect, I did not want to leave and interrupt things. I held on as tight as I could. Finally, I could not hold on any longer. I let it go. As everyone stood, the gold liquid slithered its ways down the fold of the wooden pew. Innocent eyes looked in my direction. I was seven years old and so embarrassed. To this day, I am thankful that my mother, with all that she was dealing with, did not humiliate me in that fragile moment.            During the year of 1972/1973 my mom had married this guy after knowing him for two weeks. He was a widower who had not fathered any children yet. His parents lived in Reno, Nevada. We lived in the San Fernando Valley of Southern California. We made several trips back and forth.            On one particularly uneventful trip, we stopped at a gas station out in the middle of who-knows-where. My brother and I were not going to the bathroom fast enough. Our step-father left us, but not without first putting another brother in the metal trash can at the gas station. One of my brothers was six or seven and I was nine. Thinking in my little girl’s mind that we would just walk the rest of the way to California, I took my brother’s hand and began walking. His welfare was ultimately my responsibility and I took it to heart. We were left to walk back to California because we would not go to the bathroom fast enough. We walked along the highway minding our own business. People would point at us as they rode past in their everyday vehicles. My brother and I continued walking. Soon, our step-father pulled up beside us, demanding that we get in the car.            Not long after this incident we were living in Provo, Utah. We moved to the area of Grandview, which sat at the north edge of town near Orem. My mom took advantage of the low-cost matinees available at the Fox Theatre in Provo and the Scera Shell in Orem. One Saturday during the Fall months, she dropped Todd, Blake, and I off at the Scera Theatre to watch some movies. I think that we were supposed to get a ride home from one of the neighbors. Well, no one would give us a ride, not that I really wanted to put them out, so we walked home. The distance was about three miles but seemed like longer. I believe that it took a long time because we looked in the store windows, talking about the light fixtures that we would like in our own home or the trains that Todd loved so much. I had to go to bathroom. Again, I held it as long as I could, thinking that if we kept walking I would make it. It didn’t happen. I allowed myself to release the fluid as we casually walked down State Street. Again, neighbors pointed at us they drove on past without stopping.            We left when the sun was out and arrived home when the sun had gone down. My step-father wasn’t concerned that we were late getting back. He was too absorbed in his own project to notice. My mom was still away running errands. I was almost ten, Todd was eight, and Blake was only four years old.            The next Fall found us in a little town in Nevada named after Indian chief, Winnemucca. Blake was five and not yet potty-trained. My step-father often complained, even punished him. When I turned eleven, I received a candied caramel apple on a stick. It was placed in the kitchen window to be eaten when my throat would tolerate it. I was really looking forward to eating that apple.              The bedroom door to the boys bedroom was frequently stuck in place because of the carpet. When the door was shut, it would not open easily. On Monday, November 10, Blake wet his pants. My step-father told him that if he did it again, he would have to stay shut in his room while Mom and I ran our errands. Blake wet his pants. He was spanked and put in his room.            Mom and I went to the doctors because I had been sick. I was told that I would have to have my tonsils removed that week. We went by the post office and the 4-H Club, where I was a member and had raffle tickets to return. When we arrived home, Blake was not anywhere to be found. The school called asking for Mom to pick him up. Apparently he found a way to open the door. Since we had popcorn the night before and he was hungry, he made popcorn on the old gas stove. The gas stove was connected to the gas heater that sat on the other side of the shared wall. One or more of the burners had not been lit properly. The others had. Mom shut- off  the burners that she thought were on.            We went to the school to get Blake and continue on with other errands. When we arrived back at home, five fire engines were waiting for us.            Mom had not turned off all of the burners. Our Dalmatian dog, Dottie, was lying at the door on the front porch when the window blew out. The first window to be smashed in by the firefighters was the one holding the candied apple.            My step-father lamented over his lost possessions. Because we belonged to the LDS Church, members offered to take us in. My brothers and I stayed at one family whose name I do not remember. They were kind, but I had to sleep on the cold, hardwood floor. Being sick did not help. Mom stayed at the home of the bishop along with her husband. He called my father, who was in Canoga Park, California. His plan was that if my dad did not come for us, we would go into foster care. Dad, although on an extremely tight budget, borrowed money from his older brother, Dean. He and my step-mother traveled the ten hours each way to get us.            In the end my tonsils never came out. I never got to eat the candied apple and Dottie whimpered whenever she was driven past the house. Blake was blamed for years afterwards for the fire by our step-father who was a grown, college graduate. Blake was all of five years old.            These events have directly influenced the way that I potty-trained my own children as well the manner in which I have taught others about toileting. During the course of my higher education, I specifically researched the areas that I had a conflict with. This research has served me well in my professional life. Frequently, the question is posed to wondering parents, “How many kids in Junior High do you know who are not potty-trained?” They return an embarrassed grin and usually a comment such as “Touche’,” They are reminded to look at where the child is at developmentally and where the child has come from emotionally. They are reminded that it is about control and to relinquish that control for the sake of the child. They are reminded to go from where the child is at this point in their lives. Finally, they are reminded to love and respect the child. Mostly, to love and respect the child, no matter what. I do.

ADAM’S SONG

“That girl over there said you liked me. Is that true?”

“Tag, you’re it!”

“Race you to the next tree!”

AK + KM“

Kelli, why won’t you go out with me?”

“Turky”“Gobble, gobble.”“Happy Monday”           

 We climbed the trees, the Rec Center, the picnic pavilions, and the baseball cages in Lanark Park. There was the woman who always came out, yelling at us to get down. It never worked. We just laughed at her. What was she going to do? My brother, Todd, climbed inside the rec center into the changing rooms. He was flexible enough to squeeze between the tops of the cinder block walls and the ceiling.           

 He carved our initials on the tree that sat on the south edge of the playground that was closer to Strathern Street. It was on the farthest limb that reached up and out. I went looking for it in 1983 but by then he had moved away and the limb had grown out of reach – symbolic.          

  There was the puka shell necklace he, his brother, and friend Victor, found near the picnic pavilions on Strathern Street. He gave them to me. I kept them all through my marriage and children’s births until they broke a few years ago. It broke my heart when that happened and it was one of the first things he asked about after 40 years.          

  We met the Summer of 1974 at Lanark Park in Canoga Park. He was my first boyfriend although nothing intimate happened – wishful thinking at best. He lived on Strathern and we lived on Lanark Street. They were the two streets that paralleled the park. He told some girl that he liked me. She came over to me and pointed him out, saying, “That boy over there likes you!” I walked over to him. He was sitting with his good friend, Victor Bliss, on the southwest corner of the playground. In my best grown-up voice, hands on my hips, chimed, “That girl said you liked me. Is that true?” The boys took off running. We were 10 years old.

After that we climbed the trees and anything else. I chased him by sending notes through the mail. 

 When we moved to Colorado, we wrote now and then. At one point, when I had not heard from him, I wrote to his younger brother, Mark. I asked him to be my friend since Adam was not responding to my letters. Mark promptly sent me a letter and pictures.

But it was after we moved back to California that my dad ran into Adam.

My dad installed alarm systems in the homes of the rich and famous. Adam lived in his cousin’s home that was part of those serviced by the company Dad worked for. Dad wanted me to date Adam. I was dating Billy. My parents liked both boys but Dad kept encouraging me to date Adam, saying he would be a better person to marry. On several occasions when I turned Adam down in a bad-mannered and inexcusable performance, Dad called me on it. I can still see him and hear his voice as he chastised me. Dad rarely, if at all, did this with the boys I dated. Most of the time, he would get angry at the way the boy treated me. I can also hear Adam’s sincere and gentle voice of asking me out and questioning why I wouldn’t go out with him. It would haunt me for 34 years.

Fast forward many, many years later. The mansion went on sale. Adam saw it in the news. He remembered my dad who had since passed away. Wondering what happened to me he looked me up on a popular social network. We instantly connected. Although a very non-stereotypical grandmother, I was kid again badgering back and forth again with my childhood friend. It felt as if I was teetering between being a child again in Southern California and the ultra responsible person I had become in conservative Utah.

The day before I first heard from him after so many years, I had the strongest feeling that my dad was nearby. And whenever something good was about to happen I would feel as if I was back in the San Fernando Valley where Lanark Park was located. There was such an intense peaceful feeling in the air. I thought I could even smell the Valley. I kept thinking, “something’s up.” The next morning as I readied for work, I quickly looked at the social networking site. There was a personal message asking if I was the same Kelli McDonald who lived across the street from Lanark Park in the late 70’s. Still groggy from waking up so early, I had to gaze several times to believe what I was reading. I responded and went to work. Being on Cloud 9 does not adequately describe how I was feeling along with all the questions. Is he married? Does have children or grandchildren? What does he do for a living? Where does he live? Who is he now?

He was married, still living in Southern California, and working hard to take care of his family. I was divorced, raising my grandchildren, and working hard to make ends meet as well. It was difficult not to cross the boundaries that were so expected in the culture I now lived in. This was my first love – way before Billy. The long forgotten feelings instantly surfaced. And yet, I wanted to be true to my values. Strong conflicting messages swirled in and out of my head. Needless to say, there were many sleepless nights. A moral struggle, if you will, of virtuous versus attractive. Nostalgia versus reality.

We text and called and caught-up and laughed and flirted and all those wonderful feelings that I was not aware still existed in me. When he texted I could read the 17 year old Adam again. However, when I finally heard his voice – it was higher pitched and matured. While I missed the 17 year old, I instantly felt comfortable with the 50 year old Adam. 

 There has always been the pattern that whenever one backed off, the other reached out. It continued. Every time I thought that I was not going to hear from him, the peaceful, persistent feeling existed that I would. One day when my son, granddaughters, and I were climbing the side of a mountain just to get to the major part of Bridal Veil Falls in Provo Canyon, I kept feeling like I was not alone. I had distanced myself from him because of the differences in our lives such as the fact that he was married and living in Southern California with no intention of moving to Utah. The slower pace and ridiculous wages, not to mention being away from his children, whom he adored, was entirely impractical. Where was this relationship going? So like the tree limb that held our initials, he, too, was out of reach. However, the next day I heard the now familiar tinkle of my cell phone receiving a text message, “Happy Monday.”  

He gave me precious gift of being able to feel again in a way that I forgot. He helped me to feel like a kid again while taking care of monumental responsibilities. He stirred in me the ability to remember the long -buried memories of innocence. He reminded me that I was still a woman and beautiful. He provided a means take my mind off of several of the current cares of the world by addressing each day with “Happy Monday, Have a wonderful Wednesday.” And with Adam, I could genuinely laugh again. Flirting and teasing back and forth came with an ease that I had not felt since before I was married. The tinkling sound of his text messages received, especially during the wee hours of the night became a symphonic melody to my soul. It was his song.

Kelli L. McDonald

September 14, 2014

BASS LAKE and TOILET PAPER

The other day the kids got out the toilet paper and did what was only natural – they strew it around the house. I conned John into wrapping it back up. As he did so, the memory suddenly did a knee jerk back in time.       

   My step-mom did the best that she could to raise us by setting good examples. She got upset when we did not do the right thing like any trying parent would.

The summer of 1980 we went up to Bass Lake in California. My cousin brought his friend, Dawn along. Dawn had her driver’s license. Like typical teens, we took advantage of the opportunity by driving into “town” on the opposite side of the lake. Lo and behold they were having a sale on PINK toilet paper – 4 rolls for 79 cents. Of course, when one is camping in the wilderness, one needs lots of   

toilet paper. We bought a whole lot of it, inconspicuously storing it in my uncle’s yellow pickup truck. PINK toilet paper is hard to hide but we somehow succeeded without any obvious suspicion.       

   As the afternoon merged together with the evening we were getting antsy. Several family members enjoyed activities in each other’s camps. Sing-along’s were headed by my dad. He played his guitar and sang. Uncle Dean joined in with his harmonicas. In another camp, family was eating Aunt Marge’s cakes and gossiping. Her cakes were memorable because she used real cream frosting with a center layer of real fruit. I can still taste them after 30 years. Few have compared to hers since. Watermelon was the fruit of choice for others. My brothers took pride in how far they could spit the seeds – about the only time they could get away with spitting in public.

My cousin and his friend and I moved from one event to the next just waiting for all to go to bed. In an effort to cover our plan, we went to bed when everyone else did. Precariously we snuck out and had fun! My cousin’s camp got the brunt of it. Oh…we wrapped it everywhere – including the food -even wrapping ourselves in bed to avoid suspicion. My own family didn’t get as much – mainly because we ran out of toilet paper.

Not long after we finished, a group of motorcycles rumbled past our tents. One of the cousins swore they stopped to decorate our camp. She kept saying she heard them outside her tent-wishful thinking on her part.

In the morning we again roamed from camp to camp; again, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Not easy! One aunt, I think it was Olive gave me a direct look – eyes gleaming, “You kids did it.” Of course I protested innocence. I was never a good liar. “Yes, you kids did it” she charged with a confident smile.

Down at the other end of our row, my step mom was fuming. Totally humiliated, she kept saying how she taught me better.

In her younger years she and her friends were notorious for t.p.ing members of the Church, whether it was the bishop or the young, male missionaries. They had to be out of their homes early in the morning. Mom and her friends took great pleasure in decorating. To ensure a solid look, they would carefully water down the paper. The missionaries, dressed in 3-piece suits were required to keep their living environments spotless. Wet, soggy toilet paper melts into the grass making it nearly impossible to remove it. This often caused them to be late to their appointments.

So…I had a legacy to live up to. And I did not in her eyes. Basically I got into trouble for not spreading the PINK toilet paper around our camp better.  However, one look at my aunt and uncle’s camp said it all. After all this time the only thing that I feel true remorse for is the mess that my aunt silently cleaned up in embarrassment.

Once again though, my sweet little ones began the tradition by mixing toilet paper, water, and soap. At least this time it was in the sink. Uncle Johnny helped them clean it up while I cleaned up another mess of theirs.

Kelli L. McDonald

July 30, 2014

LETTING GO

If you love something

Let it go

If it comes back

It’s yours

If it doesn’t

It never was

(Anonymous)

She found it at a garage sale in 1980. Lacquered paper on wood, it was meant as a hint. I was 16 and madly in love with a neighborhood boy – or so I thought. What do we really know at 16? My step mother was trying to insinuate that there are other fish in the sea. I ignored her.              

As time moved on, the plaque followed me like a wise, old friend. Always finding an inconspicuous spot on the wall, it reminded me of what I knew that I would eventually have to do – let go.           

 This good friend was there when my young brother died. He died at his own hands. I do not care what one’s religious or philosophical beliefs are. That hurts! One does not easily heal from the effects.

The friend followed me through my failed marriage, the births and trials of raising my children, and then raising my grandchildren. The final straw was the death of my father and the excruciating pain of emotionally letting my sweet daughter go in another direction. Too, too much had happened. Again, my now wiser and much older step mother suggested I let go. “Find closure,” she suggested when I turned 50. Now much wiser, myself, I invested in her advice.            

The first thing I did was find out where the boy was in life. Was he even alive? Yes, he was and still married to the same woman after nearly 30 years of marriage. Bittersweet as it was to find that out, it was a relief. He was an astonishing person who had a lot of influence on me for good. Because of him, I was able to avoid some nasty relationships. The rationale was that if he was ever to show up, I wanted to be available for him. This rationale also allowed me to examine the type of men I was attracted to and why. By this time, I was in a position where I did not need another man in my life. They needed to be my friend first. I had succeeded on so many levels without this companionship that I was incredibly cautious as to who would be allowed in our lives.          

  Because of this neighborhood boy from long ago, I was able to write stories depicting areas of my past – long past and faded into another time. He was a pure example of championing for the underdog. He had this insidious ability to bring out talents in kids who otherwise would not have known what they were capable of accomplishing. My brothers were recipients of that gift. He gave others hope. I am not sure that this fine man or his family was aware of the lasting impact he had on others. We experienced adventurous that were mainstays through some of my darkest days and nights. They were reminders of better days past and to come.  I expressed that gratitude on a popular social network that I knew he belonged to. And although he did not respond, I feel that he did read it. I wanted nothing more than to express that gratitude and move on. It was peaceful being able to do so, especially given that he was still married to the same woman after nearly 30 years. What an accomplishment in this day and age of superficial marriages! Too, I was content with who and where I was. I live in a culture and area far removed from where we came from and it satisfied me. To let go of this individual was huge and it lifted an even bigger burden from me. I have not looked back except in endearing fondness for the memories.         

   I served a mission for my church. Part of it was due to advice of my step-mother; part of it was to escape the memories of the neighborhood boy who was now an awestruck newly-wed. Part of it was an attempt to let go of my deceased brother. Part of it was intuition. It was time to move on. Again, I met another boy who wooed and promised me wonderful but untrue things about our future together. Another wise friend saw it for what it was worth and sent me a laminated postcard with the same quote. At the time I saw the friend as anything but wise. He seemed jealous and immature. Oh…how wrong I was! This same person is still my friend. He, too, has been married to the same woman for nearly 30 years. He is more educated and fun than I could have ever imagined. I still have the postcard. He was right.         

   I married my now ex-husband on a whim. An embarrassment to his family, they never could accept me. I was not from the little town he grew up in. I was outspoken as well as a number of other things. The marriage was a disaster from the start. The pain lasted far longer than the marriage. On the day that I turned 50, I moved my family into the first house that I felt genuinely comfortable with. The smell that emitted from the house reminded me of the neighbor boy’s childhood home. One of the bathrooms reminded me of his parent’s bathroom. It was comforting. The smell only lasted for several days and then it was gone for good.            

My now ex-husband, who was not only divorced from his third wife, had a daughter who was 3 months older than one of our granddaughters. He helped us with this move. Within a month of moving in and a week away from Christmas the car problems started. No longer in town, we lived way out in the boonies. It was cold!!! This time, though, we had a garage. He helped us, even loaning me his car. Not long after this, I was in my first car accident in 30 years. The one 30 years prior was a small fender bender. This one was major. Luckily, the other driver only sustained a very minor head injury. I got the brunt of the impact and was very fortunate that more did not occur. My son had a difficult time looking at my car, realizing what could have happen if…Again, my ex stepped in and helped. Not only did he loan us his car, but he helped find me another car. The new car came with some problems. Of course! He helped my son with repairing it for as little cost as one could ethically get away with.  He contended that he was only helping my son. Either way, I was grateful and was finally able to let go of the past. He and his family could dislike me all they wanted to. It was liberating to finally let go of the crap. In letting go of the anger from this spoiled marriage, along with the memories of the neighborhood boy, I gave myself permission to experience healthier relationships. Doors seemed to open in unexpected ways. I found myself genuinely happier. It actually surprised me to feel that again. Long time coming that it was.            

When my dad died, there was no time to mourn. Busy with working, finding better employment, co-parenting my two very active granddaughters, and getting ready to go back to school for a second Master’s degree, to say that I was swamped with responsibilities would be an understatement.

Several people had commented that there was another person in our apartment. One individual even described where the person was standing and what direction he was standing when she felt him. It wasn’t the spooky, eerie sort of feeling. They all felt that there was an aura of comfort and compassion from Beyond by whoever was guarding us. This was in the months just prior to my dad’s death. One night, as I was driving home it occurred to me with such an impact that it was my brother. All of a sudden it made complete sense! He had always been nearby and I did not recognize that it was him. People can say what they want about this experience. They can interpret it to mean what they will but in my heart I feel it was my brother who had died 30 years ago. During his very short life I had literally defended him multiple times, even going so far as to beat up the neighborhood bully on his behalf. Now was the realization that he had been watching out for me and my children all along. After viewing the scene of my before mentioned accident, my son strongly contends that we were saved from a far more different fate because of my dad and brother. But then, that is simply our belief and nothing more.

In letting my dad go, no longer was there the anger and frustration of what kind of father he should have been. I could appreciate all the fine qualities that made him unique. I could further welcome the abilities endowed upon me because of him.

In allowing my children to grow up, they have in turn blessed me with grandchildren who are now my world. Don’t tell me about the limits of aging – there’s no room! And gratefully I am able to keep up.           

 We are blessed by challenges that try our heart strings to be taught. One of mine was my daughter. In every way a mother could, I tried to protect her innocence – even when she did not want to be protected. Like me, she wanted to test the waters and be independent. She wanted to experiment with everything Life had to offer. Some scars do not go away. Well meaning people warned me to let her go. By trying to protect her, I was only thwarting her own progress. She needed the opportunities to learn from her challenges. I had to allow my daughter the freedom to make decisions for herself – along with the consequence that arises from those choices. True growth is a result. 

Letting go means to move forward. It is not that we care for the person or situation any less. It means that we allow them to make their own choices to move into a more positive direction. It is remembering what we choose to, no longer burdened by its constraints. No longer are we controlled by its thoughts. In letting go, we make the choice to take control over the situation. We empower ourselves to rise above the situations that once held us back.

If you love something

Let it go

If it comes back

It’s yours

If it doesn’t

It never was

(Anonymous)       

Kelli L. McDonald

July 20, 2014

THE BLESSING OF UNANSWERED PRAYER

Country singer Garth, Brooks, croons about a man who desired a particular girl during high school. Oh, how he prayed with all of his might that he would be a perfect man should he be granted this one wish. Years later, at a reunion he realized the blessings he received by not being granted the wish.

On the southwest corner of Noble Avenue and Tuba Street sat a house with a fence and backyard parallel to Noble Avenue. The family of this home owned two Doberman pincers.

Whenever Tony walked past this house, those dogs barked fiercely. It was enough to want to walk to the edge of the sidewalk in order to avoid them! The growl of their bark reached out over the fence. Tony had NO apparent fear of them! When he took a stroll past those ferocious creatures, he would hop up and smack the closest puppy in the face without any effort. As he laughed it was as if he had just daringly swat a fly!

Tony was one of Billy’s best friends up until their high school years at James Monroe. It was then the friendship waned due to a misunderstanding. While Billy was my on and off again boyfriend, I always had a steady crush on Tony. It seemed that when I was seriously seeing Billy, Tony was not seeing anyone. When Tony was seriously seeing someone, Billy and I were not together. More than anything, though, he was my friend. We shared insults with one another, even buying insult books at the Northridge Mall that summer of 1979 when we all went to see Meatballs starring Bill Murray. It was our game to see who could insult the other the worst, all done in fun. He even loaned me his locker in D Hall the whole time I was at Monroe. I still have the combination in a little yellow book that I kept such information.

When Billy had surgery on his knees during the spring of 1981, he was out of school for a week. Tony walked me to my classes and then met me afterwards, this included walking with me to and from home. I don’t think my dad liked him because Tony waited for me at the sidewalk instead of coming to the door. But he was my protector while Billy was convalescing. 

Billy was jealous. Nothing came of it, just Tony watching out for me because in his eyes I was “Billy’s girl.” It was as if they had this unspoken code that they did not go after each other’s girl. I fell hard for Tony. He was unbelievably handsome! His mustache…oh my! He was athletic, too, running for James Monroe. 

However, it was that respect and consideration that tugged at my heart strings.

In high school Tony frequently dated, or so it seemed to me, always looking for someone to fill a void. His home life was fraught with constant turmoil. Growing up, Billy’s home was the haven for him even though they too, had their share of woes. When I was in the 10^th Grade and he was in the 11^th, he went to live with relatives in New Jersey for several months.

We wrote back and forth but he only had eyes for Elysa Wyneken. I paled in looks dramatically compared to Elysa. My heart skipped a beat when I found out that he was back – sadly for Billy. But then, it was sad for me when he eagerly began dating Elysa – much to her parent’s strong dismay! Still…on one hand I was in love with Billy with a huge crush on Tony. Life is interesting.

We lost touch as we left high school. I went on to serve a mission for my church – South Carolina. One of my friends went to Chicago. I knew that Tony had plans of being there. My friend, Cory, watched for him but to no avail. As the years came and went I kept searching for him – and Billy. My kids, never having met either of them, kept an open eye for them. Tony and I finally connected in April of 2010 through a mutual friend on a social networking site. We talked for three hours! The longings from the years past hopefully would come into play.

Tony was still the Tony I knew from way back when. When we talked, it felt as if we were back in those days of which I so missed. His voice was the same. He still had the same sense of humor. But he wasn’t the same. Neither was I. No longer a naive seventeen year old, I was about to become a grandmother for the first time. I wanted things to be the same except that too much life had happened along the way. Tony reminded me of the character played by Neil Diamond, Jess Rabinovic, in the 1980 version of The Jazz Singer. He was still trying to find where he fit into society. 

One day he stopped calling. Part of me was relieved and the other hurt. In the end, there was closure. It took about a year and the prayer was at long last answered.

My kids grew up hearing the stories from that period. We put him upon the same pedestal that we put Billy on, which was high. I was able to take him down to rest. I could now be grateful that there was never an intimate relationship between us. As it was, our lives went in very different directions. Neither was easy by any means. Moreover, I could now say with conviction that I was glad that we met up just for that brief moment in history. I could stop wondering what became of him. I could continue laughing every time I thought of him slapping those fierce beasts. I could still sigh whenever I thought of circa 1979 Tony Toth. And with peace, I could close that chapter and move on, thankful for the blessings that were given to me instead.

(I hope you are well, my friend.)

Kelli L. McDonald

1 February 2014

Eagle Mountain, Utah

DAD’S LINCOLN

The weather was warm – what we call the calm before the storm. The gas attendant was gingerly cleaning the gas pumps. Not seeing the point of cleaning them when a storm was approaching, I told the story about my dad.

“I remember once when my dad did that, “ I mentioned as I got out to fill my tank.

“He was cleaning his nice, fancy car inside and out. Actually, it was a used Lincoln and it was December 23, 1983…”

We lived out in Lake Los Angeles, California. A lake it wasn’t, just dirt and wind. To clean a car was pointless because it would just get dirty again, especially if a storm was coming. Dad practically spit-shined that car. We drove out to Sylmar to pick up my step-mom from work. While we were waiting for her to get off, Dad started picking lint and other unseen tidbits off the upholstery. Sarcastically, I said, “Guy, Dad, it’s so clean you could lick it off!” He scowled at me to mind my own business. The next night the sky let loose some heavy rain. We drove to church and then out to the cemetery to visit Uncle Ray’s grave. Ray was one of Dad’s older brothers who had died the previous June. The road leading to the cemetery was called Avenue S. It was dirty and not well developed like it is today. It was filled with pot-holes and muddy water that splashed all over Dad’s nice, shiny, clean car. I snickered and laughed like  no other! It was payback. When we got home, Dad sprayed that car off good! I don’t remember if I said anything else after that. I probably did, knowing my frame of mind in those days.

The gas attendant smiled. I think he needed something to do to keep him busy – being that it was Sunday in Utah and slow.

JUST FOR YOU

This morning Lizzy woke up and put the ipad in bed with her. She knows how to turn it on to play the games and stories. It’s an activity that has become routine as I get ready for work. Several of her favorites are the Starfall apps, especially the turkey one. When she gets something right, the app plays a tune from Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer. She loves to move her hands as if she is leading the orchestra. She has a smile of satisfaction when I mimic her, like she knows she is accomplishing something tremendous!              

  The other apps that she likes to watch are Mercer Mayer’s books. On this particular morning I was taken back in time – again – as I prepared for work. Way back before Lizzy was even a twinkle in Brook’s eyes and even further back before Brook was a twinkle in my own, young, innocent eyes ( I can hear John and Brook cough and choke at young, innocent), Dad worked for a company that installed security systems. He not only installed the alarms but maintained them as well. So, anytime they malfunctioned or went off, the technicians were alerted and sent out to investigate. This gave Dad the opportunity to meet some very famous people, including Mercer Mayer’s mother.               

Mercer Mayer wrote and illustrated children’s books. On one of Dad’s calls, he was sent out to the home of Mr. Mayer’s mother. She gave Dad a copy of the book, Just for You. I still have it. It is truly ranked as one of my favorites. I have read it to hundreds of children throughout the years.               

Technology is so accessible today that my toddler grandchildren can watch and hear the books on a thin tablet at the touch of a baby finger – while sitting in bed. As the story is read, the words being read are high-lighted in blue, except for the Christmas one. The letters pop out in red. When a picture is touched, the name of it springs out in blue letters, again, red for the Christmas version. When the spider and grasshopper are touched, they are tallied at the end of the story. The book has gone from being a paper-backed copy to an interactive game that a 14 month old child can manipulate. When the book came out, we thought we were so modern with what was then available. I have heard that we haven’t even scratched the surface of what will be offered in the future. I look forward to seeing what my grandchildren will be “reading” to their children. By the same token, I am thankful for having what we did have, such as paper copies of books. I am also thankful for my dad having the job that he did have at that time.                Kelli McDonald               

9 December 2013

POMEGRANITES

 Fall isn’t fall without eggnog and pomegranates. The San Fernando Valley of Southern California was built around orchards: oranges, lemons, grapefruits, apples, avocados, and pomegranates. When the Developers came through and produced the never-ending sub-divisions during the Post-War years of the 1950’s and 1960’s, they kept many of those orchards on the property of the new homes. An area of the Valley was even named for the pomegranates, Granada Hills. Granada is the Spanish equivalent. The neat, rounded shrubs were introduced to California in 1769.        

  In December of 2000, I decided it was time take a walk back in time to that place that my thoughts idolized for years. I drove through the streets we walked through as kids. We plucked those precious gems off the trees that grew so freely. One of the yards had overgrown pomegranate trees. They were wasting away on the ground! Recently we paid $2.59 per pomegranate in Lehi, Utah! It is a yearly tradition for us to purchase them – regardless of the cost. Like eggnog, that is only sold during the Fall months.          

As kids we plucked them from all the trees. We would split them open on street signs when we did not want to use our fingernails. Many times some went bad simply because we had too many!         

 When I was a small child, my mom made jelly from the precious juice of pomegranates. Her father would serve me Shirley Temples, a non-alcoholic drink made from concentrated pomegranate juice, 7-Up and a maraschino cherry. My whole life, I thought she made popsicles, too, from pomegranates. When I turned 43, I asked her about it. Nope, just the jelly!         

 During an unusually enormous windstorm that swept through during the Fall of 1981, the fruit blew off those old trees. They rolled down the streets. My brothers, always resourceful when it came to something free, grabbed several large greenish black, trash bags. They filled all of those bags. We had free fruit for some time. I made fresh squeezed juice. Such a treat!          

November 2006, my mom, my daughter, and I sat in Mom’s t.v. room eating pomegranates while watching the final episode of M*A*S*H*.  She had never seen it, although she had wanted to. I had viewed it when it was first aired back in 1983.        

  My boyfriend, Bill Schumacher, and I raced home from school. The whole world was going to watch the finale. We were in school at Los Angeles Valley College. Our classes were late getting out. We arrived home in time to see the part where Hawkeye was in the mental ward. He was trying to piece together the events that lead him there. I never saw the beginning until November 10, 2006 when my kids and I watched it. The eleventh and final series was a birthday gift from my kids. We own the entire series. It is an integral part of our lives, so much so that when I hear the introduction music, I can close my eyes and feel as if I am a teen-age again.         

 My mom was giving me things that she no longer needed. I wanted to share something that was meaningful. Pomegranates and a television show that epitomized my childhood for good and for bad. She had a picture of her graduating class from high school .They were the first graduating class of James Monroe High School in Sepulveda, California. I, too, attended twenty years after she did. I well remember the building the picture was taken next to, T-Hall. I had classes in that same building. I had seen this picture countless times. This time, a face other than my mother’s looked familiar. I wondered if it was Donna Ludwig, Richie Valen’s girlfriend. As if she knew what I was thinking, my mom stood beside and pointed her out. Mom had once told me that she knew Donna, but that was it. I did not realize that the girl went to Monroe as well. Mom described the group of friends Donna hung out with and the response after Richie died in a plane crash. Our family has since stood together at the very spot the picture was taken so long ago. We have paid our respects at Richie’s grave site as well as his beloved mother.         

 Today, tales of its benefits are widely circulated. Religions tout it as a symbol of righteousness. Folk medicine considers it an astringent. It is used as a natural dye for synthetic fabrics. The culinary world considers it a spice. There are even advertisements boasting of its cleansing powers. When I was a kid, it was just an unusual fruit. Today, it is a sacred tradition. We have now passed this tradition on to my grandchildren. Lizzy loves to go around our home saying, “I love pomogwanits!”         

 For my next birthday, Mom blessed me with a small case of pomegranates.

Kelli McDonald

October 2013

Remember?

Close your eyes…And go back…

Before the Internet or the MAC,

Before semiautomatics and crack

Before chronic and indoWay back…

I’m talkin’ about hide and go seek at dusk.

Sittin’ on the porch

Hot bread and butter.

Eatin’ a super dooper sandwich, (Dagwood),

Red light, Green light.

Chocolate milk, Lunch tickets,

Penny candy in a brown paper bag.

Hopscotch, butterscotch, double Dutch

Jacks, kickball, dodge ball, y’all!

Mother, May I?Hula Hoops and Sunflower Seeds,

Jawbreakers, blowpops, Mary Janes,

Running through the sprinkler (I can’t get wet!

All right, well don’t wet my hair…)

The smell of the sun and lickin’ salty lips…

Wait….

Catchin’ lightining bugs in a jar,

Playin slingshot and Red Rover.

When around the corner seemed far away,

And going downtown seemed like going somewhere.

Bedtime, Climbing trees.

A million mosquito bites and sticky fingers.

Cops and robbers,

Cowboys and Indians,

Sittin on the curb,

Jumping down the steps,

Jumpin on the bed.

Pillow fights

Being tickled to death

Runnin” till you were out of breath

Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.

Being tired from playin’…

Remember that?

I ain’t finished just yet…

What happened to the girl that had the big bubbly handwriting?

Licking the beaters when your mother made a cake.

When there were two typesof sneakers for girls and boys

(Keds and PF Flyers),

and the only time you wore them at school, was for “gym.”

When nearly everyone’s mom was at home when the kids got there.

When nobody owned a purebred dog.

When a quarter was a decent allowance, and another quarter a huge bonus.

When you’d reach into a muddy gutter for a penny.

When girls neither dated nor kissed until late high school, if then.

When your mom wore nylons that came in two pieces .

When all of your male teachers wore neckties and female teachers wore skirts and high heels and had their hair done, every week!

When you got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, for free, every time.

And, you didn’t pay for air. And, you got trading stamps to boot!

When laundry detergent had free glasses, dishes or towels hidden inside the box.

When any parent could discipline any kid, or feed him or use him to carry groceries, and nobody, not even the kid, thought a thing of it.

When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at a real restaurant with your parents.

When they threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed…and did!

When being sent to the principal’s office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited a misbehaving student at home.

Basically, we were in fear for our lives but it wasn’t because of drive by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc.

Disapproval of our parents and grandparents was a much bigger threat!

Decisions were made by going “eeny-meeny-miney-mo.”

Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, “do over!”

“Race issue” meant arguing about who ran the fastest.

Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in “Monopoly.”

Catching the fireflies could happily occupy an entire evening.

It wasn’t odd to have two or three “best” friends.

Being old, referred to anyone over 20.

The net on a tennis court was the perfect height to play volleyball and rules didn’t matter.

The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was cooties.

It was magic when dad would “remove” this thumb.

It was unbelievable that dodgeball wasn’t an Olympic event.

Having a weapon in school, meant being caught with a slingshot.

Nobody was prettier than Mom.Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better.

It was a big deal to finally be tall enough to ride the “big people” rides at the amusement park.

Getting a foot of snow was a dream come true.

Abilities were discovered because of a “double-dog-dare”

Saturday morning cartoons weren’t 30-minute ads for action figures.

No shopping trip was complete, unless a new toy was brought home.

“Oly-oly-oxen-free” made perfect sense.

Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for giggles.

The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team.

War was a card game.Water balloons were the ultimate weapons.

Baseball cards in the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle.

Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin (at least until the late 60’s kicked in).Ice cream was considered a basic food group.

Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors.

If you can remember most or all of these, then you have LIVED!!!

~Cindy Sherman S”66James

Monroe High School

Sepulveda, California

SONG OF the SOUL

“For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart…”

Doctrine and Covenants 25:12

My brother, Todd, used to sing a song to the tune of God Bless America. It went like this:

God bless my underwear, my only pair…

It was sung several times in a row, with the voice raising in tone as he sang “my only pair” and holding the last syllable. I can not listen to “God Bless America” without snickering and thinking of him.          Where does this come from that causes one to pause and reflect just when we think we have forgotten them? My brother died over 25 years ago and I still grin in church, almost irreverently, when this song is sung.          My dear friend Billy told about his aunt who was extra large. Her husband loved her very much. However, according to Billy, whenever she would come down the stairs, this uncle would sing to the tune of the annual Miss America Pageant theme song,

Here she comes, Miss America…representing all 50 States.

Every Breath You Take

Speaking of Billy: We were driving together on the Golden State Freeway (I-5) in 1983 listening to the rock group, Police, sing Sting’s new hit, Every Breath You Take when I foolishly decided to out run a CHP (California Highway Patrol). Needless to say, my kids were literally aghast when they heard this story, knowing how obsessively, law-abiding I am. Billy had to pick up a delivery in the company truck. He took me with him to the city of Bell. I drove the way back to work, Chef America in  Sylmar. To this day, I can’t hear that song without thinking about this incident.

 Like I said, Sting was playing his song. The beat was wonderful. We were in the lane closer to the left. I saw the officer in the near-right-hand lane. All of a sudden this urge begged me to see if I could out-run a CHP! Of course he pulled me over. Fortunately the officer had a good sense of humor. He gave a I-know-what-you-were-doing-and-I-know-you-are-close-to-my-age-and-just-having-fun-but…glean in his eyes as he gave me a minor ticket. Whew!

We never said a word to anyone. My step-mom was an office person for this same company. They were the original makers of the now-famous Hot Pocket sandwiches. One day, she asked in a sly-knowing tone, “So, how’d you get the ticket?” OH MY WORD! How could I think she would NOT find out! I explained and all was forgiven. Except that now I do not like that song. Not only does it remind me of how stupid I was, but it reminds of a stalker.  

 Two of my dad’s favorite songs were Rock of Ages and How Great Thou Art. He wanted them sung at my mission farewell. They reminded him of his mother. I was 21 and did not like those two songs! I felt that since this was my event, only songs that I really appreciated would be performed. Here I was, getting ready to serve the Lord, and I did not even have the compassion to allow my own father to play two pieces that held the utmost sentimentally to him. I am not sure where I gave in, but in the end, my dad played How Great Thou Art on his guitar. I was going to South Carolina and they were standards in that part of the country. They, too, have become two of my favorite pieces of music; the meanings going far deeper than the original meanings were meant to. Sentiments from my grandmother who had long ago passed on, and then guilt and remorse for the way I treated my father.

 Coming from the West where the music was sung at a faster tempo, I had difficulty keeping up with the slower tempo when I first arrived in Gaffney, South Carolina. In an effort to blend in, I joined the church choir. I was frequently singled out in front of the others to stay on key. On one particularly memorable Sunday, I sang with all of my heart, wondering at the upturned, concerned looks from the audience. After church the choir director asked me not to sing with the choir. Dejected, I walked away, determined not to sing in public again. I never have.

 I think that too much emphasis is put on the greatness of those who can sing. Yes, it is a talent that I wish that I could have. But I also think that true greatness comes from one’s other talents such as integrity, courage, and fortitude. Too many people can sing a song who have no depth. Not a lot of people with depth can sing. It makes one wonder at where society’s values lie.

It took having a granddaughter who can actually carry a tune to finally take me out of my shell – sort. I will sing with her in front of a couple of people – only as encouragement for her.

The beauty of technology is that it allows us to recapture a long, lost favorite song. There have been several for me. One in particular is the theme song from the hit series, M*A*S*H*. I hear that song and am transported to another time and place from here. I am still a teen-ager living in Mission Hills, California. My younger brothers, who are either dead or larger men with children of their own, are still little boys doing whatever they would do at the time.

 From the first notes of the opening scenes, a feeling of well-being enveloped us. When I hear the opening music, I suddenly feel as if I’m still in the late 1970’s, early 1980’s. We would do our chores, get something to eat, and go to the bathroom during the “commercial.”

For our neighborhood at the corner of Tuba and Noble Avenue, the world revolved around M*A*S*H* – and sports. Every night around 7:00 or 7:30 we had to watch it. If Frank Burns was going to be in it, the show was sure to be good. We watched M*A*S*H* during the week and then we would go to the hockey games and look for the actors there. Jamie Farr, who played “Clinger,” would sit near the ice, usually with his driver. Occasionally, a young kid who looked like his son would sit next to him. Jamie Farr would drink coffee with his driver. We watched this exchange using Billy’s dad’s binoculars.

  As a result, my own kids grew up watching the show. When my kids were younger, we would watch it on DVD’s. I could close my eyes while the music was playing and I would be 15 or 16 years old again. We bought the entire series. When my daughter had children, her oldest started watching it. Whenever she would hear the theme song, she stopped whatever she was doing and moved her hands as if she was leading the orchestra. Late one night I realized that I could probably buy a copy from amazon.com. Incredible! So we downloaded it to the computer and then onto the mp3 player. Every time I would play the song for Lizzy, she would stop whatever she was doing and look in awe and then lead the “orchestra.”The song soothes me like a lullaby to a place that is only available in my memory.

  Loretta Switt played Margaret Hulahan. Margaret reminded me of Judy Schumacher, except that Margaret had blonde hair and Judy’s was dark brown. Judy, like Margaret, could put a person in their place without any effort. I can also see myself as Margaret – in charge and bossy. Billy’s mom was bossy because of her protective, mother bear-like qualities. I was bossy because I, too, had protective, mother bear-like qualities as I continued to watch over my children and grandchildren.        

  Billy reminded me of BJ Hunicutt and Hawkey Pierce. BJ was the peace-maker and Hawkeye was the leader of the group and always into mischief. He and Margaret continually butted heads all the while maintaining a high level of respect and occasional romance. 

Petula Clark

 Dancing with my granddaughters to her music one summer morning, I remembered with such fondness of the year we moved back to Longmont, Colorado. It was early Fall 1975. We were too poor to afford a television set. Dad set up the record player with a stack of records that played what seemed like on and on and on. Petula Clark’s music was part of that stack.

   Being able to stay on key is not one of my strengths. But I would belt out those songs as if I was a super star on stage. Pity the poor soul who was in earshot as my voice reverberated:

My love is warmer than the warmest sunshine

Softer than a sigh.

My love is deeper than the deepest ocean

Wider than the sky.

My love is brighter than the brightest star

That shines every night above

And there is nothing in this world

Than can ever change my love.

(Terius Nash, Tony Hatch)

Several years later we moved back to California. My high school sweetheart, Billy, became the target for these lyrics as I professed my undying love and devotion to him by singing those words to an unseen audience.

The morning my grandchildren and I spent dancing and singing to this, my dad was gradually slipping from us. My voice choked at the memory. Rare is it that I will sing out loud because I know what I sound like and have issues about inflicting unnecessary pain on innocent people, especially children. Listening to the likes of “Downtown” and its message of hope if one just went “downtown” to view the sites. One might even find an opportunity to help another, thus making everything better. I wanted to make things better for my father.

Feelin’ Groovy

Hello Lamppost, what ya knowin’?

I come to watch your flowers growin’

Just walking round the cobblestones.

Life is groovy

(Simon & Garfunkle)

I still see Blake singing those words with Dad. He’s this cute little guy trying so hard to be like his father. Dad is strumming his acoustic guitar. Bake focusing on staying on tune, not more than ten years old.

And then I hear,

The Mademoisell from Armetieres “Parley voo”

The Mademoisell from Armetieres, “Parley voo”

The Mademoiselle fro Armetieres

She hadn’t been kissed for forty years

Hinky stink parley voo.

Todd is singing with a swaggering attitude and pretending to play a guitar, his head cocked up and his eyes rolled skyward, his tongue curled. All the while Dad is accompanying him. And instead of singing, Hinky Dinky “Parley Voo” as the song suggests, they would sing, Inky Stinky, “Parley Vooooo.”
Kelli McDonald
2013

POOR KIDS

Poor Kids

Len L. McDonald

Diggin’ in the trash can look for wheels

My brother and I made an automobile.

Cans for the lights, reflector for the horn.

Did you ever wonder why you were born?

Chorus:

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

Devil meat spread and honey on the bread.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

Twelve little young ‘uns running under their feet,

My mom and my dad wondering what we gonna eat.

Fried potatoes and gravy sounds good.

My mom tried to fix the best that she could.

Chorus:   

Wait ‘til the farmer gets out of his field.

Scrounge for the leavings to make another meal.

Wishing all the time we had a dollar bill.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.4.       

Cardboard linings for the bottom of our shoes.

Wasn’t the best but we had to make do.

On a winter morning with the rain and the sleet,

Anything to keep the wet off our feet.

Chorus:

But we knew Mom and Dad loved us,

Sure as the Lords up above us.

Wasn’t their faults that the times were so bad,

My mom and my dad tried to give us what they had.

Chorus:

My dad wrote this song depicting his childhood and it was the epitome of The Great Depression Era. Growing up, we were constantly reminded of how life was from listening to Dad and his siblings talk about that period. They were just young kids making the best out of a very difficult situation. They revered the memories with a sense of sacredness.   It was from these experiences that I developed a robust love for history.  And even as I write these words, I cannot adequately express my feelings for this love -just that I can attribute it to my dad and all the stories that he and his family told. Like the pioneers from the Willey Handcart Company in LDS history, they did not fault anyone. They were grateful to their parents just because. And to my knowledge, Dad never once complained about his parents within my ear shot.

 When Dad sang this song, I could always hear his younger sister, Joyce, very clearly commenting on how hard it was (and she has been gone since 1996). My grandmother was incredibly resourceful and made things work despite the challenges. This knowledge was always in the back of my mind as I faced my own heartaches – whether it was deciding to have an epidural during childbirth or wondering how we were going to make more space in an already cramped apartment. I knew a way could be made. My grandmother was the inspiration to me getting through a very difficult circumstance and I knew without question that she was nearby. She endured so much that I would think back on how she might have handled the situation. With the epidural, I was in labor with my first child and I kept thinking that she bore 14 children without one, why shouldn’t I? The thought immediately came to me in the wee hours of the night as I contemplated this that if it was available, she would have had it. I calmly made the decision to have the epidural.

   For some reason I though Grams avoided doctors because she lost two babies due to their errors. In the summer of 1988 Dad clarified this myth by saying she didn’t always go because they were not available. Nothing more.

Wait ‘til the farmer gets out of his field.

Scrounge for the leavings to make another meal.

Wishing all the time we had a dollar bill.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

Devil meat spread and honey on the bread.

That’s the way it was with us poor kids.

Twelve little young ‘uns running under their feet,

My mom and my dad wondering what we gonna eat.

Fried potatoes and gravy sounds good.

My mom tried to fix the best that she could.

I never liked my dad’s cooking. To him, at least it was food. I remember one time when I was visiting him in Lancaster with my young son, Johnny. Dad went to make us a tuna sandwich. There wasn’t any seasoning to it, simply tuna spread on the bread with some Miracle Whip. I was sickened by this because there wasn’t any seasoning. Moreover, I also hated eating turnips with a strong passion because the summer of 1978 we were so poor that was our mainstay. But again, it was at least food.

In some ways, and like a lot of kids from that era, Dad never got over it. He and his brothers

and sisters, especially his brothers, were pack-rats. “Might need this someday” was the ideology. Their garages were full of “stuff”. One of his sister-in-laws who was affected by The Depression  would hoard boxes and boxes of clothes even after they were long out of style. She was a talented seamstress who collected patterns. These, too, were hoarded even though she would never use them. With food, she had a wonderful storage full. I know her family was truly impacted by this experience having come to California as an “Okie.” Okies were people who lived in the Dust Bowl, an area of the United States and Canada that was affected by severe dust storms. This particular aunt came from Oklahoma as a young girl and lived in the labor camps along the San Juaquin Valley.  “The camps were intended to “rehabilitate” the Okies, transform them into productive citizens, and assimilate them into California culture” (O’Reilly, 2012).They came looking for work, food, and a better living. This aunt once told me that her family came to California due to health issues. California, with all its many promises, also gave hope of better health.

When Dad died, there was mixed emotions about going through his stuff – especially the tools. It was like going through his underwear, so personal was his work bench. I took things just to have a part of him close by. My daughter kept insisting that I take a particular green shirt of his. At first, I hesitated then gave in. It still had his scent woven into the fibers. As a result, it has stayed at the end of my bed and I hold it close now and then so I can feel his presence.

  As kids, we struggled for a number of reasons. Dad could never keep a job for very long so we moved a lot. A young mother with three little ones, I was privilege to finally meet Dad’s best friend from his youth, Roger Campbell. Roger talked of how he, Joyce, and Dad all received scholarships to BYU (Brigham Young University). Dad turned it down and went into the Navy. I was so angry with him! We struggled because of that decision. How naïve I was! Little did I know of his reasons for joining the Navy instead of going to BYU on a music scholarship. He went because at that time, if a man did not have military experience, they were passed over for those who did. Often they were also fired. Dad was trying support his widowed mother, whom he adored. He only joined in effort to make sure her needs were met. In several of his letters that survive, he begs her to go to the Red Cross to get him out. So often in my later years have I wondered about this. Had we not struggled the way we did, would I have the survival skills, along with the appreciation of history, music, the fine arts, and technology that I am so grateful for. I don’t think so.

I was able to keep my emotions in check until my brother read the lyrics at Dad’s funeral. Then I lost it. The impact this experience had on this family was so personal and definitive. It was a relief when Dad died because of his suffering and longing for those who had gone on before him. Still, when these words were read, I missed my father with such a yearning that leaves me at a loss for words.  When Shannon gave the eulogy, I saw many of my dad’s habits in me. For one, I, too, hold onto things because “you never know if you might need them.”

Sources:
The picture was taken at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center’s Pediatric Unit, August 2013. I do not know who the artist is, although I would love to know. O’Reilly, K. (April 2012). “Oklatopia”: The Cultural Mission of California’s Migratory Labor Camps, 1935-1941. Senior Thesis Department of History Columbia University.

IT WAS THE ROAD SHE NEEDED

They say you can’t teach an old dog a new trick. I do not believe it, for it is faith that moves the Earth. It is faith that will cause a rock- hard soul to soften as sand when touched by the Spirit. It is by faith that will push undaunted missionaries into the unknown while expecting a miracle. And it is by faith that I met Blanche Evelyn Mattson.

Evelyn was a crusty old soul who hated everything connected to the Church, at least until failing health forced that crusty old soul to move in with Gary and Sandy.  They were her son and daughter-in-law who had joined the Church some years earlier. Evelyn was not supportive of this new religion. When she began to live with them her views began to change. She could see the difference in their everyday living and she wanted to be a part of it.

The day after Christmas, my companion, Sister Jones, and I were asked to speak with Evelyn. And while we were not having much luck finding investigators, we did have complete confidence the Lord would provide for us. So this invitation was a welcomed relief to some serious praying.

Talking with her the first day was easy. For someone who held such animosity towards the Church, she never let it show. By the second discussion two days later Evelyn expressed her desire to be baptized. Sandy, a humble and quiet woman who kept her opinions to herself, was not expecting this, at least not this soon. Her eyes filled with tears as Evelyn expressed a sincere desire to be baptized.

Before new converts were baptized, we would ask them to attend Sacrament Meeting at least once. This was a problem for Evelyn because she could not walk very well, let alone stand. Gary rented a wheelchair, very much against his mother’s wishes! She was determined to walk into that building on her own or not at all. To my surprise, she accomplished this fete two Sunday’s in a row. I can still see and hear her as she hobbled into Sacrament Meeting saying, “See Sister McDonald. I did it!” She glowed with pride in her efforts. We also asked them to follow the Word of Wisdom and abstain from smoking and drinking coffee. She was dying of cancer. As her health deteriorated, so did her selection of available foods. It got to the point where one of her main source of nourishment was drinking coffee. She gave this up to abide by the Word of Wisdom.

On a foggy Saturday afternoon in January 1986, Blanche Evelyn Mattson and her eight-year-old grandson, Jay, were baptized at the Myrtle Beach, South Carolina Chapel. The joy this woman felt was incredible. She kept asking me if I could hear the angels singing. This seemed to be the only way that she could describe what she was feeling. Sadly, I could not hear the angels singing but I did feel a strong impression that the room was filled with more than what our eyes could see. The Relief Society Room seemed much brighter than it usually did. I also do not doubt that Evelyn could hear angels singing. I do not think she ever felt such peace in her life.

In Matthew, we are admonished to “be perfect even as your Father in Heaven is” (Matthew 5:48). To this day, I still believe that she tried with all her heart, might, mind, and strength to fulfill the covenants that she made at her baptism.

On February 25, 1986 I was given my transfer orders. Very hesitantly I went to offer my farewell to my friend, who by that time had been unconscious for a little over a week. Gary called me early the next morning. She had died only a few short hours after I had left their home.

To some, it was viewed as an easy and insignificant baptism –an old lady decides to be baptized just before she dies. To me, it meant that one is never too old to have faith, grow, and ultimately change for the better. To Blanche Evelyn Mattson, it was the road she needed to travel in peace back to her Heavenly Father. Those that judged her are not aware of what this dear lady endured to follow through on her covenants. 

I still think about her often and am so thankful for the experience of helping her to meet that road. It has made me a better person. 

Kelli McDonald,

19 January 2013.

OBSTACLE OR CHALLENGE?

CANADIAN BACON AND SHRIMP PIZZA, PLEASE

Admiring the purple, marshmallow jacket that had just arrived for Lizzy, Brook giggled that it reminded her of the jacket I may have worn when I snuck the pizza into the movie theatre. “Mom, didn’t you write that story?” Meaning, had I written about the now-famous incident? “I love that story,” emphasizing love.

Middle of a Utah summer, some good people brought by badly needed clothes for Lizzy. She and Brook had recently returned to live with us from California. Winters in this part of Utah can get mighty cold; never mind how deceiving the summers can be. Brook was going through the bounty when out of nowhere she was reminded of an incident that took place years before her own birth and even longer from when our sweet Lizzy was even thought of. My…what nostalgia came over me…

It was 1983. My family had recently moved to Lake Los Angeles, California from Mission Hills – which was part of the San Fernando Valley. Lake Los Angeles was situated about 27 miles from both Lancaster and Palmdale – way out in the middle of the desert. Developed mainly as a real estate ploy, the small “lake” was in actuality a pond named “Lake Los Angeles” and a means to get people away from the city.  It was surrounded by buttes – mountains that looked like islands in the middle of the sand. There was very little to do, except to hike the buttes or get your car stuck out in the desert. Forgive me for the errors of my youth but I am guilty as ever of this.

I wanted to show my brothers a good time, prove to them their sister was “cool,” not some innocent, air-head.  So we tried to climb a butte with my white, two-door, ’66 Chevy Impala. I mean, others were trying it with their vehicles, why couldn’t I? We also drove out in the sandy soil, off the beaten, paved road, just to see if we could do it. Remember, this is well before cell phones and intelligence as we now know it. It was near dark and the nearest house was in the distance. Leaving my young siblings in the car (they were 17, 14, and 9) I hiked to the house to ask the man to call my family. Bill Arndt, a family friend rescued us. If memory serves me correctly, this was not the last time this happened. As I write this, I feel a strong urge to send a text to my step-mother, apologizing AGAIN for my errant youthfulness. Still, I can forgive my own kids a lot easier because of adventures such as these.

For a good time, we had to “go to town,” meaning Lancaster or Palmdale. Lancaster had a mall with a cinema. A Christmas Story, starring Peter Billingsley was showing. My friends from Mission Hills came up to hang out one exceptionally fine, December Saturday. Billy, my off and on again boyfriend, was wearing his Los Angeles King’s jacket. The Kings were the hockey team that we all idolized. The jacket was large, even on him, and he was tall – or so I thought. So imagine how it would look on petite, little me.

We went for pizza at a joint across from the theatre with the intention that we would sneak it in. Deciding to be creative we chose two large pizzas: Canadian bacon with shrimp and I believe pepperoni. It was unusual but I wanted to be different. We also ordered drinks that conveniently fit into my purse. But what about the pizzas? How do you sneak two large pizzas into a movie theatre and especially a crowded theatre without provoking some sort of suspicion? Easy! I would wear Billy’s jacket and pretend to be pregnant. He would cradle my arm into his as if he was trying to be extra tender, considering how far along I looked.

Cautiously going through the “check point” where they take your tickets, I clearly and distinctly remember the looks the employees gave us. Mark Dow, one of our friends, had such a childlike gaze about him. Billy was as tender as he could have been, gently telling me to be careful. The smell of shrimp eluded from the place a child was supposedly attached under the watchful eyes of the ticket masters and yet…not a word was said.

Once inside we sat near the back. The theatre was dark. Commercials and trailers blazed across the screen. Patrons munched on their popcorn and candy while we insidiously passed around the forbidden cache of food. Umph…oh so delicious! Who would have ever guessed such a delectable savor could come from this unique choice of toppings!

Tinged with minute regret at leaving the empty boxes for the staff to clean up and discover our indiscretions, we left. Never have I been able to see this movie without the reminder of a simple fete of Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza being snuck into see it. It represents not only the ingenuousness of youth, but too, the simple pleasures of life that only come from trying something new.

 Nearly 30 years later during a particularly sticky summer the smell of that period prevailed like a warm blanket on a cold, winter morning beckoning me to come home to a time that no longer exists except in the crevices of my memory. I am ever so young and naïve again, wishing for them to walk through the door as if they had simply gone to the market for a soda.

I called local pizza place to order a small Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza. “Sorry, we don’t carry shrimp on the premises” was the reply. Hmmm…so off to the store to get some just to see if the taste buds could still handle it.

Kelli McDonald,

July 28, 2012,

Lehi, Utah

THE PICTURE

Years ago I wanted to write a book about the women of Kern County dating from the 1910’s through the early 1950’s. That era and the area seemed to encompass the fortitude of strength. These were women of diverse cultures such as the Mennonites, Blacks, Hispanics, Whites, Catholics, Mormons’ Baptists, Japanese decent and so on. They lived through World War I, the building of new settlements, The Great Depression, The Exodus of migrant workers, World War II, and the Korean War.

 My grandmother was LDS. She came from strong LDS pioneer stock. Her people came west from Nauvoo, Illinois to Utah in the 1850’s. Brigham Young sent her family south to the dry, arid land of Southeast Arizona to cultivate a settlement. Grams was active in the Church her entire life. My dad says his mom attended several different churches just so she could attend Sunday meetings.

 Grams married my grandfather in 1913. His family was also LDS and came from Indiana. Tradition holds that he broke every promise he ever made to her. I don’t remember how they ended up in Kern County. They had a family of fourteen kids – two of whom died in infancy – and most likely transverse to the area looking for work.  

When I moved back to Utah in December 2002, I was looking for places to research the Bakersfield area from the confines of Utah. Some suggested the Archives of the LDS Church in Salt Lake.  So, I did. What I did not anticipate was the plethora of information on my own family. I began looking through the attendance rolls of the various auxiliary meetings. Of special interest was the Relief Society Meetings.  They included notes of who was sick, who died, who was moving, as well as the progress on the new Relief Society Room. In these notes I found many members of my family mentioned – those who I would never have suspected of ever stepping foot inside a church, let alone the LDS Church!

It was the summer of 2003. I was out of work and earnestly searching. Perusing the notes on a daily basis left me with a sense of wonder at what these fine people looked liked. As if in answer to my prayer I came across an entry telling about the photo that was to be taken for the Relief Society Magazine. I quickly ran downstairs to the library that held all of the magazines from the past. Upon finding their picture I got the distinct impression they were saying, “Here we are!”  I copied the picture along with the names of those long-ago-women who now seemed like old friends, including my grandmother, Zella Dodge McDonald.

Fast forward to July 2011. Climbing to the top of the stairs in the Mount Timpanogos Temple in American Fork, Utah, there stood a woman by the last name of Gabbitas. Gabbitas was the name of a family frequently mention in the notes I had been transcribing the summer of 2003. I asked her the whereabouts of her family. She said her husband’s family was from the Bakersfield area. I told her about the picture saying I was sure her mother-in-law was in it. Sadly, she was not but her name was one that was mentioned. As promised, I delivered a copy of the picture for her at the temple.

In August, Cheryl Gabbitas was visiting with old friends, Roger and Jackie Campbell. She mentioned my name. Roger wondered if I could be the same one whose father he had hung around when they were teenagers in the early 1950’s. He called and left a message. Yes, I was! The last time I had seen Roger and Jackie was when my second child was just a baby. He had brought out a chair my dad had made for her. My daughter now had a child of her own.

Roger and my dad had been close friends. Roger dated Dad’s younger sister, Joyce. Cheryl and her husband were good friends with Dad’s older brother, Dean, and his wife, Anna. Both Joyce and Dean have long since crossed over to the other side.

In October 2011 we were all able to get together in American Fork, Utah for dinner. It amazes me at how I was looking for material to write a book about one particular topic and stumbled into an unexpected surprise – the picture and the stories connected to it. I wasn’t trying to find information on my family but I did – much more, some of which ended in completing further temple work along with developing a better understanding of my own family.

I have found that researching family history is more than collecting data for temple work. It’s looking past to the past and seeing who these people were with all the smells, sounds, and feels of the time.

“And like the warm breezes blowing through the fields, they are felt too. Remember? They were here just yesterday.”

~Kelli L. McDonald,

January 3, 2012

IT’S A MOM THING

We all do it, that is, if we are of the female persuasion and have claim to at least one child. Although, I am sure that a number of aunts and good female friends who are associated with children can make the same claim. Grandma’s can call it by another name but they still fit in the same category as the rest of us. I’m as guilty as the next person. I used to make excuses but not anymore! I finally learned to identify it by the correct terminology. It’s called “a mom thing.” Wow! I feel so much better knowing there is a name associated with this behavior. Nothing here to be ashamed of despite what our kids will say, especially when they roll their eyes at you. I particularly love the exasperated tone that is provided when they think they are not getting through to us. Such joy and pleasure that it does my heart good knowing that child, too, is being normal for his or her development. Share with me the delight in discovering the clarity of how this conduct is characterized. Feel free to contribute your knowledge of this experience.   

You act like Helicopter Parent with your first child. By the second, third, fourth, you are too tired and are ready for them to live and learn. My sister-in-law, Natalie, reports that with her first child, she could not do enough, especially with the baby books. She has 3 girls now and hasn’t even begun to start on the 3^rd child’s book.

You tear up when your mom takes your first child for the weekend. By the time the others come around, you can’t wait to get them out the door!            

You know it’s a mom thing when, instead of fixing your own nutritional breakfast, you find it easier just to eat what the kids left on their plates.

You get emotional every time the National Anthem is played. After my son joined the military, I was never the same during this song. I have substitute taught in the public schools where many have family members serving. Many times the kids have been disrespectful during the Pledge of Allegiance or the National Anthem. I do not mince words when it comes to this!

You are emotional when your soldier son or daughter describes the conditions faced while in the military. One night while my son was describing the condition, I slightly turned my head to grimace. He told me not to get emotional because that is just the way it is. I replied that it was “a mom thing.”

 You offer to put ointment on your daughter’s back after your daughter comes home with a tattoo emblazoned upon her back. You think to yourself back when she was an innocent baby. Her skin – soft and supple – now scarred by permanent ink as well as the healing that will come.

 You wait up till…for your child to come home from being out with friends or at work just to make sure they are safe and so that you can sleep better.

You give “the father’s talk” to your daughter’s date, reminding the young man that this is your baby girl – your most treasured item. You remind the young man that you expect her to be brought home as she left or he will be held responsible! I did this so many times that her male friends were afraid of me.

You take a million pictures of your child’s first date.          You call to check on them while they are still on that date. Thank heavens for cell phones!          You stay up till…to listen to them lament over a heart wrenching relationship.          You call their place of employment because they are late getting off. This is while they are now an adult and living at home. (I’ve learned to wait.)

You offer to take their friend home from work at 11pm so that he does not have to walk the 10 miles. This really happened to one of my kid’s friends. They worked together and he was expected to walk home because his mother did not have the money for gas. We were limited too, but all I could think about was this kid having to walk that distance in the dark no less! We took him home without question.

 You struggle with the decision to let your child fall when they’ve made poor choices, knowing full well it will hurt you just as much – if not more – to allow that child to suffer the consequences.

 You struggle to avoid making contact with a child who does not want your contact or help.          Saying over and over and over, “We are breaking. We are breaking” as you put your foot to the floor with emphasis. OH MY! Teaching children to drive and in the snow even!!!

Avoiding the urge to “rescue” your adult child from the bullies at work. My son constantly reminded me of his adult status and that he can handle the situation. One day I will learn not to react.          You write letters to your child’s employer reminding them of the ethic’s and health department’s codes. Several times I wrote to remind the managers who were attacking my child of the codes they, as supervisors, were violating.

A baby cries and your milk comes in.         

 A child in a public place cries, “MOM!” and you look. Never mind that your child is now an adult living somewhere else.         

You forget how to talk as you watch with teary eyes the birth of your first grandchild. I was counting and making direct eye contact for my daughter while she was in the process of giving birth. Suddenly, the baby’s head appeared and my voice left me for a moment. My daughter cried, “Mom, don’t stop counting.” I couldn’t help myself for a few moments.

 You innocently post embarrassing pictures of your children on the social network without first consulting with them. OOOPPPS!            

You offer to clean your child’s room knowing full well that as soon as you step foot over the threshold, that child will abruptly and without warning, rise to the occasion. This method works particularly well with one of my children who shall remain nameless. Speaking of which, I need something to do!

You allow your child to keep a pet because you feel sorry for it. Never mind you not only do not have the space for said pet but you have no idea on how to care for it. I allowed my daughter to keep a rabbit inside even though we had limited space as well as several other well-cared for pets. What a learning experience!

You eat your child’s food so it does not go to waste.         

 You eat horrible-tasting baby food in an effort to get your child to eat it! Yuk!            

You run to the store to get a large bag or two of candy for your daughter’s class. Brook called me from school, saying she needed enough candy for about 30 kids. My day was already busy enough but I did not want her to be left out.

You give in to your child’s pleas to be able to go somewhere or listen to the c.d. player.  I can be such a hypocrite sometimes.            

In order to give your child the experience, you allow her to cut your hair. When Brook was 13 years old, I let her cut my hair short. I’m not sure how ridiculous it looked, but given the interesting looks at work, I’m sure it was creative. I didn’t care. Brook was aspiring to be a beautician at the time. I was a safe project to practice on.

 In order to give your children the experience, you give them an old car for their birthday as practice. Seth was only 9 years old and Johnny was only 12 years old when I gave them my broken-down car that no longer worked. The air was removed from the tires so the vehicle would not fall on them. They went to work tearing it apart. A few “well-meaning” individuals gave their unsolicited opinions. Notice “well-meaning” in quotation marks? John is entering his 3^rd year as an automotive major at a local university.

 You remind your adolescents to wear clean underwear in the daily note.          

You rave about how wonderful the meal is that your kids just completed –even though your own stomach is churning.            

You buy a book because your child shows an interest in the movie. Then he loses interest once you buy the book. John was intrigued by “Island of the Blue Dolphins.” He said he wanted to read the book when he was 11 years old. I bought the book and he was no longer interested! My mom did the same thing when the kids sparked an interest in “The Hardy Boys & Nancy Drew” series.

 You find humor in a temper tantrum. (No explanation needed!)            

You go to extra ordinary efforts on behalf of your children to ensure they pass a class.        

  Attend several award dinners with your child – even though she didn’t win anything – just so they could be there with a parent. Brook was part of several extra-curricular activities. She never won an award, but she was the winner’s biggest supporters – next to their own families. It was important that I attend for her.          

  Being your child’s best and favorite supporter, especially when they are feeling especially hard on themselves.        

  Burning everyone’s ears with how difficult your child’s situation is and how you wished you knew how to help them and feeling guilty for “abusing” the listening ears with your lamenting. This is for you-know-who and I love you.

Kelli McDonald

6/21/2012

JELLY BEANS

As a child, my dad always seemed to bring home jellied orange slices, candy “peanuts” and jelly beans, especially on Sundays. It was part of the ensemble of food that we ate while watching Westerns on television every Sunday.

Our family ritual did not usually entail going to church, but it did involve watching Westerns: Gunsmoke, Big Valley, and The Rifleman. Bonanza, The Virginian, and Daniel Boone. Willd, Wild West, and High Chaparral just to name a few. Feasts of homemade guacamole, onion, and bean dip were served with chips, jalapeño peppers, candy, and no matter what – soda! As my grown children read this, they are undoubtedly calling me a hypocrite. I have studied and preached the negative effects of excessive television, candy, and soda. I only drink a soda about once a month – if that. However, we have spent quality time watching movies together. We own quite a library, along with several complete series.

I think Dad thought that we, too, savored those types of candy. I only pretended in order to protect his feelings. As an adult, of the three choices of candy, I only prefer candy “peanuts” and they need to be stale. As a child, I felt it was my responsibility to protect Dad’s feelings. This came from Christmas 1970 in Longmont, Colorado. He bought me a doll that did not come with extra clothes. We did not have a lot of money. Dad gave me this doll the night before Christmas Eve.

When Dad arrived with the doll, I was singing the song, I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day in my little upstairs room at 720 Hover Road. The picture depicted in the songbook intrigued me for some unknown reason. To this day I cannot hear that song without thinking of that moment when I hurt my dad’s feelings for just being nice. The song brings a sense of bitter sweetness to the melody.

My dad had a saying that he would use whenever he was trying to get a point across. He usually said this when he was in a good mood. When I would hear him say, “Ya know what I mean, Jelly Bean,” I knew that things were ok.

 When I grew up I served a mission for the LDS Church in South Carolina. There was a company that produced gourmet jelly beans. The jelly beans came in every imaginable variety and colors to match. The flavors included green jalapeño peppers. The green candy was the same color as green apple. One could easily be confused. I often sent people green jelly beans that included both flavors as gifts of affection. When they bit into the jalapeno, their mouth had the tingly sensation of spicey, hot peppers. Their face had the look of shock, disbelief, and revenge! I do not know what kind of face my dad gave since he was in Southern California and I in South Carolina. I was asked a couple of times to stop. I stopped in February 1987 when I went back home. I do not think in all of this time that I have given him jelly beans since. When Father’s Day of 2008 arrived, I wanted to give him something with a memory attached. Hmmm…Ya know what I mean, Jelly Bean?

Kelli McDonald,

6/08/2008, revised 6/03/2012

DOING the DISHES

Brothers and sisters have this insidious ability to bring out the absolute worst in each other. As adults, we look back and either cringe with embarrassment or bust our pants laughing at our innocents. Other times we sit back and cry.

 Around the time my second child, Brooki was due, I got this urge to have all of our old film developed. This included the old black and white pictures that belonged to my dad. It was an expensive undertaking for our meager budget. The purpose of the project was to label every one of these precious images and get photo albums made up. It was fun to see what the memory had forgotten as each time I would get a new envelope back from the foto-mat. They exposed years and lifetimes of the everyday events long forgotten. It was on one of these happen-chance, sort of days that I came across the picture.

I was 16 or 17 years old and waiting for just the pristine opportunity to get my brother, Todd, into trouble for climbing on other people’s roof tops. Todd was two years younger than I was. He loved to do the un-natural, like climb on as many neighbor’s roof tops as he could get away with. He liked to pretend that he was a spy. Spies are smooth and sneaky. So his “job” was to climb on top of the roofs – usually lay flat and spy. This was easy in our neighborhood since all of the yards had lush, green vegetation year-round. Most people were proud of their yards.

But then there were the times that he pretended to shoot at all the passerby’s or pretend that he was fishing. He would outright stand up, flaunting his so-called “right” to be on someone else’s housetop. And since my parents were at work, what could be done? There wasn’t any proof – yet!

At just the right moment, through my bedroom window; with no one else around and using the Kodak Series 126 camera, I snapped that picture! Proof that Todd McDonald was indeed climbing on the neighbor’s roof – in print!

That was in 1980, in a suburban town of Los Angeles called Mission Hills, on a street appropriately named, Noble Avenue. The picture was not developed until August of 1989, five and half years after Toddy died. My intent in taking the picture was to get my brother into trouble. Instead, I ended up creating a window into the everyday play life of brothers, sisters, and kids in general. It created a window into other well-preserved memories at a time when I longed for my childhood siblings and friends. It helped me to see similarities between my brothers, myself, and my children as well. For instance, my younger brother, Blake, is mechanically inclined – always has been. In 1973 and 1974 we were living in Provo, Utah while my step-father, Gary, finished his education at Brigham Young University. Blake was four years old, blonde, and chubby with a quick sense of humor, much to my annoyance. If he didn’t get what he wanted, he found a way.          One evening while I was doing the dishes, I remember suddenly hearing my very startled mom saying,

 “Hello, hello, I think Blake cut the cord.”                “Did you cut the cord?”Blake had indeed. For four hours he tried getting his mother’s attention while she spoke to her friend on the telephone. Well, he had her attention alright – he simply took a pair of scissors and cut the cord!

  A year later, Blake again showed us his childlike mechanical ability when he naively walked past my dad and step-mother one fine, fall morning. It was the usual routine for us to give them a hug and kiss good-bye as we left for Canoga Park Elementary School. Nothing more was said. A couple of hours later, someone from the school called to inform my parents that although their son was alright, two kindergarten buildings were not. Why, you may ask? Apparently, the teachers were playing a record that Blake did not approve of. To solve the “noise-problem” he simply took out his dad’s handy-dandy wire cutters –the ones that fit so snuggly in his pants pocket. When no one was looking, he cut that electrical cord in two. Problem solved!

I relate these two stories because we pass these traits directly as well as indirectly onto our children. My youngest son, Seth, was exactly like Blake at one time in both looks and personality. The two could easily pass for father and son in the early days. Seth, like Blake, had short blonde hair. Both have had at one time or another heads that protrude forward like the side of a football. Consequently, both used to hold their tempers similar to the wet end of an electrical wire.

About twenty years after Blake’s incidences, in a cute little desert town called Apple Valley, California, Seth inherited Blake’s genetics. Seth decided to cut the cord to the computer mouse. When I asked why, he angelically answered that it was ok since we had another one in the desk drawer. “See?” as he opens the desk drawer to show me. He, too, was four years old.

 It was while we are doing the dishes together as a family that I saw the true resemblance and again longed for strands of my childhood. My youngest brother, Shannon, wrote me a letter in 1994. He was away at sea, serving in the Marines. He wrote of how when we were kids he “couldn’t wait to do the dishes.” I didn’t understand the reason since we all hated it.

Picture this: Blake and I are scurrying about, trying to get things done. We are arguing over who should do what. Little Shannon is helping at whatever he can. And then there’s Todd. Just standing in the background, usually near the stove, with a dish in one hand and a towel draped over the other. On his face is a stare that says, “What do I do now?” And although he was far from stupid, he knew how to convince anyone that he wasn’t too bright. Occasionally, Todd actually did dry and put away the dishes. YET – anytime, even a drop of water, yes, a drop of water landed on his fresh pajamas, was excuse enough to send him flying to his room for a new pair. Or, he had the sudden urge to go the bathroom.

Later, it was my daughter, Brooki, who would argue with me over whether she should wash or dry. Sometimes I would let her win at getting to wash the dishes – her favorite. And like myself and Blake, Brooki and Seth would argue over who would do what and when. Of course, there was my oldest, John, who, like his Uncle Todd, hated to do the dishes and tried his sneaky best to worm his way out.          Finally, as if by déjà vu, I noticed Seth on top of our roof top in Phelan, California, facing the same direction as Todd did so long ago. I couldn’t resist. I snapped the picture of my 11 year old son standing there, rope hanging from him with who-knows-what-else. The picture hangs in a decorated from in my living room as a reminder. 

Kelli McDonald

6/11/2012

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

There is an old saying, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” which is so true. Hanging on the fridge were a couple of pictures of my oldest son, John, and my daughter, Brooki. They are sitting with me at the doorsteps of the William S. Hart Home in Valencia, California. It is the first week of September 2001. My youngest child, Seth was spending the weekend with his father. The picture is of us sitting at the doorstep with a part of the balcony showing. It is significant for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it had been about twenty years since I was last at this very spot. I was a teen-ager then. Now, in this photo, I am there with my own teen-agers explaining the importance – a part of their mom’s history.

 When I was a kid, some of my friends could drive long before I could (about two years before me). One of their favorite places to roam was the William S. hart Park. I think it is now called something more sophisticated. But to us, and still to me, it will always be “Hart Park.” It was once the home of the cowboy actor whom the property is named for. When he died, he willed it to the County of Los Angeles, allowing the public free access.

 There was a petting zoo, acres of land to wander on, a souvenir shop, and several buildings to walk through. One could easily explore a time that no longer existed. It was a wonderful place to be a kid because of the freedom to be unrestricted. The acres were filled with trees, grass, hills, trails, and more. In order to view the main house, patrons had to wait outside the door for a tour guide to escort them through. The wait was thirty minutes or less. To us kids, 15 minutes was considered too long. To pass the time we drank our cokes while Johnny Hayes, Mark Dow, or Billy and Scott Schumacher would hang from the balcony. They chased each other through the bushes. Climbing onto the railings and sliding the very short distance was also not uncommon.

 As I look at these two pictures, I can see those long ago kids still in motion. It would also not surprise me if they had actually climbed onto the balcony and crept along under the windows. I still see them scooting through the bushes surrounding the house, something I would never allow my own kids to do. And as we traipsed over the very trails we, as kids took so long ago, I was a teen-ager again skipping in the very same way that I did back then.

 As I mentioned before, the same holds true here. Our bodies are constantly changing. Our minds mature with experience. But we still feel the same feelings as when we were children. When a familiar scent is in the air, we are transferred back to where we were when first we smelled the experience. I believe that life is for growing and progressing to new heights, but I also believe that we need not forget the way we felt or the scents that define who we are today.

 In my memory, the corner of Tuba and Noble was a fantasy world all in its own. It was always green, even the fall had a lot of green to it. It was a place where kids were free just to be. There is the picture of the neighborhood boys playing football in the street. Billy is wearing the jersey for the Los Angeles Rams. He is getting ready to kick the ball. Mark Dow is waiting for his turn behind Billy. David Van Dam is just waiting. The weather is mild-looking, somewhat green – a snap-shot into the everyday life of some ordinary kids doing ordinary things. 

 Kelli L. McDonald

6/8/2012

SEEING PAST MISTAKES

Brook called me at work to say, “Kelly (her friend) won him and her mom won’t let her keep him. My teacher will take him on Monday. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”           

I remember coming home from work in 2006 after receiving this call only to find this tiny, black and white, flopsy flop of a fur ball.  Feeling sorry for this thing and considering its emotional well-being, I agreed to keep it. I thought of its feeling abandoned – going from person to person. Plus, Brook said that it was the runt of the litter. I knew nothing of caring for a rabbit but I was open to learning. Going to the Utah State Faire in Salt Lake was a class field trip for their class in animal husbandry. Oh my! My sweet daughter had me for a fool – literally.          

  We lived in a two bedroom, upstairs apartment that was shared by 3 adult cats. Our pet rats of several years had recently died. Their cage was kept under the kitchen table which was used as a desk and catch-all.         

   We started out by letting Jack – as the rabbit came to be known – hop around our home. Hearing that a rabbit could be litter trained he was introduced to the cat’s litter box. At night we put up a child’s gate to separate the kitchen from the living room. Often in the morning we would awake to Jack missing. He was quickly discovered sleeping in the bottom kitchen drawer. I’m still baffled at how he found that spot!

 It wasn’t long before Jack was hopping over the gate and chasing after our cats. The cats – well, yes. Let’s see. My understanding was that cats chased after rabbits, not the other way around. As mentioned, we did have two pet rats at one time. They escaped only twice that I’m aware of. Both times the cats looked in the direction the rats were hiding and whimpered. Yes, whimpered! Jack chased the cats, especially Kolipoki, much to his mortification. Kolipoki seemed at a lost as to what to do except whimper. He never ever attacked that rabbit!  None of the cats did.

Kolipoki and Kaymae (pronounced K-may) were brother and sister. They were Siamese mixed. I adopted them from a family in Salt Lake, March 2003 as kittens. Their mother was known as the slut of the neighborhood due to the constant reproduction of kittens. The family refused to get her fixed because she was always pregnant. They also did not believe in abortion and as a result the neighbors were always complaining. Koli, as he was more commonly known, grew to be large and robust, about 10 pounds. Kaymae maintained a slightly smaller 5 pounds. She was usually skittish and fearful of people until she was spayed. All of sudden we did not know this person-cat! She turned friendly and personable and with STRANGERS even! Instead of hiding in my room, she wanted to be with other people. She wanted to be petted but not held, of course. That would have been asking too much. We kept asking her, “Do we know you?”

Sam was our sleek, black cat who found me in April 2004. He was an outside cat when he came into our lives but I think he belonged to another family at one time. He acted like a domestic cat. I was living in a house in Salt Lake City with a large yard that I was meticulous about.

When Sam decided that I was going to be his family I had just put Sassy to sleep. Sassy was a dog we had from our days in California – difficult decision but one that nonetheless had to be made. I then gave the other dog, Speedy, to my ex-husband. This way there was just the two cats and two rats. I was not looking for more animals. Period. Sam had other ideas. He started out by stalking me, watching while I hung laundry or worked in the garden. He hid unobtrusively under a plant or near the house. Whoa to any creature who ventured into the yard! He screeched and chased away all cats who wandered into his new-found territory. He brought me gifts of dead rats and birds that somehow found their way into the area. He was also emaciated. Kaymae was not yet spayed so Sam could not come inside. I put together a shelter on the back porch that he could go inside and eat. He ate but never stayed inside. I worked down the street about 5 blocks or so and the kids commented on where I lived. They said it was where the black cat sat.

My kids were living with their dad then. I was working 2 jobs, going to school full time and completing internship hours. I was never home. Still, Sam waited for me. Just about every night I arrived at 10:30. Many were the nights of heavy rain. Still, there he was, waiting at the front porch. He was neutered that following October and finally able to live inside. Sam grew into a healthy, opinionated boss of the home. This was now his domain. He was completely comfortable attacking others who invaded his space, including humans. Sam had no qualms about swatting anyone who passed by him without his permission or walked past his lighting as he basked in the sunlight.

So, there are 3 human beings and 3 cats living in this small space. We now had a creature that is fond of them and they didn’t know what to do! Jack could no longer be kept in the kitchen behind the gates. He was growing and hopping higher. The cats, of all things, were intimidated by Jack’s incessant chasing them. There had to be a humane solution to this. We gave in and bought a crate that fit snuggly under the kitchen table. He was let out now and then, mostly then.  

The novelty fell to the wayside and the smell increased. Thinking of his emotions of being cooped up for days on end, we made the decision to find a better home for him. We advertised on a local news website and within a couple of hours a home was found that could accommodate him better. Sadness and relief jumbled into one, we grieved for a couple of days and moved on.

As I gathered the information for this, I asked Brook, now a mother living in California, for clarification. Oh my! Again, she had me made out to be a fool! The truth of the matter suddenly spilled out as if, “Oh, you didn’t know?” She bought Jack for $50 along with a purse to hide him in. No one suspected a thing.  

For years I could not get into that drawer without thinking of Jack; all the while missing my children’s childhood. I think of their antics as I drive through town, especially my daughter’s since she was the perpetrator of so many! I can certainly appreciate the learning curve and find myself reminiscing through the memory of my teen years and the grief I put my parents through.

And while I do not condone Brook’s actions, I do not regret the experience. It lends a significant longing. Too, my kids knew that I would care for something no matter what; and if we honestly, truly, could not, we would find a suitable home for it. They knew that no matter what they do – right or wrong – I am safe.  People make mistakes. People learn from their mistakes. Hopefully, people will make better choices because of what they learned from those mistakes. Mistakes give us the precious experience to grow. Isn’t that what a successful life is about? 

Kelli McDonald

6/2/12

THE BLESSING OF FEAR

The temperature outside was about two degrees Fahrenheit. I had ordered enough pizza for 10 although only three showed up. Two were there for domestic violence (DV) charges and one was there for drug charges. Experience dictated that I should be afraid of the two dv clients. Common sense along with my nagging gut feeling said otherwise. I was facilitating an addictions group the night before Thanksgiving. It was to be a graduation ceremony for one of the clients who never showed up.

 Approximately a month prior, my son, J., made plans to go to Wyoming to visit with his dad. The weather had been unusually cold for this time of year and the road conditions were dangerous. We were watching the weather reports with eagle eyes.

 My son would not describe his relationship with his dad as close but he did want to get away for a break. About two weeks before, J. started getting an uneasy feeling. He had had too many negative experiences in the past two years to ignore them. He tried to analyze the reasons for the feeling. First he thought it was the tires on his truck. He had them checked and fixed. Still, the uneasiness persisted. There had been a nine car pile-up in Parley’s Canyon due to the ice. Parley’s Canyon was the route he would need to take. It was known for being treacherous in the winter. He decided to cancel the trip. His dad gave him a difficult time over the decision. My son also knew that whenever he had a bad feeling about anything and his dad dismissed it as nothing, my son had better listen to his own intuition. Still, the feeling persisted.

On Wednesday nights J. attended a church function that wasn’t far from the facility where I was at. We had an agreement where, if I ever felt threatened, I would text him and he would stop what he was doing and meet me without question. During this group, the individual who was there for drug charges was acting strange. The other two kept looking at him with questioning glances and then at me. This person dominated the group even though we tried to refocus the group back to the main topic at hand. I felt scared even though I had no obvious reason to be. I began thinking of all of the pizza there was, along with my own things that needed to go out to the car. It would take me at least two trips.

Outside was dark. The street was quiet except for the fire station across the way. Part of me wanted to ask the other clients to wait but I also did not want to call attention to myself. I sent a text to my son to meet me there. He said he was on his way. When the clients left, I locked the doors and wrote my notes which took all of about five minutes. J. arrived soon after. We walked out together. Normally we would talk on the phone during our drive home but tonight we drove in silence. My thoughts raced to how thankful I was that J. did not go up to Wyoming.

Unloading our vehicles he said in relief, “Mom, this is why I wasn’t supposed to go up to my dad’s!” We both felt that had he not been there, I would most certainly have been attacked.

In his book, The Gift of Fear, Gavin de Becker attributes fear as a gift because it is an instinctive sense that something is not right. He goes on to say that we all have this perception,

“My basic premise…that you too are an expert at predicting violent behavior. You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations” (de Becker, 1997, p6).

Unloading our vehicles he said in relief, “Mom, this is why I wasn’t supposed to go up to my dad’s!” We both felt that had he not been there, I would most certainly have been attacked.

In his book, The Gift of Fear, Gavin de Becker attributes fear as a gift because it is an instinctive sense that something is not right. He goes on to say that we all have this perception,

“My basic premise…that you too are an expert at predicting violent behavior. You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations” (de Becker, 1997, p6).

Through a series of encounters we have learned to take note of those senses and to be consciously aware of them. Sporadically, nothing comes of it, for which I am grateful.

But when I do not feel good about a person, and I am talking about a distinct uneasiness for which there is no logical explanation, I am cautious and take precautions. Similarly, my son has learned the same thing. 

One Sunday we needed to take my youngest son back to Snow College in Ephraim. I had insisted I ride along, although J. didn’t seem to think so. He escorted S. back from Salt Lake that evening because S. was undergoing horrible vehicle problems. A drive that would normally take a half hour took an hour and a half. By the time they arrived at my home it was already late. There was a strong sense that I should go.

When we were leaving home and about to get on the freeway I kept getting the impression to have a prayer. Brushing it off because we did have them earlier in the day, the feeling persisted. Knowing better than to ignore these promptings, I spoke up. S. agreed, saying he had the same feeling. He offered the prayer invoking the Lord to watch over J.’s driving. Off we went.

In Utah, especially the small towns, one does not mess around with the Law or posted speed limits. Period. As J. was driving through Fountain Green around 10 p.m. the posted sign said 35 miles. J. was driving around 45. His gut feeling was to slow down but he thought “Oh, I’ll be fine” due to the fact that he was used to being able to get around certain speeds in our area. When he passed the second sign stating 35 miles per hour (mph) and still going just over 45 red and blue lights suddenly appeared. If that doesn’t make one want to …you fill in the blanks…I don’t know what will. J. is a law abiding citizen who holds absolute respect for the law, no questions asked. He quickly jerked the car to the side of the road. We just sat there staring straight ahead. J. had his hands on the steering wheel, every accident racing through his mind. All of us were offering silent prayers. The officer went over the car with his light. He asked J. if he was aware of going over the speed limit. J. gave his reasons while apologizing. The officer asked for his driver’s license. He asked where J. was headed. J. explained that he was taking his brother back to Snow College in Ephraim. The officer said he had to look some things up and then he turned the flash light on S. and I. He asked who was in the car with him. S. is sitting straight up with his military fatigues on. I introduced myself as their mother. J. introduced S. and me. The officer looked at this kid who was driving his brother back to school on his own birthday and back at his mother. He said without going back to his vehicle, “Tell you what, I’m going to let you go this time” and hands back J.’s license. We thanked the officer and drove off.

We did not get home until 12:30 a.m. I had to be up at 6 and J. had to be up at 6:30. The ride was spent talking, expressing gratitude for the officer and his generosity, prayers and that I came along. He said he would have just listened to his music and probably would have fallen asleep considering how tired he was from all of the nerve wrenching driving he had endured the last 8 hours. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened otherwise. There is no doubt in either of our minds that we were watched over that night. Coincidental? Not in our minds.

Kelli McDonald

5/31/12

JUST PLAYING BALL

We were fortunate to have lived in a neighborhood where sports were played on a regular basis in the street. Each season would find the local kids playing whatever was the current game. Scores were kept in official score-keeping books from year to year. The official books were bought at “The Sports Shoppe” in downtown North Hollywood. Billy Schumacher safeguarded them. Scores were kept in an effort to improve each person’s game. All was done in fun and coached by the kids themselves. Criticism came from one’s peers and not the adults.

Although the teams basically contained the standard players that included Billy Schumacher, Mark and Danny Dow, Chris Wyneken, Michael Lurch, and Johnny Hayes. There were the occasional others such as Tony Toth, Bobby and Ronnie Robinson, Scott Schumacher, Danny Van Damme, and the Swenson kids who were cousins to the Dow boys. Additional players were recruited when there wasn’t enough players for a complete team.

The games were played on Tuba Street between Wisner and Noble Avenues. Home base for baseball was located at the corner of Tuba and Noble. Tennis balls were used since they were softer and went further. The fresher they were from the can the better they flew. They came in a vacuumed sealed can. First base was between the Dow’s and Haye’s  houses on the north side of Tuba. Second base was west at about Tuba and Wisner. Third base was in front of the Schumacher’s house at 1112 Tuba Street.

My brother, Shannon, played baseball with the local parks. Watching the games was disappointing when an adult yelled or chastised his child for not performing as he had been instructed. It seemed that all the enjoyment of just hitting or catching a ball went out the window as that child was humiliated in front of a crowd of spectators. The child’s performance on the field reflected his feelings thus furthering a poor performance.          

  For a short time I coached girl’s softball with the LDS Church. To me, anytime someone hit the ball or caught it – regardless of the team – was pure delight and reason to celebrate.

 Billy was my friend as was his best friend, Mark Dow. Billy played on the men’s baseball team for the LDS Church for a short while. Mark and I watched in support. There was a family who was well-known in the Church who frequently made poor calls and issued criticisms to Billy. Billy was not a member of the Church. The criticisms were inappropriate, especially considering whom they were coming from. Several times Billy and the member of the well-known family got into heated arguments on the field. At least once they threatened to literally fight it out. Each time Billy was the one asked to leave. Then and now, I feel that the other person should have had to leave as well. How sad because this was just church ball being played for fun. The poor sportsman-like conduct exhibited may have had long lasting consequences such as a sour note towards members of the LDS faith. So it was back to the neighborhood where sports were played without regard to uniforms or performances.

While serving a mission for my church where the women were expected to wear either dresses or skirts six and half days of the week, I needed some comforts of home. I purchased a soft Nerf football and began tossing it to whoever would reciprocate it. Here I was in the Deep South, wearing nylons and a skirt and throwing a football. No scores were kept. Oh…such sweet memories.

 When my own kids were old enough, I taught them to throw, catch, and hit a football as well as a baseball. Occasionally kids from the neighborhood tagged along. But it was mainly Johnny, Brooki, and Seth, and myself. Years went by. Seth went off to be in the military and a missionary. Brooki went off to be a mother. Johnny stayed behind. Early one fall I missed playing ball with an incredible longing that ached. Full into graduate school with homework, clinical hours to complete as well as working two jobs, we somehow found a way to squeeze in time to play. John and I bought a bunch of tennis balls and a new mitt – due to the fact that he had out grown his old one. We located the old blue mesh duffle bag of bats and drove to the nearest park just to hit balls. We lived in north central Utah where snow arrives in October and November. Fall, as beautiful as it is, does not last long. We simply made the time. The aching didn’t go away entirely but it was pacified until the weather cleared.

In the movie, The Rookie, Dennis Quaid plays Jim Morris. Jim Morris was playing ball for a farm team and getting weary from the long days that provided little financial rewards. One evening he walked over to a park to watch some local kids play baseball. In the movie the child in the outfield turns to wave at him. He smiles, waves back, and realizes he get to play baseball every day. Completely changed his perspective.           

In this day and age of super star sports figures receiving audacious amounts of money  as well as adulation for being able to hit or throw a ball, I believe we have lost sight of what playing is really about – having a good time. It is about the fun of just hitting, throwing, or catching the ball. Nothing more.

Kelli McDonald

5/26/2012

HOME TEACHING SUNDAY

We hadn’t made Chow Mein in quite sometime. While at church, I made a list of the process. Chop onions, grate carrots & cabbage, boil pasta (spaghetti noodles), and bake ham with mandarin oranges. The boys, John and Seth, Brooki and myself agreed. Seth offered to chop the onions while I grated the carrots and cabbage. John had cereal and milk – he was hungry. About half way through the onions, Seth couldn’t handle it anymore. So John took over. He could only go so far when he decided he couldn’t take the emotional trauma of chopping onions. He decided to take a bath. Seth took over.          Chow Mein is done and the boys are hungry!

  We were watching a movie & my new home teachers arrive unexpectantly. Embarrassed, we scramble to pick up the living room. Boys went into the kitchen for some cereal. One of their white shirt and ties was scrunched to the edge of the couch. It so reminded me of a scene from the movie, “Home Teachers.” We watched it that evening because after all, in LDS culture, the last Sunday of the month is “Home Teacher’s Day.” This is the last day of the month to do that last minute, forgotten visits to the ward families. It is not allowed on Mondays. Mondays nights are reserved solely to the family which one reside or lays claims on.

The kid’s dad picks them up at 7:15. He’s late getting there being held up by his own home teacher. Johnny gets in the car & his dad announces that he and Dalen are going home teaching at 7:30.

Kelli McDonald

5/26/12

TUTTLE

Our turtle, Tuttle, plays in a tank that sits about 2 ½ feet off the ground. The tank is 2 feet long and 1 foot wide. Although the tank holds approximately 20 gallons of water, there is less than that. If more was put in, he would be climbing out and that would not be a pretty site. We are his third family and will be his last. I estimate he is eight years old. His first family grew bored with him. The second family, a former co-worker, was from Hawaii. The mom grew up catching turtles from the ocean and eating them. Tuttle was beginning to water her palate. I was looking for one as a pet after seeing a teacher keep hers in her classroom for 7 years. This co-worker sent out an email asking for any interested takers. We thought hard about it. Questions of where would he go in our already small apartment abounded. My daughter was totally against it because of the lack of space. My oldest son said it was my decision and he would support me either way. I decided to take a chance not knowing how big Tuttle was. Leap of faith if you will.

We named him after the fictional character on M.A.S.H., Captain Tuttle. M.A.S.H. is a television series from that ran from 1972 to 1983. It has been our family’s all time favorite series. Captain Tuttle represented a sense of altruism that we felt about this turtle.         

   One of our cats was intrigued by Tuttle. Kolipoki is a robust, part Siamese cat with a gentle nature. It became his routine to squat at the corner of Tuttle’s tank while drinking the water. As he did so, his long tail would hang down into the water. This happened every time Kolipoki wanted a drink. Of course Tuttle was facinated at this thing floating in his space. Every time Koli partook of the goodness of that succulent treat, Tuttle observed. Inching closer to the hanging object, Koli drank oblivious to his observer until one day when… SNAP!  Tuttle snapped at Koli’s tail! Kolipoki flew quick as a whip!

 It only happened once more after and then just briefly.           

Tuttle continues to amaze us with his intelligence. When my daughter and granddaughter were staying with us, Lizzy wasn’t quite a year old. As she stood up to Tuttle’s tank, her head reached just above the bottom. Excited at seeing this creature, she would bounce up and down. Tuttle, excited to have an audience, would crouch down so that he was eye-to-eye with Lizzy. As his legs were flapping, so was Lizzy in utter amazement! Truly a sight to behold!

  I knew the day would come when Tuttle would start to outgrow his tank and figure a way to get out. He had already tried several times by climbing onto the filter. At least that lead to other junk and was safe enough. I was just hoping it would happen after we moved being that we have so little room as it is. Not so. One Sunday I was “busy” relaxing by working on a difficult puzzle. I kept hearing Tuttle’s filter make an odd sound. Pushing the sound to the back of my mind because I was busy relaxing, the sound persisted. Finally, I got up to check on it. There was Tuttle just about to climb out the tank. The fall would have proved injurious. The moment he saw me he slid back into the water! Terrified at the thought of him being hurt I instantaneously devised a plan. I cut the lid from a plastic storage box to shape the tank and put a heavy plant on top.           

I told my colleague at work the next day about the incident. She suggested letting him crawl around outside occasionally. DUH! I wished that I had thought of that long ago. Now he has another audience – the neighborhood kids.

Kelli McDonald

5/24/12           

PAYDAY

  

Walking past the Payday candy bars, an unexpected flood of memories suddenly overtook my emotions. I quickly sent my stepmother a text asking if Dad could still eat them. He was nearing his 78^th birthday and since I did not live close by, I honestly did not know the answer. To my dismay he couldn’t and had not been able to for at least a year. I wanted to send him a package – a memory gift if you will. Unable to make up my mind on what size, I bought several packages of the two sizes. This is something I rarely do because I do not eat that much candy!

Growing up we were poor. We always talked of having more money and pay day was the golden day when all would be made right. Maybe kids are not supposed to be that aware of the finances but we were. Quite possibly it was because there were so many things we could not have.

                I still remember with clarity of starting the 9^th grade at my new school in 1978 wearing thick, blue thongs – or flip flops. They were nice enough in the Southern California summer but certainly not for the cooler weather that fall brought on. Of course my classmates made comments that furthered the sting. When my birthday arrived in November I was given a new pair of soft leather shoes with laces. The first week after getting them I rode my bike to school and fell tearing the left shoe. The tear was near the left toes. We could not afford another pair until months later. The only way to hide the tear was to wear extra long pants and even then the tear was not entirely hidden. Absolutely embarrassing for an already sensitive self-esteem!

 So many things had to wait until pay day. My parents would indulge us by purchasing a box of 12 Payday candy bars every now and then – usually on Sunday’s. To us, it was a reminder of good things to come.       As the years moved along, I would buy my parents a box for their birthdays or anniversary. Then I stopped. Life happens.

                The day that I came across those treats my life was hectic. Trying to finish up this and get through that. Time stood still in the far away place I now called home.  I was back in the San Fernando Valley and suddenly 15 years old again. People were bustling around. My son was asking about a particular purchase unaware of my preoccupation. And as if I had just lost my dad, the realization hit with an additional force.  He would never again be able to eat those. I fought back the urge to show any emotion. People were around and it just felt inappropriate.

                Savoring the sweet, salty flavor of those morsels brought comfort to unexpected memories.  I wanted to be close to my dad even though that was not possible as a result of distance – he lived in California and I in Utah. But by eating the candy bar, I, in some way could again.

Kelli  McDonald

3/17/2012

ADDENDUM:
When my dad died, along with an American flag and a bullet because of his military service, we gave him a can of Pepsi, a bag of jelly beans, and a Payday candy bar to enjoy.
September 22, 2013

THE TYPEWRITER

 Blake bought it for me that Christmas back in 1981. It was a 1922 Remington Rand. He purchased it from a dealer who fixed typewriters. The dealer was located on Sepulveda Boulevard in Mission Hills, California. I don’t know how much he spent, but the dealer said he would fix it for about twenty dollars – maybe less. I believe it was less since I remember thinking either the guy was crazy or just a really, really nice man.           

Blake, who, like our brother, Todd, was not known for ingenious gift-giving. But this was different. He knew that I loved old things. Oh how I did love that machine! Practically the day after Christmas I took that typewriter –case and all – to this dealer. He fixed it within the promised couple of days – even cleaned it. My, the work was impressive.

 These old typewriters have keys that are high. The keys are not easily pushed down. The fine, small muscles in the fingers are soon strengthened by all the work.           

Six months later found me enrolled in college. In order to obtain decent grades one had to turn in typed papers. My instructors insisted this had to be but turned their heads because I did not have one. I did not have a modern typewriter. Reluctantly I pulled out that old 1922 Remington Rand and began typing out my papers. The weak, fine muscles in my fingers hurt! It was frustrating not being able to type at a flowing pace! I used so much “white-out” correcting fluid to fix my mistakes. Gradually, the papers were accomplished.

During this time my Uncle Dean gave me an idea. He had a small notebook from the early 1950’s. While serving a mission for the LDS Church, he collected different sayings and quotes from every source that he could. When I saw his impressive work, I wanted to copy it. Dean simply asked me to create my own. He was concerned about letting it go. Understandably, I was disappointed, but the advice was given in such loving tones. How was I to create the same type of work that he had? Life has a way of working out. Create your own.           

I had been collecting church programs from our LDS wards. Wards in the Church are local congregations that typically hold anywhere from three hundred to seven hundred members. The programs listed the speakers, short snippets of upcoming events, jokes or seasonal word games. Usually listed was a quote and purposeful story relating to a particular value. Each week contained something new. That poor old typewriter was again put to use as I began typing out my favorites onto 3 x 5 inch cards. The cards would fit into recipe boxes and were categorized alphabetically. They were later used while I, too, served a mission for the Church. As a result of that simple advice to create my own, I have many boxes and binders of sayings and quotes.

  Electrical typewriters were becoming popular, but students learned on the manual styles while I was in high school It took longer to type. Again, the fine muscles were developed and then, when one switched to an electric machine, typing went much faster.           

Through the years, the typewriter has sat on the shelf or under stuff in storage. Keyboards used for typing have become easier on our fingers. Less effort is needed and correcting fluid is also used less frequently.

 Blake grew up. He gained a family. I grew up and gained a family. Life happens. One Sunday morning just after Thanksgiving, I was looking at the case containing the typewriter. The scene outside was white due to the blowing snow. My now teenaged kids and I took it out. They fingered it. They asked if the handle on the return carriage was the equivalent of the computer key for “enter.” It had been a while since bringing it out. While putting it away, I put it together wrong. My mechanically-inclined son had to show me how to put that old machine together correctly.

Christmas was in the air. I remembered Blake and that Christmas now long ago. So many feelings and thoughts surrounded me because of that typewriter. Everything has a story. This old box certainly has one. But this is just one story about this typewriter. When I would type out the characters on that old machine I often wondered what other life this typewriter had. Who owned it before me? What was their story? Was it part of a business or did it belong to a want-to-be-famous writer?           

In 1985 I was privileged to serve a mission for my religion. We were expected to memorize many valuable verses daily. The purpose was to help us remember our reasons for this service. However, the one verse that has stayed with me the longest was spoken by a thin, strong-minded man whose widowed mother raised him under trying circumstances. Heber J. Grant is quoted as proclaiming:

“That which we persist in doing becomes easier; not that the nature of the thing has changed, but that our ability is increased.”And so it is with the typing, the writing of papers, the ability to face change and difficulty. At first our mental muscles are weak, unchallenged. They need the strengthening that comes from the trial of endurance. Our ability to face these things becomes easier. A simple lesson from an old fashioned typewriter. Who would have known?

~Kelli McDonald

5/22/2012

THE FREEZER FISH

As my cousin, Mary, remembered it, all three boys had ringworm. I remember the story as just Todd having the rash. But whenever one got something, the other two supported the afflicted one. Like the time, for instance, when Blake was using Dad’s electric drill out in the garage. He raised the hand that was hold the drill. Without warning, the drill caught hold of Blake’s hair. He remembers it hurting like…So, on to the barber shop to have his head shaved. Todd and Shannon also had their heads shave so that Blake would not feel so bad.

The story goes that  at least Todd had the illness while efforts were being made to cure the rash: raw garlic rubbed directly onto the skin, oatmeal baths with the oatmeal floating around the body, various vitamins. You name it, they came up with all sorts of remedies. Aunt Anna, Mary’s mom, came up with the idea of the boys wearing togas to stay comfortable. Togas are large sheets of cotton fabric tied at the shoulders. Ours were white. The only other thing underneath was white briefs. Today they are known as whitey tiddeys.

This was the summer of 1981 in Mission Hills, California and the weather was naturally warm. My job, as well as Mary’s when she was over, was to thoroughly rinse off the dishes and then put them in the dishwasher. It was my brother’s job to put them away -which I might add, they rarely, if at all, did!On this particular day, my step-mom was insisting that Mary and I do the dishes and defrost the freezer. We kept putting the chore to the back of our minds. Mom kept insisting. Mary was getting agitated since did not have much time to ourselves to swoon about guys and go on a long walk. But, the ice had built up to the point that there wasn’t too much space left to add anything more to the freezer.

I had developed a process of thawing this thing out. I took out all of the sort-of-perishables and set them on our large wooden table. Things such as bread, eggs, condiments and casseroles went on to the table. Milk, ice cream, and cheese went the sink and onto the counter. Then I unplugged the fridge.

I took out all of the shelves and set them in the sink as well. Occasionally, the shelves went into the bathtub because the bathtub was bigger and easier to clean the shelves in. This was especially true when the sink was already carrying more than its weight in food. 

Next, would begin the chiseling away at the ice with a butter knife. The ice tasted oh, so good! On this particular day, one of us got the idea to use a hair dryer. It must have been Mary because she was in the habit of taking short-cuts and chiseling too long!

As we were busy chiseling away, ice was flying about through the air and sliding along the floor. Arriving at the bottom of the freezer we discovered a large, forgotten fish. If memory serves me right, it was a trout that was given to us. Somehow, with all of the chiseling and blow drying going on, it fell to the floor, cascading to the feet of my step-mother who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to check on our progress.

Mary clearly remembers how angry Mom was. I just remember her surprised look. Twenty-five years later she remembered the incident far better than myself. Twenty-five years later we found ourselves busting at the seams. Twenty-five years later my kids marveled and laughed at the scene. They saw us as adults – serious and busy. So it is, when they catch a glimpse of “long ago” and they caught a sliver of time when their mom was their age.

In the end, Todd recovered from the ring-worm. Blake’s hair grew back, although it became a yearly tradition for the boys to get their heads shaved. Mary and I were able to clean the mess with time to spare to swoon over guys and go for that long walk through my neighborhood.

  ~Kelli McDonald

5/20/12