tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36039185930997379802024-03-05T07:00:56.441-08:00 The Georgia PagesGeorgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-45046547514370127962013-11-10T21:49:00.000-08:002013-11-10T21:49:19.500-08:00Flat Stanley comes to Northern UtahMy nephew, Max, and his second grade class are doing a Flat Stanley project. I feel very honored because Max choose to send his Stanley to visit me. We had about a month of fun with Stanley during his stay. Here are some of the highlights I wrote to Max in a letter included in the package I'm sending out to him tomorrow:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Dear Max,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Thank you for sending Max to Pleasant View, Utah for a
visit. We enjoyed having him. He was a good sport and seemed to enjoy the
activities he participated in while he was here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> It was still pretty warm when Stanley first arrived. He wore shorts and a t-shirt when we visited
Hill Air Force Museum in Clearfield, Utah.
He loved seeing the planes, helicopters, rockets and other displays, but
his favorite thing was the Night Hawk Stealth Fighter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6n51L9ETpCSE5qOq3kbAdviKq1OiRr0I7Ov-INWDcKYNGaPUWKxIfkcEn0L8vJFa6FVqEeLICOwan06eQIG-pIrsT4riOYLZRz57K5_Cyy_rNucD9TPtYHbkEV14abxxBBXs73gfRdKU/s1600/Flat+Stanley+at+Hill+AFB.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6n51L9ETpCSE5qOq3kbAdviKq1OiRr0I7Ov-INWDcKYNGaPUWKxIfkcEn0L8vJFa6FVqEeLICOwan06eQIG-pIrsT4riOYLZRz57K5_Cyy_rNucD9TPtYHbkEV14abxxBBXs73gfRdKU/s640/Flat+Stanley+at+Hill+AFB.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> A week later we went out to Antelope
Island which is in the middle of the Great Salt Lake. They were doing their annual Buffalo Round Up
when they gather the herd for the winter.
Stanley scared us when he got a little too close to a mother buffalo and
her baby. Luckily he was wearing his insulated
camouflage suit so mamma buffalo didn't chase, trample, or gore him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmE6Mvb078MyiphMQ4dwkC3FZMlE9C0LK0HYRzdFtGBsqRzuzhjEZodkugai9x74oxP1QeBkOtLxLofzur111jP0w9SO77txtU0i64zIhizGWCRdexlSQmNSj9gCiT7Lnr4xjwKn0xbY/s1600/Flat+Stanley+at+Antelope+Island.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmE6Mvb078MyiphMQ4dwkC3FZMlE9C0LK0HYRzdFtGBsqRzuzhjEZodkugai9x74oxP1QeBkOtLxLofzur111jP0w9SO77txtU0i64zIhizGWCRdexlSQmNSj9gCiT7Lnr4xjwKn0xbY/s640/Flat+Stanley+at+Antelope+Island.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> The next week, we took
Stanley with us to a Utah State University Basketball game in Logan, Utah (home
of the Aggies). Stanley wanted a USU T-Shirt
so he could sit with in the student section to cheer. It was a great game. Utah State won and the fans rushed the court
to congratulate the team. Stanley didn't
get trampled here either. Can you see
him in this big crowd at the Spectrum?
Look really close. Do you see him
yet? He was famous so his picture was on
the Jumbo-Tron in the middle of the arena.
Yep, there he is!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDvP5nR9Br7bRbbOZslT-UQzgjLbD8P0420O_xGx4SqUb0qquF_6DUVcKyU3s1zoWgYBEaflcqYouq_VzZ4mdwXH43rl90ojGbgA8BbGTT0Dx3VfmVmBDu8qfcxm3vGJu_LOryu_eSz0/s1600/Flat+Stanley+at+an+Aggies+Game.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDvP5nR9Br7bRbbOZslT-UQzgjLbD8P0420O_xGx4SqUb0qquF_6DUVcKyU3s1zoWgYBEaflcqYouq_VzZ4mdwXH43rl90ojGbgA8BbGTT0Dx3VfmVmBDu8qfcxm3vGJu_LOryu_eSz0/s640/Flat+Stanley+at+an+Aggies+Game.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Yesterday was opening day of
skiing at Snow Basin Ski Resort in Huntsville, Utah. Stanley wore his snow pants, parka and beanie
hat. Snow Basin was the location of the
Down Hill, Combined, and Super-G Olympic Events in the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter
Olympics. Stanley wanted to try out
snowboarding. He was pretty good at
grinding the rails by the time we left last night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7iywa8AHqVGhIectatt4G3owA3Tw-FGX63EDMiKl9xQgYnl-nLt7hdqghz5I-DqsXIUS4YtMAC8AtvHKbQcyEiAHzDGIj29DVknCH0K-584E4vOf8oTknpUHVtP5a-YYA4gQHOCE8imI/s1600/Flat+Stanley+at+Snowbasin.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7iywa8AHqVGhIectatt4G3owA3Tw-FGX63EDMiKl9xQgYnl-nLt7hdqghz5I-DqsXIUS4YtMAC8AtvHKbQcyEiAHzDGIj29DVknCH0K-584E4vOf8oTknpUHVtP5a-YYA4gQHOCE8imI/s640/Flat+Stanley+at+Snowbasin.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;"> Stanley is bringing home a
few things to you from Pleasant View, Utah.
He bought you a Utah State University T-shirt at the USU Bookstore, some
salt water taffy from Antelope Island, and a little pin he picked out for you
at the gift shop at Hill Air Force Museum.
He also is bringing a beanie in case you want to try out snowboarding or
skiing on the Greatest Snow on Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;"> Thank you for letting Stanley come for a visit in Pleasant
View. We hope he'll come back to Utah and
bring you with him next time. When you
and Stanley come, the clothes you should
pack will depend on the time of year. It
gets as warm as the high 90s in the summer and it down to about 0 in the
coldest part of the winter. Spring and
Fall are really nice and very beautiful here.
If you come in July, August, or September we'll hike Ben Lomond Mountain
which is right behind our house. It is a
wonderful hike of 8.4 miles up. We
couldn't take Stanley hiking there in October or November because the trail is
already covered in snow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;"> If your family will drive you out to see us in Pleasant
View, it is 397.2 miles from Parker, Colorado.
Utah is a pretty great state. We
like living here. We hope you will bring
Stanley, your parents, brother and sisters and come soon! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;">Aunt Georgia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;">P.S. The pictures we took of Stanley are on the
thumb drive in case you'd like to see them bigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-1171977285326568272013-09-04T21:33:00.000-07:002013-09-04T21:33:27.865-07:00Confessions of a New GrandmaOkay. I've heard it so many times, it almost makes me crazy: "Being a Grandma is the greatest thing <b><u>EVER!</u></b>" <br />
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I've rolled my eyes a thousand times and heaved a hundred sighs as I've heard this chant from all my friends who have experienced being a grandparent, many for several years. When I attended my thirtieth high school class reunion three years ago, I was the ONLY one there who hadn't yet been a grandparent--no kidding! All my fellow DHS classmates kept quoting the "Best thing EVER" grandparent thing and I kept thinking, "I love being a Mom and I can't imagine anything better than that!"<br />
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So, I have to admit that after one day of seeing, holding, smelling, and crying over my little grandson, Calvin Daniel, I'm firmly on board the grand-parenting band wagon. I have joined the obnoxious minions of chanters saying, "ITS THE BEST THING EVER!"<br />
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Here are a few pictures of our only-hours-old, cute little grandson:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2GiuyixWKm-ks0RMNDFQdY_oElHgIQP5kRuctGCfKQ6TtpMpY2dYjVdabNRcSAGt95HnmIJvHJcbX80NU7Qz4QECvc0TG8GHsNmOe3mnxvmkwinnRr9sGhTCSvKHCDR-Hqr8tSLi7Bs/s1600/Baby++Crouch+7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2GiuyixWKm-ks0RMNDFQdY_oElHgIQP5kRuctGCfKQ6TtpMpY2dYjVdabNRcSAGt95HnmIJvHJcbX80NU7Qz4QECvc0TG8GHsNmOe3mnxvmkwinnRr9sGhTCSvKHCDR-Hqr8tSLi7Bs/s320/Baby++Crouch+7.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son, Kevin, with his son, Calvin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepEbLUCs5qtfCkawo7rRje0V6gsFzxTxQo295Ccx9N99FpUyLFT9GR_tiAp6nRf1qzZttqza_eyuMGYzkkCg5FRBg1XTorsqeouGvfFNVAX0FTpk8akPzjJLCFSDiTfxk1pF2A0owdzY/s1600/Baby+Crouch+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepEbLUCs5qtfCkawo7rRje0V6gsFzxTxQo295Ccx9N99FpUyLFT9GR_tiAp6nRf1qzZttqza_eyuMGYzkkCg5FRBg1XTorsqeouGvfFNVAX0FTpk8akPzjJLCFSDiTfxk1pF2A0owdzY/s320/Baby+Crouch+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gramma Georgia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8u4GPrvZlSOaMOor6h4ScO8aeviJGuN4LEt146SEEGDg2S8kwWcBZ8E-kptG3eKBe6-ZQDq-vMAYW6cwozY-0VRPd0xNul3I1O9h1Fd4L_R5AWSzU_rpI_b854bOEgcJ_tyV4E4IKmU/s1600/Baby+Crouch+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8u4GPrvZlSOaMOor6h4ScO8aeviJGuN4LEt146SEEGDg2S8kwWcBZ8E-kptG3eKBe6-ZQDq-vMAYW6cwozY-0VRPd0xNul3I1O9h1Fd4L_R5AWSzU_rpI_b854bOEgcJ_tyV4E4IKmU/s320/Baby+Crouch+5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud Grandpa Rob</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lxjY_U5pAfBG22fBbnslPAOw3st6uL8m6VV3K9WJaO-wFW6fWsfPnngk9F0KuFkWb6k9WgI-PbfCV4BNU3S4GomlcUoNTbJKbpmjG0KaCaq-K6azjz1lv-8rNqvsI3qJKG1l0lcOrGs/s1600/Baby+Crouch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lxjY_U5pAfBG22fBbnslPAOw3st6uL8m6VV3K9WJaO-wFW6fWsfPnngk9F0KuFkWb6k9WgI-PbfCV4BNU3S4GomlcUoNTbJKbpmjG0KaCaq-K6azjz1lv-8rNqvsI3qJKG1l0lcOrGs/s320/Baby+Crouch.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet sleeper</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKGOVUeYWmbHeIS1V2UzpxELYkWlmVJBbRWxIy0-n7Xt3YLRuJfno8LYKV-womQvTrQlIHh_ljQRl4Oe4td3l_Cu2BPeu49s2JoknjRs4asooHNOnzYja1jdmhooyvHVQTEvB1WSlBzM/s1600/Baby+Crouch+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKGOVUeYWmbHeIS1V2UzpxELYkWlmVJBbRWxIy0-n7Xt3YLRuJfno8LYKV-womQvTrQlIHh_ljQRl4Oe4td3l_Cu2BPeu49s2JoknjRs4asooHNOnzYja1jdmhooyvHVQTEvB1WSlBzM/s320/Baby+Crouch+11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mommy and her little angel </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So all the jargon is true! There is something completely remarkable, yet must be experienced to be believed, about seeing your child's child and immediately recognizing him or her as connected to you forever. Even though I had nearly seven months to prepare for the birth of this baby, I was completely unprepared for how I would react to seeing him for the first time. I'm now completely convinced that being a grandparent is the BEST thing ever!<br /><br />
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<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-77137809388006748742013-08-26T21:26:00.000-07:002013-08-26T21:26:08.770-07:00First Day Back Today was the first day of Fall Semester at Utah State University. After taking off the last two semesters, it was wonderful to be back in class today. I have enrolled in some interesting classes: <i>19th Century British Literature, Literary Analysis, and Poetry Writing</i> are the three I'm registered for. I sat through three hours of 19th Century Brit Lit this evening with a sense of thrill at being back. I also felt a touch of nerves worrying if I really have what it takes to do all that is required. I started on the reading immediately because there is a paper due on Labor Day (what? isn't that a holiday??) <br />
<br />
I expect to learn A LOT, work HARD, and read a BUNCH this semester. I was hoping to get back to blogging, but I think I may be too busy studying, reading, and writing papers (and poems---yikes!). Happy new semester and back-to-school, everyone!<br />
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<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-6278689799183334212013-08-19T13:59:00.000-07:002013-08-24T13:10:01.564-07:00Baby Steps back to BloggingI've been a bad blogger for a long, long time. I just haven't had the inclination or the words to work with the past several months. It's time to get back on track and start living life again.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to find a new normal. My old normal is gone--never to return. It's like I've been swimming in a deep, dark lake and I can't tell which direction is the surface and which way to the muddy bottom. I thought if I allowed myself to drift, I would eventually float to the top (or simply settle on the bottom), but it seems that I'm not going to get back on top of anything unless I dig in and swim.<br />
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I don't mean to sound like things are terrible, because they're not. We actually had a tremendous summer! Camille and Robbie were married July 13. Dani and Kelly drove out from Baltimore to spend four weeks celebrating with us. (See her post about the trip <a href="http://danimariesthoughts.blogspot.com/2013/08/there-and-back-again-trip-to-utah-that.html">here</a>.) We had other guests coming and going all summer too. Mark and Nana brought their three boys from Singapore and were in the United States driving around in a big RV (See her post about the trip <a href="http://nnennenne5757.blogspot.com/2013/04/how-many-more-days-until.html">here</a>). They were at our house for awhile and we certainly enjoyed having them here. Rob, Bryan, and Kevin had a fun few days in Arches National Park hiking and rappelling with the Shumways. Nana was able to attend the Family Bridal Shower for Camille while she was here. Ward members, Lisa, Laura, and Celia threw a Neighborhood Bridal Shower for Camille. I know Cami and I both felt greatly loved after such kindness and generosity!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGcvujBptAkX9uHjRUNM6x1KpFW1taZyP-VBGmIem2-AlfPdz3ouC8C0ORPqCkqUjxW3kFB1EvlastMhGGE4TkC12EJIzZ052OYssnJLHTT2oUe9KTD0X_8k_QUoKW28StvcDYvwMHUxU/s1600/Arches.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGcvujBptAkX9uHjRUNM6x1KpFW1taZyP-VBGmIem2-AlfPdz3ouC8C0ORPqCkqUjxW3kFB1EvlastMhGGE4TkC12EJIzZ052OYssnJLHTT2oUe9KTD0X_8k_QUoKW28StvcDYvwMHUxU/s320/Arches.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shumways in Arches- The Brave Crew getting ready to rappel </td></tr>
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Camille and I had a fun-packed day doing bridals shots. Seven hours of strutting her stuff in her gorgeous dress was pretty entertaining. I especially enjoyed when we moved to the Utah State Capitol Building for some shots and three busloads of Asians flooded into the building and thought they were watching a celebrity during a photo session and joined in by crowding around Camille and shooting their own photos and wanting her autograph. Our photographers weren't happy, but I was highly amused by it and Camille just ate up the additional attention.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjepICobwD91EGlrCHwcrNWWzj82KfigLDAhJkj-MB0Cmk6WejT_lzh__FJNB62-enJaxNmbOGMR6zOUcrvz3NlDGXoK7VqEWbeHNYqq1j7PkN8Pk7tcbzV6cIfT9Qb92Kq5NoMmsqWca4/s1600/Asian+Vacationers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjepICobwD91EGlrCHwcrNWWzj82KfigLDAhJkj-MB0Cmk6WejT_lzh__FJNB62-enJaxNmbOGMR6zOUcrvz3NlDGXoK7VqEWbeHNYqq1j7PkN8Pk7tcbzV6cIfT9Qb92Kq5NoMmsqWca4/s200/Asian+Vacationers.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Asian Tourists butting into our photo session</td></tr>
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July 13th turned out to be pretty spectacular. The morning started with a gully-washing rain that cleaned the air and blew out leaving us a gorgeous day. The sealing at the Brigham City Temple was perfectly beautiful. The luncheon at Maddox was delicious and fun. The Johnson family tradition of clinking glasses to make the newlyweds kiss, brought lots of laughter, kisses, but little eating for the couple. The reception at Hilton Garden Inn was well-attended and so fun. Rob's brother, Kevin and his wife, Tanja came all the was from Tennessee for the event. Rob's sister, Jody, came from Northern California for a week. All four of my children and spouses were in the temple. Again, I felt so loved.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CiMytRi0J5DWUaNXMwB9E5DrUObSbsLQeTDcFVx2DpeVaJb9WqmK-EabvwJmNDE0i3RvsPXU8Yf-8cLrw2EcT3V3Fb52Xn_t-x1980uZWhrh5b_8OTHkFf38sNM0YJdcvXx1fntLaWQ/s1600/At+the+temple.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CiMytRi0J5DWUaNXMwB9E5DrUObSbsLQeTDcFVx2DpeVaJb9WqmK-EabvwJmNDE0i3RvsPXU8Yf-8cLrw2EcT3V3Fb52Xn_t-x1980uZWhrh5b_8OTHkFf38sNM0YJdcvXx1fntLaWQ/s320/At+the+temple.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful couple outside BC Temple</td></tr>
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When Robbie and Camille left on their honeymoon, I still had Dani, Kelly, my Mom, and Rob's sister, Jody here at the house to help sort through things and put stuff away. We had a huge gift-opening party eight days later when the honeymooners were back. I felt loads and loads of love then too.<br />
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We are anxiously awaiting the next big event. Kevin and Lindsey are expecting a baby boy on September 1, but the doctor says Lindsey won't make it through August before this little one appears. We are so excited to meet and love our new baby Crouch.<br />
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We've got some situating to do as we readjust here in the house to include my Mom as a resident. She moved in the middle of May. We are still trying to figure out a way to work the details of day-to-day living with her. It is a lot different having a parent move in than it would be to have a child move back home. The kids are gone and just when Rob and I expected to figure out that 'empty nest' thing, we are thinking about my mother, her belongings, and her health issues. Hopefully a new normal will emerge soon and we can make her feel loved (because she is!)<br />
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I was released from my Relief Society President calling in May in anticipation of my mother moving in, the wedding to finish planning, all the company we had coming, and my on-going health concerns. I was grateful for the time to devote to those things, but now we are on this side of some of the biggest ones, I've been a bit lost. A few weeks ago I received a new calling to be a Primary Teacher to the five year olds. What a blessing this has been! Little children have a way of making a person feel whole and loved. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsksiOij58003G-EtQiSv1QLX0cbI-5z09vxHbz__b_kXRO-ymYDJHWRgZqx2_rDwLgvw677glgq7YicVjMye7LybkZXSr_Rfx_-I-qYYveJySSBoAsXtf4tHKXgz6IpSf7VPnjVVegw/s1600/Fist+pump+kiss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsksiOij58003G-EtQiSv1QLX0cbI-5z09vxHbz__b_kXRO-ymYDJHWRgZqx2_rDwLgvw677glgq7YicVjMye7LybkZXSr_Rfx_-I-qYYveJySSBoAsXtf4tHKXgz6IpSf7VPnjVVegw/s320/Fist+pump+kiss.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Fist-Pump Kiss</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEuLS2scD5d1UNYxOyzkXHBQjJpAzy7cYKRSWvNgP3I4rUiCVWsZ2ZC9FaL8CtUFfnv_6ShHfVCN_rWZTpP1HLAmmB4LhWdgR2poHfi7S8ZKTVB2KFkGz9KHaGoqpwj1fm2nDnwmQoof4/s1600/DSC_5078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEuLS2scD5d1UNYxOyzkXHBQjJpAzy7cYKRSWvNgP3I4rUiCVWsZ2ZC9FaL8CtUFfnv_6ShHfVCN_rWZTpP1HLAmmB4LhWdgR2poHfi7S8ZKTVB2KFkGz9KHaGoqpwj1fm2nDnwmQoof4/s320/DSC_5078.JPG" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love These Two!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvT5DtsvPFJcDilSDSpVjPjZcwRngy25hZgTJfssHjnGN2v_Vjc0ygXyupj3Q0AsBbSedok1GS_ki16mOjqbaKp3XNFAxv0KUGEKbpEFmaW65CSl9HWFzoj60Lg8wRPknbuWdDSosRhxs/s1600/Crouch+Family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvT5DtsvPFJcDilSDSpVjPjZcwRngy25hZgTJfssHjnGN2v_Vjc0ygXyupj3Q0AsBbSedok1GS_ki16mOjqbaKp3XNFAxv0KUGEKbpEFmaW65CSl9HWFzoj60Lg8wRPknbuWdDSosRhxs/s320/Crouch+Family.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New and Improved Crouch Family</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fQ5kc5MOvu3fBkxCEWXlru4KY-linG4o0bEMfD8dpEoK8iasrs9QyL-uCvSab8lAyrpYK7qQPDt1SZHQtv6d9l299dpIUkAGpz2U3r6msH2laJMG6tNWOxCcSQiNS7pzfPc8LFSY3no/s1600/The+Mob.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fQ5kc5MOvu3fBkxCEWXlru4KY-linG4o0bEMfD8dpEoK8iasrs9QyL-uCvSab8lAyrpYK7qQPDt1SZHQtv6d9l299dpIUkAGpz2U3r6msH2laJMG6tNWOxCcSQiNS7pzfPc8LFSY3no/s320/The+Mob.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mob</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU18Srhs4X0EhNYppCE7V-618B_dJqoFxCBBjLZ7ktlrNc89rMu2cqV0dj6pTzFpJbLT0izqj_P7OKlHmBGPaNkeeuP_pqfgqj2loCytJqfkbhEihAMqguNlVDpwa1IbxsufrV2BhMt_I/s1600/Sisters.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU18Srhs4X0EhNYppCE7V-618B_dJqoFxCBBjLZ7ktlrNc89rMu2cqV0dj6pTzFpJbLT0izqj_P7OKlHmBGPaNkeeuP_pqfgqj2loCytJqfkbhEihAMqguNlVDpwa1IbxsufrV2BhMt_I/s320/Sisters.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sisters</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brothers</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfrICAHWGCZt0LYOH-dhOCA9lFwJuG-seJwHY9POPbcJpiIGtZD4Rt1yKAGvmAMxuNJj9Wuv_gjaU7cJtasCL7J7ZXLwm78Gbt8OrpUkJa6ugMztwoFJ-zlkYZFFbneNEMYZP53ZxMCo/s1600/Parents.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfrICAHWGCZt0LYOH-dhOCA9lFwJuG-seJwHY9POPbcJpiIGtZD4Rt1yKAGvmAMxuNJj9Wuv_gjaU7cJtasCL7J7ZXLwm78Gbt8OrpUkJa6ugMztwoFJ-zlkYZFFbneNEMYZP53ZxMCo/s320/Parents.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mamas and the Papas</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VeKwrKg9RIqO67yPH9B0_yZXiOgp_Vu41ZiKuPrdWOkKaZxaz73cMeo1XQkxYyyH3HhRLygI0gUEMvIJe-3pzKRbmjIoev8ltLAXffI9huKNe7vnq1jWiWVeLjglAIEbWkqOoZ9wZlk/s1600/With+Mom+and+Dad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VeKwrKg9RIqO67yPH9B0_yZXiOgp_Vu41ZiKuPrdWOkKaZxaz73cMeo1XQkxYyyH3HhRLygI0gUEMvIJe-3pzKRbmjIoev8ltLAXffI9huKNe7vnq1jWiWVeLjglAIEbWkqOoZ9wZlk/s320/With+Mom+and+Dad.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> (Rob is much happier about this wedding <br />
than his face would indicate in this photos).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-80749765628629203752013-04-21T04:50:00.001-07:002013-04-22T11:43:20.422-07:00Nostalgia<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I turned my car toward home today, I was suddenly
struck by a mighty surge of nostalgia. It stabbed my heart. My eyes
watered. The back of my throat throbbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Nostalgia is a
Homeric word literally meaning 'pain or ache'. That
is certainly how it hit this afternoon—a physical hurting and longing for a time or place now
gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Was it the way the
sun slanted through the clouds? I wondered. Maybe it was that hint of
green at the tips of tree branches lining the street? Or perhaps it was the
song playing on the radio? I'm not sure... But suddenly I was transported back to
a moment I hadn't thought of in many years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Abruptly I longed
to be young. I ached to be at my childhood home in a more innocent time
of life. The events of this past week may have triggered this reaction.
The bombings at the Boston Marathon occurred on Monday, April 15, 2013.
Another layer of naivety was stripped away from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> as this act of horror took lives and maimed many.
Of course the original wound of
9/11 is barely scabbed over. Shootings
at schools rip at that injury. Other
callous acts rake across and reopen the gash. Will it ever heal? Will we always long for that nearly forgotten
time of innocence when people didn't set out to destroy and terrorize others?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know one of the marathon racers running Monday. She said the finish line was within sight
when she heard the blast. She assumed it
was a celebratory cannon shot or firework.
Other racers reported thinking an electrical transformer had blown or a
garbage truck had dropped a huge dumpster. These are circumstances our minds imagine could be true. They are the sorts of experiences we've had. But now, when they hear any
bang or explosion will we immediately think, “Oh, no! Another terrorist attack!”?
This is more of the injury perpetrated
upon us: changing perceptions and beliefs, altering thought processes, and
thrusting us into a state of constant suspicion and mistrust of others.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rob and I celebrated our 30<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary on
Monday, April 15. Between a visit to Huntsman
Cancer Institute in the morning and terrible news on the radio about <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> the rest of the
day, it didn't seem like much of a celebration. Perhaps that was the true source of the painful
nostalgia which has gripped me recently. </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-29174630656672903232013-03-26T09:19:00.000-07:002013-03-26T09:19:05.678-07:00B.D. BoyToday is Rob's birthday. I just want to take a minute and a few lines to honor the man who has been my husband for nearly 30 years (our 30th anniversary is in two weeks!).<br />
<br />
I didn't want Rob to go to work today. I hoped he would stay here and allow us to celebrate the day together. But today is a payroll day and too many people count on their paychecks appearing in their bank accounts, so he headed out the door for his long, daily drive to Bountiful.<br />
<br />
About a week ago I asked Rob what he'd like for his birthday. He has been mulling it over and finally last night he answered, "I can't think of a single thing I want." When I pestered him about it again this morning he said, "I'd like a cherry pie." When I finish typing this post, I'll mix up and roll out a pie crust, dump in a jar of home-bottled cherry pie filling, and make a lattice top sprinkled with sugar. It will be cool when he comes home from work, but he has a home teaching appointment this evening, which he'll do as soon as he gets home. Then he and I can have a leisurely dinner and a piece of pie for dessert.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday, Rob! I love you! I feel so incredibly fortunate you are in my life. Thank you for being so kind, loving, and thoughtful. I am so blessed!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-47193068062913247882013-03-19T16:17:00.002-07:002013-03-20T12:33:20.803-07:00Looking Forward<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's been so long since I've written a blog post, I wasn't sure I
could remember how to do it. In the middle of the night, I determined
that today I would write and post something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I usually lie
awake either in my bed or on the couch somewhere between the hours of 1:30-5:00 a.m.
I remember when I took sleep for granted. When I loved bedtime.
When I could fall asleep almost instantly upon putting my head on the
pillow. Those were the days--I mean nights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This morning when
the numbers on my alarm clock read 3:26, I lie there looking at the inky
splotches on my ceiling as the wind blew and shadows moved. In my mind, I
thought: "The burning in my abdomen should light up this room."
There is a constant smolder going on in my middle region, but at night it
usually flares into a full-blown inferno. I thought my belly should be
generating a glow brighter than the alarm clock. I pressed my
hands across my stomach to smother the flames, expecting to get singed in the
process. But my fingers were uninjured,
even poised right over the blaze. I must
have been awfully groggy to be having such strange thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have seen 17 specialists since October. I've decided I'm done with doctors and
hospitals. I had surgery in February
which took care of some of the symptoms and problems I had been experiencing. But the main issue that started me on this 'Medical Madness Tour' is still here. The
Tumor Board at McKay Dee Hospital took a look at my case last month. They pulled all the previous records of mesenteric
masses they could locate. They discovered that it is extremely rare. The three cases they found, didn't end
positively. As a result, they've decided to be completely 'hands-off' for
fear of severing the mesentery artery or one of the many vessels branching off
from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjOlBHjCHkadbBNcfm64BjafSK31IVX28zQqaKUAr7URLF3EY1p1Q2kt3Tid91KJNJ9xTlPmWQQZx7iXfrxuzCtb1G0n30DkYzsC8Sm0fZ1oMWLbiOcJ1wnx4MsXhFAy-ZfsixOdTr9A/s1600/Mesentery.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjOlBHjCHkadbBNcfm64BjafSK31IVX28zQqaKUAr7URLF3EY1p1Q2kt3Tid91KJNJ9xTlPmWQQZx7iXfrxuzCtb1G0n30DkYzsC8Sm0fZ1oMWLbiOcJ1wnx4MsXhFAy-ZfsixOdTr9A/s400/Mesentery.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Here is a CT image of the Mesentery region in the small intestine (not mine). </i></span></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>T</i><i>his illustrates how the main artery branches into dozens of smaller vessels </i></span></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>which supply the digestive system. </i></span></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>I can appreciate why doctors are reluctant to cut into that region. </i></span></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>I'm very reluctant to allow any cutting in that spot myself, now.</i></span></h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now for the good news: My
brother a</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">nd his family from Singapore are going to spend the month of June in
the states (a good portion of it in Utah--I hope!). My daughter, Camille, is
engaged and getting married July 13. Dani and Kelly will travel from Baltimore and spend that
month with us. Kevin and Lindsey are
expecting a baby on September 1--our first grandchild! </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have a lot to look forward to!</span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-51981755758069175052013-01-17T17:26:00.002-08:002013-03-20T12:23:23.455-07:00Running the MazeWhen I look back at the past few months and realize the number of doctors I've visited, I feel like I've been riding around and around on a roller coaster. It just keeps flying past the point of disembarkment and making wild loops and lunges over and over. The good thing about the on-going ride, is that I've become numbed to the sudden, jarring plunges. I'm no longer shocked by the neck-wrenching turns. I've come to recognize the places that took my breath away and am no longer surprised.<br />
<br />
We went through another series of doctor visits and almost, but not quite, surgical stays. I was supposed to attempt another biopsy, this time in the hospital under anaesthesia I went in the day before for my pre-surgical appointment. They drew blood, took vitals, and ran an EKG. I left two hours later with several wrist bands and instructions not to eat or drink after midnight, what to wear the next day, and admonitions to not remove any of the plastic straps attached to me.<br />
<br />
When I got home, there was a voice mail message telling me that the anaesthesiologist had viewed the EKG and cancelled the surgery. He saw a strange heart rhythm (the one I've been telling doctors about for the past three weeks, that no one seemed concerned about). I called back to question what he saw on the EKG and was referred to the doctor who was to do the surgery. He tried to find out what was happening and if the surgery could be performed some other way. In the end, everyone just advised me to get into a cardiologist.<br />
<br />
The cardiologist was extremely kind--probably the nicest, most personable of all the docs I've seen since October. He listened to my heart, hooked me up to run an EKG, and just visited with Rob and me about all these recent health issues. He couldn't see anything wrong with my heart rate or rhythm at that moment, but decided to order some tests and a heart monitor. We walked out to the waiting room to schedule the tests when suddenly my heart started doing that flip-floppy thing it does these days. I told Rob and he called out to Dr. Crawford who rushed me back to the exam room and plastered me with sticky electrodes, connected them to the machine, and ran another EKG. Sure enough. There was the proof that I have a funny new heart rhythm that kicks in every once in awhile (usually when I'm trying to fall asleep at night). Dr. Crawford called it a Premature Ventricular Contraction (PVC) and didn't seem terribly concerned about it.<br />
<br />
So, Tuesday was another long day, this time at Ogden Regional Hospital, having an echo cardiogram and the stress test. Let me say, jogging on a treadmill in a hospital gown with seven people watching is not my idea of fun. I hope I never get that opportunity again.<br />
<br />
I'm wearing a monitor now that continually beeps and buzzes at me. I better get used to the noise because it gets to be my little buddy until January 21. I hope it considers me its buddy and gives the doctors good news so we can get this show on the road.<br />
<br />
I've been comparing experience of the past few months to being in a giant maze that has no way out, no solution, or exit. But that treadmill on Tuesday somehow seems more symbolic. I'm just running in place, going nowhere, and getting exhausted to boot.<br />
<br />
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-21221733590301865892012-12-24T11:47:00.001-08:002012-12-24T11:47:20.292-08:00ReportFor anyone I haven't already seen and reported to, Friday's appointment at Huntsman was good. I had to drink the nasty contrast stuff (again) and get an IV (again), but after the CT, the oncology team examined the images and came into my exam room with an attitude of celebration. They were amazed to announce the mass has shrunk some more. It started out the size of a small orange and is now smaller than a walnut.<br />
I asked when I would feel better. Dr. Scaffe said that the scar tissue that developed around the mass will take six to 12 months to heal and could cause some residual effects. She was also concerned about an additional spot on my uterus and advised that we get that biopsied. She signed me off to the gynaecological center where we were able to get that procedure scheduled for January 4.<br />
<br />
So, overall, it was good news. There are still a couple of questions to answer and some time needed to heal. I've got another CT scheduled at Huntsman to verify that the tumor completely disappears. But I can tell I am feeling better. I am eating better. I've gained about five pounds back. My legs aren't quite so shaky. I'm so grateful for improvement! Thank you for the prayers. They are being answered!!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-21949834983265425282012-12-08T16:43:00.001-08:002012-12-08T16:43:34.461-08:00The next day...After a long and arduous day at U of U and Huntsman yesterday, Rob brought me home. We received some good news, yet still felt some disappointment.<br />
<br />
The good news: the mass is a little smaller. We don't know how much smaller, but the radiologist was so encouraged by that, he opted to not risk the planned biopsy. Loops of bowel sit between my skin and the tumor. The University of Utah doctor said the chance of nicking the bowel is high in my case and felt it would be expedient to check the size of the thing again in a couple of weeks. He recommended getting started on some steroids immediately and sent us back to the oncologist at Huntsman. <br />
<br />
As we walked down the hall towards Clinic 2E, I met a lady and her husband coming the other direction. I recognized her and she recognized me. We said each others' name as we met. It was Lezlie Porter Smith. We went to high school together. We were on the tall flag team together my senior (her junior) year. I've recently become Facebook friends with her. It has been 34 years since we last saw each other. She was there with her husband who has colon cancer than has metastasized to his liver. They were there to attempt an experimental treatment, because five rounds of chemo have done nothing. Talk about putting things into perspective for me!<br />
<br />
We waited to visit with my doctors, who looked over images and reconsidered the radiologist's readings, but decided in the end to allow a two week window to see if in indeed the mass is shrinking. My internist voted against the steroid idea. Instead, I was given 2 large bottles of contrast to take home and rescheduled for yet another CT on December 21 at Huntsman (instead of the U). We'll see what happens then.<br />
<br />
I was hopeful that I would have a firm diagnosis and a treatment plan in place when I came home. Patience is a virtue I need to learn.<br />
<br />
Thanks for all the prayers. Tumor shrinkage is an answer to prayers!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-25412383983518701132012-12-06T20:29:00.000-08:002012-12-06T20:37:26.811-08:00As Suggested (Requested)Celia approached me very kindly yesterday and asked me to use my blog as a format to inform neighbors and ward members about my health issues, treatments, and prognosis. Apparently, my poor presidency are taking calls concerning me. Sorry, Jennie, Celia, and Ann! <br />
<br />
I'm heading back to Huntsman Cancer Institute in the morning for a biopsy. Yes, we have finally made it to step one. I'm shocked at the time, money, and energy it has taken to get to this point. But I'm determined not to curse the delay. The Lord must have good cause to wait. Maybe I'll find out what the reason is. Probably I won't.<br />
<br />
I am still experiencing the burning pain in my abdomen, hot and cold flashes, and weakness in my legs, but my biggest complaint is lack of energy. I have to force myself to get up and do stuff. Then I do something and have to sit down and rest. The pressure is increasing in my stomach region, but I'm also feeling it in my hips and pelvis. It's the same sensation I remember experiencing when I was pregnant. It seems to me the tumor is growing and getting heavier. I'll ask tomorrow. Perhaps it's all in my head.<br />
<br />
Next Friday, December 14, we'll be back at at Huntsman for surgery if the news is good. To me, surgery next week feels like the best-case scenario. The other options begin with chemo and radiation to shrink the mass before surgery. I just want the thing out of there.<br />
<br />
Thank you for all of your prayers, concern, and kind thoughts. I have truly felt buoyed up by the love and faith of my friends and family. Thank you so much!<br />
<br />
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<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-82769874689754316122012-12-01T17:11:00.003-08:002013-04-20T20:45:08.769-07:00A Request for a Reading<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I won't be able to make it to the remainder of my writing classes at Utah State University this semester. I have been diagnosed with a lymphoma and am scheduled at Huntsman Cancer Institute over the next two weeks. For this reason, I am pleading for feedback on the following piece. This is to be a part of my final portfolio for Non Fiction Writing. Unfortunately, I won't have the opportunity to workshop the essay with my classmates. So I am asking for feedback from anyone who happens to see this. Please note any suggestions on grammar, punctuation, or content changes that would improve the piece before I submit it next week.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Please be brutally honest and give me constructive criticism to make this essay the best it can be. Thank you! </i></span><br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Over-Time Angel</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">My dad used to say, "Georgia,
you are the most accident-prone person I have ever known."</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I believed him.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Good thing for Mike.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">On a damp and chilly day in January 1969, a
month before my seventh birthday, my family was visiting San Francisco. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I was riding in the camper shell on the back
of dad's 1967 robin-egg-blue Ford pickup truck.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Dad had propped a kerosene heater in the corner to warm the camper.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">A sudden bump in the road caused the heater
to tip spilling kerosene</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> across the
plywood floor. It instantly ignited.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Within seconds,</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">the camper filled
with flames, smoke, and heat. Dad drove obliviously down another hill unaware
his truck was on fire.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Pulling myself
onto the bed at the front of the camper, I pounded on the window, my eyes and
lungs burning.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It was a long-haired, bearded, denim-clad man
in an orange Dodge Charger driving behind us who recognized my peril before dad
did. He drove alongside the truck
forcing dad off the road. He leapt from
his car, pulled open our tailgate, and yanked the burning plywood onto the
ground. Mike peered into the smoke-filled
camper shell and met the red-rimmed eyes of the little girl perched on the bed,
who thought she was done for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Wrapped
in a singed blanket, I huddled in mom's lap on the curb while dad cleaned out
the camper. My rescuer walked up and
said, "Are you okay? I bet that was scary being in a fire."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
only nodded; I was too shy to speak. He
didn't tell us his name, but to me he looked like a 'Mike'. It was the last time I ever saw Mike, but it
was not the last time he ever saved me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
When
I was ten years old, I fell into a discarded broken window slicing my wrist to
the bone. While stitching up three
veins, a bundle of nerves, and a large flap of flesh, the doctor marveled aloud
that I hadn't severed the artery. I was certain
Mike had protected me from bleeding to death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At
twelve, I leaned a ladder into an old breaker box with glass fuses. Mike threw me clear at the first spark. An explosion, fireworks, and unbelievable
heat should have fried me on the rungs. The melted metal glob had to be pried
off the wall with a 2 x 4. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Two
years later I was given the responsibility of riding Buster, our unruly horse. Buster was a white stallion with a bad
attitude. He hated being saddled,
refused to take a bit, and would sulk the whole time I rode him away from the
farm. The second I turned him back
towards home, he bolted. No amount of yanking
on reins or hollering, '<i>whoa</i>' could keep him from galloping at a full-out, frenzied
hurtle. He shot under low-hanging tree
branches, exploded over ditches and bushes, and darted around barking dogs. It
was a battle to stay in the saddle clinging with hands, arms, feet, and legs. All he wanted was his warm barn and oats and
to be free of his saddle and rider. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After
several days of this madness, Mike put an idea into my head: '<i>Ride Buster at the rodeo grounds</i>.' It was brilliant! I could walk Buster into the large show
arena, fasten the gate, and gallop him in a huge circle. Buster was calm and well-behaved when he
couldn't tell which direction home lay.
Of course, he still made a mad dash for home as soon as the gate was
opened and we exited the show grounds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
day we arrived at the rodeo ring to find three, gaily-painted 50 gallon drums
set up in the arena. I had always wanted
to try barrel racing like a beautiful rodeo queen. I excitedly urged Buster into a canter toward
the first barrel. We circled it. I pointed him to top of the triangle and
barrel number two. Around it we looped,
then on to the third barrel. We made a
wide, sloppy circle to complete the cloverleaf pattern. Then it was a straight
shot back to the gate. <i>Oh, that was fun!</i> I had to try it again, but this time with
some speed. I wrenched Buster's head
back around to face the first barrel. A
kick to the flanks. We were off. We quickly slipped around barrel number
one. My adrenaline was pumping as we
thundered towards the next one, but disaster struck at the top of the
diamond. We approached too fast and
instead of moving to go around the barrel, Buster stopped short and
reared. My body whipped forward, backward,
then off onto the ground. I wasn't
injured. The soil was soft, but I knew
instantly I was in trouble. My cowboy
boot was caught in the stirrup and Buster, abandoning my plan of circling the
third barrel, bolted straight for the open gate. My head and body bounced through the plowed earth
raising a cloud of dust down the entire length of the arena. I thought, <i>'this is how my life will end.'</i>
There was no way I could survive the pounding of being pulled more than
a mile across the hard-packed ground, graveled parking lot, paved roads,
canals, and rough fields to our farm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
tried to sit up and twist my boot out of the stirrup. I attempted to pull my foot from the
boot. The pressure of being drug by that
one foot wouldn't allow for either. I
screamed, "Stop, Buster!" I
caught air as he turned the corner at the mouth of the gate. It was useless. There was no stopping him when I was tugging
on his reins; with reins flying free, the outcome was inevitable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Just
as my body hit the edge of the graveled parking lot, Buster stopped. He came to a full, stand still halt. I didn't waste a second. I twisted my boot and pulled it out of the
stirrup. I jumped to my feet. I expected to see someone holding Buster's
reins, but they lay limply on the ground.
I looked around and saw no one.
Buster continued to stand motionless.
I grabbed his reins and led him over to metal rails of the arena. I leaned against the fence to catch my breath
then I stepped up on the bottom rail to scan the vicinity. Mike wasn't waiting by the grandstands or
lurking near the snack bar. He wasn't
sitting on the bullpen or the horse corrals.
I couldn't see him, but I was sure he was there. Buster continued to wait calmly while I
regained my composure and emptied dirt from my boots, shook out my hair, and
patted dust from my clothes. Then, for
the first time ever, Buster serenely allowed me to mount. As we slowly made our way home, I examined
each knobby hillock, old tree stump, rock outcropping, and brush ditch bank I
should have been drug across, over, and through. I imagined my little brother, Jim, finding my
battered body tethered to Buster by a shattered leg. I shuddered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
the 36 years since that day, Mike has been busy. There was that Jeep rollover in 1980; a
high-speed, rear-end auto accident in'93; and the near-drowning of '96--just to
name a few incidents Mike saved me from.
I don't know why Mike first appeared as a scruffy man in San Francisco
and I haven't set eyes on him since.
Maybe my older eyes cannot perceive him?
Perhaps he got better at his job and staying out of sight? Someday I
will see Mike again--maybe on a cloud in heaven. I will walk up to him, take his calloused,
work-worn hand, and look into his blue eyes.
We will talk about all the times he saved me from accident and
injury. He will tell me about all the
other times he saved me when I wasn't even aware I was in danger. Mike has
accrued some serious overtime. </div>
</div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-36572242861857608582012-11-21T16:53:00.001-08:002012-11-21T16:58:31.195-08:00Keeping My Promise<i><span style="color: blue;">A few of my blog readers may know that this past month has been an uphill struggle for me and my family. Health issues have taken center stage, a thing we haven't really dealt with in the past. But I told Danielle that I would post the revision of the 'Who Am I Today' essay that I wrote about her miscarriage last month. Here is that revision. I apologize for nearly a repeat of the previous post. I hope you agree that the revisions make it better. Now, I just need to find a way to revise me so I can get better too.</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">A Shoulder
to Cry On</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">
I must be a good listener because people confide in
me--A LOT. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Standing in
elevators and lines, riding on buses or flying in planes, waiting in doctor
offices or at the DMV, people trade a few pleasantries with me and then
suddenly they start revealing personal stuff I'd rather not know. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Private matters like surgeries and
illness they have experienced; rebellious or wayward children who plague their
life; or sexual exploits which would cause a sailor to blush. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Often during such exchanges, they
become very emotional and require a hug, a pat on the back, and the assurance
that it will be okay. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
wonder if I have a tattoo across my forehead that says:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>'Shoulder to Cry on'</i>.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Broad shoulders run in my
family. Both of my brothers have wide, muscular shoulders. Being raised
on a farm, we earned our brawny shoulders the hard way. We bucked hay bales,
hauled manure, raked and hoed fields, wrestled large animals, and built
fences. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>But perhaps my
brothers and I really inherited our wide shoulders, not from our strong,
hard-working dad, but from our teeny, 4'6" mom. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Every time I visit my widowed mother
in Arizona, people approach me to say what a kind lady she is and how lucky I
am to have her as my mother.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> I
always agree that I am indeed a lucky daughter and when the stranger turns to
walk away, I whisper, "Who was that?"</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Mom responds with: "I don't know,
someone who talked to me at the grocery store." or "….at the doctor's
office," or "… at church." </span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>During a recent visit, my mother had
an office desk and credenza listed for sale in a local, on-line classified
ad. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>A complete
stranger came to the house to look at the set, which she eventually purchased,
but she stayed for three hours visiting with my mother about all her worries
and problems.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I know my mom has great listening skills
and high-quality advice. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
relied on it heavily throughout my childhood and youth. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The junior high school years were an
especially traumatic time when my mother gained her best shoulder-to-cry-on
experience.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I appreciated being on the receiving
end of my mom's absorbent shoulder. Nearly 29 years ago, I began to comprehend
the importance of a mother's shoulder from another perspective. When I had my
first baby, I realized how much a small child depends upon a mother's shoulders
for comfort and protection.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> It's
a great place to hide eyes, feel safe, or catch a nap. Additional
understanding of the importance of shoulders to cry on came during the years I
was a Nursery Leader. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Being
in charge of a room full of toddlers every Sunday, I soaked up more than tears
on many shirts, jackets, and dresses. I learned to never wear
dry-clean-only clothing around little ones seeking a safe shoulder.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>After the nursery job, I was called as
a Young Women's President. That was a period of teenage tears sopping my
shoulder--adolescent angst produces puddles! Often the last girl
delivered home from an activity sought private attention. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I spent many hours in the front seat
of a minivan listening to the woes of youth. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>One morning, one of my Young Women
appeared on my doorstep at 5:30 in need of a wide, soft shoulder to sob out her
sorrows on; my pajamas were soaked that day.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Currently, I serve as a Ward Relief
Society President. Now in my fifth year in the position, I've lost track
of how many tears have waterlogged my shoulders. Wide, absorbent upper
joints must be a prerequisite for the calling. Perhaps I should start wearing
blazers and blouses with shoulder pads for additional saturation
capacity. I have been in charge of 25 funerals over the years--that's a
lot of potato casseroles, Jello salads, and tears.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">
My phone rings multiple times a day, my doorbell chimes several times a week
announcing people who want to chat. Death, divorce, illness, accidents,
unemployment, family feuds, and neighbor disagreements, are typical subjects of
discussion. Mostly, I don't have much advice to offer, solutions to
proffer, or guidance to give, just these soft shoulders, an embrace, and a
heart filled with compassion for the suffering.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">
Yesterday, the appeal for a shoulder to cry on came from 3,000 miles away, but
was closer to my heart than most requests. My daughter, who lives in
Baltimore, called in utter despair.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"Mom, I'm in the Emergency Room
at the Maryland Medical Center." came the familiar voice across the
miles. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I lost the
baby!"</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"Oh, no! I'm so, so sorry,
Dani. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Are you okay?"</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"There was so much blood and we
just didn't know what to do. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
called my doctor and he said go to the hospital. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Kelly drove me here as quickly as he
could, but it was too late."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I'm so sorry, but are you
okay?" <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It is
impossible to absorb the tears falling on the other end of a phone call; even
willing, capable shoulders can't capture virtual tears. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My arms longed to hold my sobbing
daughter. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My heart ached to
pull her tight and let our tears mix together over the loss of the child who
would have been my first grandchild--a child who was absolutely wanted,
patiently waited for, and perfectly planned.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>After regaining her voice, Dani said,
"I think this wouldn't be quite so hard if we hadn't just seen the ultra
sound pictures and heard the heartbeat four days ago."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I know Dani. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I am so sad."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"We just finished painting the
ceiling of the nursery the prettiest shade of yellow on Thursday and we ordered
a crib and the sheets and quilt for it last week."
Danielle hiccuped into the phone.<u1:p></u1:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
My heart was aching thinking of all the plans already laid out in anticipation
of this baby. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I thought of
my own small preparations--the cute maternity tops I purchased at the mall last
week. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I had addressed the
package to Dani last night with plans to drop by the post office on Monday to
mail the gift. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>My own
excitement about this baby was packed in that box of maternity clothes with a
pacifier laid on top. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I
wouldn't be mailing it on Monday. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>That
box will go on a shelf along with all the plans for the baby we expected in the
spring.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I don't know what to do,
mom. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>How am I going to go
back to work? <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I just told
Principal Manning I was pregnant on Friday and now on Sunday I'm not."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"Everyone will be sad with you,
Dani. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Just tell your
principal you had a miscarriage. I'm sure he will make arrangements for your
classes and allow you a few days off."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>More tears across the miles. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>More sense of loss. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>More realization of altered
plans. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I love you,
Dani. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Are you and Kelly
going to be okay? I'm so sorry this happened."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"We'll be okay. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>Thanks Mom."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"I wish I could be there for you,
Dani. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I love you."</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>There is more to being a shoulder to
cry on than saying words across a telephone connection. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>It involves a personal presence, a
physical touch, eyes meeting, and spirits mingling to express love and offer
empathy. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>As much as I ache
for my daughter and her loss, I am hurt that I can't be there to help her carry
this burden of sadness. I long to ease some of the load of sorrow from her
shoulders onto mine. Sharing the weight of distress is truly what a shoulder is
for.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">
Today, I need a shoulder to cry on.</span></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 26.8pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: blue;">P.S. NOTE, I HAVE HAD TWO MORE FUNERALS BETWEEN THESE TWO POSTS.</span></i></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-7463113507420920822012-10-16T13:08:00.001-07:002012-10-17T08:44:40.378-07:00Who I Am Today (7th Prompt in Nonfiction Class)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I must be a good listener because people confide in me--A
LOT.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Standing in elevators, riding on buses,
on long airline flights, waiting in doctor offices, you name it, people talk to
me.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">They often tell me things I'd rather
not know.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I sometimes wonder if I have a
tattoo across my forehead that reads, </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">'Shoulder
to Cry on'</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Broad shoulders run in my family. Being raised on a farm, I earned my brawny
shoulders the hard way. These shoulders of mine are often wet from the tears of
people I know and sometimes from people I have just met while they are drenching
my shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Almost 29 years ago when my first son was born, I learned
that a child depends upon the shoulder of his mother for comfort. Mom's shoulder can protect them from
strangers and scary situations. It's a
great place to hide eyes or catch a nap.
It is where my nursery and primary children found relief from
pain and humiliation and these upper joints where my arms hook to my trunk, have
soaked up stuff other than tears on the shoulders of many shirts, jackets, and
blouses. I learned to never wear
dry-clean-only clothing to church.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I spent a few years as a Young Women's President. That was a period of teenage tears sopping my shoulder. Adolescent angst produces
puddles! Girls between 12 and 18 seem habitually in need of an older friend to offer comfort, love, and
support.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Currently I am on my second time around as a Ward Relief Society
President. Now in my fifth year of
serving in this position, I can't tell you how many tears have waterlogged my
shoulders. Wide, absorbent shoulders
must be a prerequisite for the calling. That is why I've started wearing
blazers with shoulder pads. I have been
in charge of 23 funerals over the years.
That is a lot of cheesy potato casseroles, jello salads, and tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> My phone rings multiple times a day, my doorbell chimes
several times a week announcing people who want to 'chat' about problems. Death, divorce, illness, accidents, job loss,
feuds, and various other mishaps are the typical subjects of discussion. Mostly, I don't have advice to offer,
solutions to proffer, just these soft shoulders and a hug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Yesterday, the appeal for a shoulder to cry on came from 3000 miles
away, but was closer to my heart than other requests. My daughter, who lives in Baltimore, phoned
to say she had experienced a miscarriage and a horrible emergency room episode. Just four days after she and her husband
viewed the first ultra sound image of their unborn child and heard its heartbeat, the
baby was gone. Dani and Kelly are heartbroken. I've never wanted to be the
shoulder to cry on like I did yesterday.
How I longed to hold Danielle close and hug her and soak up all her tears. As it was, all I could do was say, "I'm
so sorry" and "I love you" over and over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> I think I need a shoulder to cry on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-44787940355937927082012-10-12T19:56:00.002-07:002012-10-15T05:14:20.031-07:00A Mental Rabbit - (6th Prompt in Non-fiction Class)<br />
<h2>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">This essay is called a Mental Rabbit. The assignment was to think of an item we touch daily and then start writing about it and see where it leads us, like a zig-zagging rabbit running from bush to tree to hole. This was what I came up with on my rabbit hunt:</span></span></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> My American Express credit card doubles as my Costco Membership card. I am at Costco at least once a week buying oversized boxes of crackers, enormous bins of fruits, and giant jugs of apple juice, but I also fill our vehicles' gas tanks with Costco gas; print our pictures and refill the printer ink cartridges at the Costco Photo Counter; purchase my children's contact lenses at the Costco Eye Care Center; renew our cell phone coverage at the Costco Wireless Kiosk; even my daughter's wedding cake was made in the Costco bakery. I suppose if I ever require a hearing aid, I'll be making an appointment with the Costco Hearing Center. Both of our televisions in the house and all of the mattresses on our beds were purchased at Costco. We plan vacations, buy airline tickets, and rent vehicles through Costco and pay for everything with our American Express Card--they say, "Membership has its rewards".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> For our last vacation, we flew to Maryland. When we arrived at the BWI (Baltimore Washington International) Airport, we took the shuttle to the car rental center, used our Amex card to pay the rental fees, which automatically provided insurance on the Chrysler Impala we rented from Enterprise. That Impala took us to Gettysburg, Philadelphia, Washington DC, and to Baltimore, Towson, and Annapolis, Maryland. We visited Civil War battlefields, Independence Hall, Ben Franklin's grave, and the Liberty Bell. We admired the DuPont Estate, mourned in the Holocaust Museum, and were amazed at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. We also visited the National Zoo, National Cathedral, and all the monuments on the DC Mall. We visited the US Naval Academy and spent a day at Ocean City where the towels were spread on the sand as far as the eye could see; spacious awnings and huge beach umbrellas marking the seasoned beach goers' turf. Miles of boardwalk lined with shops and restaurants behind, the Atlantic Ocean in front. We read, sunned, hunted seashells, splashed, slept, then we took my American Express card and did a little shopping and found fresh seafood for dinner.<br /> Each night we returned to the Sheraton Hotel in Towson--home base for our daily excursions. We have a Sheraton rewards card, with benefits for members (are you surprised?) We made sure to take in a tour of Inner Harbor, where we looked at tall ships, a WWII submarine, coast guard ship, and the USS Constellation anchored in the Harbor. We have thick, metal tokens, good for life-time admittance to the Constellation at her permanent berth--Constellation Dock, Inner Harbor, Pier 1, 301 East Pratt Street, Baltimore. She is the last wind-powered warship built by the U.S. Navy and was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1994 as the last existing naval vessel from the Civil War.<br /> Lots of food is required for a family of six traveling in the United States. Luckily, there is a Costco in Baltimore which supplied us with croissants, the makings for sandwiches, big bags of chips, and flats of sodas. We packed lunches and saved a few dollars, but we also ate at restaurants, pubs and fast-food joints. Crabcakes, fresh flounder, and salmon were on the dinner menu; Dunkin' Donuts was a favorite breakfast spot. The Baltimore Orioles played the Pirates at Camden Yards while we were there. Abbey Burger after the game was a loud and boisterous place because the Orioles won. At this pub, the menu is a check list of about a hundred items. You pick your meat--ostrich, alligator, and bison were three of the many choices to select from; you choose the kind of bread/bun from about 10 varieties; and then you choose your toppings from dozens of items. Abbey Burger is home of Baltimore's best burger--my assessment as well as that of <i>Best of Baltimore Magazine</i>. We discovered Trader Joe's and can't wait until we have one of those 'Joes' at home. Every place we went, we looked for the familiar blue and white 'American Express accepted here' sign because we <u><i>never</i></u> leave home without it.<br /> Around my birthday each year, Amex rewards checks are sent out. The one, two, or three percent cash back on purchases made over the past year will be totaled and mailed. We can use our check on Costco merchandise or cash it and used it anywhere else. Isn't that a great birthday gift? I look at our check each year and start figuring what one, two, or three percent translates into as charges on our credit card over the past year, then I think maybe we'll cut back and not buy so much next year. But I start thinking of places we've yet to visit, things we need to do, and start making plans--after all, membership has its rewards.</span><br />
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-41168763886900061172012-10-03T19:21:00.000-07:002012-10-05T06:14:12.738-07:00A Hike Around MantuaOn Saturday, we got up early and went for a walk with our friends, the Marsdens, around Mantua Lake. It was a spectacular morning and we watched the sun rise over the beautiful eastern mountains. The fall colors are fading a little, but still spectacular, especially when reflected in the lake.<br />
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We decided we're going to go in the evening next week and watch the sun set and see it from that perspective.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDF41u3f42BqH7BXj7qVuVilCiNzMpJwdFOXZlZmCfu7jVHMgJdkkP9fncKAemLoGhNa5nS-hBoLZU5NVMBKcfK_OMKrxWZs_-bxSTaBTxMSvl-xEBYVOMUsgdhxOiR2UTn3nnoJfafeY/s1600/Cattails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDF41u3f42BqH7BXj7qVuVilCiNzMpJwdFOXZlZmCfu7jVHMgJdkkP9fncKAemLoGhNa5nS-hBoLZU5NVMBKcfK_OMKrxWZs_-bxSTaBTxMSvl-xEBYVOMUsgdhxOiR2UTn3nnoJfafeY/s400/Cattails.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cattails and the town of Mantua.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBREpV7Jg6EC-ze9B8Iyv_QGgr5XkmiRz8b83uGHF4eyBRG6dPFGa9NHZrF5PTM6kNIPX9H5yCD8TgIwIyqn7Pb4a7dnC1FZNxnTL2Ksj5d0K9rLzv2ytVhv9um0zyf16jIZdduQbujPk/s1600/Colorful+Reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBREpV7Jg6EC-ze9B8Iyv_QGgr5XkmiRz8b83uGHF4eyBRG6dPFGa9NHZrF5PTM6kNIPX9H5yCD8TgIwIyqn7Pb4a7dnC1FZNxnTL2Ksj5d0K9rLzv2ytVhv9um0zyf16jIZdduQbujPk/s400/Colorful+Reflection.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love the reflection of the colorful hills in the lake.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26fpREQfHeKJk14fRpMg08GbZVCE798K1YSeWfOSUBDmFjS11GnsnzPZZfjlksnfVopB0lFclMtsqnm3lFe_fLXQ1fqDNrjpvFR7R4mODjqsyzh7H98DzxrrS_Zb-QXXDm-lhUIFHTcE/s1600/Colorful+hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26fpREQfHeKJk14fRpMg08GbZVCE798K1YSeWfOSUBDmFjS11GnsnzPZZfjlksnfVopB0lFclMtsqnm3lFe_fLXQ1fqDNrjpvFR7R4mODjqsyzh7H98DzxrrS_Zb-QXXDm-lhUIFHTcE/s400/Colorful+hill.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A spot of color on a gray morning</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ducks make V shapes in the water when they swim<br />
as well as in the air when they fly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZWBcXhMGt2llTvnWTLQ2UCLCAkKo-Tvlv3j6kXgeyUpfuLcifEIlBKk4vyGK1VW1sRK-1ePbZFfdQmsnPlNs9290x0SottzrxtETOlb2QdAUvXOjm_v1jr75VZtsiDZ1s9ADDLbxwj0/s1600/Horses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZWBcXhMGt2llTvnWTLQ2UCLCAkKo-Tvlv3j6kXgeyUpfuLcifEIlBKk4vyGK1VW1sRK-1ePbZFfdQmsnPlNs9290x0SottzrxtETOlb2QdAUvXOjm_v1jr75VZtsiDZ1s9ADDLbxwj0/s400/Horses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Several horse pastures on the other side of Mantua Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvoBPZ4sNarD4K5g9uHflNfyIYIFx7ywjOC2WQEEgo-oPa_zrMSjWxXB5gu4sAz4mcT7O408ymqOBoVC84h_mdKMRISaXlreIFdo5y9mUSZ0aULCTTkqvF2Is_51WehqjfUDN2E3IrBc/s1600/Mantua+Reservoir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvoBPZ4sNarD4K5g9uHflNfyIYIFx7ywjOC2WQEEgo-oPa_zrMSjWxXB5gu4sAz4mcT7O408ymqOBoVC84h_mdKMRISaXlreIFdo5y9mUSZ0aULCTTkqvF2Is_51WehqjfUDN2E3IrBc/s640/Mantua+Reservoir.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I thought this was the most beautiful photo I took of the lake Saturday morning</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJBPNmMYhxKXgINFP_wOJpKK-0N843xzafEhdykSmk5NAZ5xZragL0js7rAX9KJr5x74BJi4QpqUbaMmZAMEkkKZPKmBlm937GgJzl_fGLgkM4Cs8CXsNNFxkDgzKJyBxxum3ppJuNVQ/s1600/Mantua+Town.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJBPNmMYhxKXgINFP_wOJpKK-0N843xzafEhdykSmk5NAZ5xZragL0js7rAX9KJr5x74BJi4QpqUbaMmZAMEkkKZPKmBlm937GgJzl_fGLgkM4Cs8CXsNNFxkDgzKJyBxxum3ppJuNVQ/s400/Mantua+Town.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The town of Mantua nestled beneath the colorful mountain sides<br />
in Sardine Canyon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvoe1uNd_20NiXCMPu2z2LHOF92weIL3oJeANsW7vRVDKEZYfAbtIjA2-V4HwU7UBkVj9O6GK6vrDDACv0dTK2xVxRR40omaaMZYb7vFPop4xgNS3fZHmBugHuqyvGZCRFztKJgcq_XE/s1600/Rob+and+Tim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvoe1uNd_20NiXCMPu2z2LHOF92weIL3oJeANsW7vRVDKEZYfAbtIjA2-V4HwU7UBkVj9O6GK6vrDDACv0dTK2xVxRR40omaaMZYb7vFPop4xgNS3fZHmBugHuqyvGZCRFztKJgcq_XE/s400/Rob+and+Tim.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Usually the guys walk behind us, but they passed us<br />
while I was taking photos.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbqMvqaIr32SEjKVeyk17f3Tr75cXkh6d6-jr3h9bvi9ZJm10iVVXUhOUeQvV6zIJMiB-scVKqOdfSZjz-Jcwf7xz2R4rz36u0otKGS9x9A3p3tiing31U5K1u3z3y8J9OGJqXDKS8Ro/s1600/Tim+and+Margie+Marsden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbqMvqaIr32SEjKVeyk17f3Tr75cXkh6d6-jr3h9bvi9ZJm10iVVXUhOUeQvV6zIJMiB-scVKqOdfSZjz-Jcwf7xz2R4rz36u0otKGS9x9A3p3tiing31U5K1u3z3y8J9OGJqXDKS8Ro/s400/Tim+and+Margie+Marsden.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tima and Margie are great friends and fun walking partners. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjUCtM9O9IutGvtB0kSM1z2WcVcKAcrAVgZcoX0ivNI4w4bh2v7m8qEeqIjLQRtec8C1zW3KncrcwFeJXwCRCksClu2ckaiGgq91sh_ozLzTxSQLRUXW4ZDhdVmD7EYmBM_uHQeDMNDM/s1600/Tree-lined+Shore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjUCtM9O9IutGvtB0kSM1z2WcVcKAcrAVgZcoX0ivNI4w4bh2v7m8qEeqIjLQRtec8C1zW3KncrcwFeJXwCRCksClu2ckaiGgq91sh_ozLzTxSQLRUXW4ZDhdVmD7EYmBM_uHQeDMNDM/s400/Tree-lined+Shore.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tree-line east shore of Mantua Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjpvrcZZUY290NCQYQQvETmn_eFxSBa7M6xrNKMG5AJXF-bby3dKiFGMZrxCZsziFBRQhjEOLPzvpix5uen-ih1-j1mgYJbW8s_-ANY2sNv2JEdBjF7dAHOPu2irreG2d83PpxiQXY0E/s1600/Willow+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjpvrcZZUY290NCQYQQvETmn_eFxSBa7M6xrNKMG5AJXF-bby3dKiFGMZrxCZsziFBRQhjEOLPzvpix5uen-ih1-j1mgYJbW8s_-ANY2sNv2JEdBjF7dAHOPu2irreG2d83PpxiQXY0E/s640/Willow+Tree.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This green willow with the fall-colored backdrop made such a pretty picture.</td></tr>
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-54241955329111097422012-09-30T20:19:00.001-07:002012-09-30T20:19:46.476-07:00Missing Prompts?You may have noticed that I have posted a few of my prompts from my Nonfiction Writing Class. I started with #1, then #2, but then I skipped to #5. Did you wonder what happened to numbers 3 and 4? Well, I did write them, but I am not yet at liberty to share at least one of those. Prompt #3 was "Write a Memoir in Third Person" (which was a lot harder than it sounds!) Prompt #4 was "Write a Contemplative Essay". I did write a very thoughtful and poignant essay which I plan to post at a certain point when I can do so without getting into trouble.<br />
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I'm sorry the prompts and essay numbers are out of order. For any OCD blog readers who are going crazy because of my missing numbers, I apologize profusely!Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-51632861035875990932012-09-26T17:54:00.000-07:002012-09-30T19:59:59.138-07:00A Lyrical Essay (Fifth Prompt in Nonfiction Class)<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><u>Spheres of Sunshine</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> The harvest was bountiful this season. We prepared well by pruning trees in February
and thinning fruit in May. So much time invested, so much labor involved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Pruning.
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Thinning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";">Picking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> What was sacrificed in thinning made little
difference at picking. The fruit still
hung from branches like grapes on vines.
The value of the labor is the limbs saved from fracture under the
damaging load and in the spacing allowed each fruit to mature to its
greatest potential.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> The ones left, those granted
clemency, collect heat and light for safekeeping in ripening flesh under fuzzy skin. The thin peel gathering and swirling the colors of the sun itself, growing
larger in size and more tinged by yellows and reds as the days of summer lengthen
and warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> Finally when the fruit has absorbed
all the energy of summer, we pluck them gently from among the leaves. Set them tenderly into wooden baskets hanging
from ladders. Carry them carefully up to
the house. Select them thoughtfully, the
ripest ones first to lengthen out the glorious period of eating them fresh with cream or sprinkled lightly with sugar. Giving some away, but only to those who truly value the most wonderful things that grow
on trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> The tragedy of a ripe one that falls
to the ground, bruised, broken; left to ants, wasps, and bees. A whole year must pass before another will
grow in its place. Even broken and battered, some are reverently recovered,
ants brushed off, bees shooed away, and bad spots cut out to save the
salvageable bits and pieces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> Jars of jam, pints of nectar, and
quarts of halves preserved on shelves like bottled rays of sunlight to carry us
through the 11 months when fruit isn't hanging heavy, ripe for the picking.
During that depressing period when those available in the market taste
traitorously foreign. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif";"> A peach, the most appealing of all
fruit, food of the gods themselves. The
sight of a peach ready to eat glows in an ethereal way; blushing deeply all the
way to its pit. The scent of a fresh, tree-ripened peach stays in human memory filed under the most
pleasurable of reminiscences. And the
taste of the last precious peach of the season must carry one through the long
months of ice and snow; of scarcity and deprivation; of bare branches, stacked,
empty crates, buckets and baskets; and the waiting until sunshine can be harvested once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-43689350890717387002012-09-04T18:11:00.000-07:002012-09-07T06:02:23.678-07:00A Memoir (Second Prompt in my Nonfiction Writing Class) <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Federal
Offences<o:p></o:p></span></u></span><br />
<span class="apple-style-span"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">The statute of limitations is now past so I can divulge details of
a federal offence which occurred a number of years ago.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">My mother rarely went to the post office, she usually sent my
brothers or me into town to collect our mail. One summer day Jim and I
went together on this errand and found ourselves at the post office during the
lunch hour, with the postmaster’s window pulled down and no one around.
We adeptly twisted the dial and clicked opened our mailbox, number 119,
the highest number located in lowest corner on the wall. Then,
because we were seven and ten and unsupervised, we started trying to open the
other 118 boxes. We discovered that if you turned the dial while pushing
against the little release knob, you could 'feel' when the combination clicked.
The first couple of boxes took us several minutes to master, but within 20
minutes, we had 7 rows of 17 little, brass and glass doors unlocked and all standing
at an 90º angle to the wall. At that exact moment, Howard Hardy, the Postmaster
walked in from his lunch break.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Jim and I knew we shouldn't have been messing around, but were
shocked at Mr. Hardy's reaction. He was normally a very congenial, kind and
soft-spoken man, but on this occasion, his face turned deep red, his voice grew
strident; he bellowed: "No one
except a certified mail carrier is allowed to handle
the US mail." Then he screeched: "It is a FEDERAL
CRIME for anyone to mess with the mail." We pointed out we </span><span style="font-size: 14.5pt;">had not</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> touched a single letter; we had only opened the boxes.
Our argument did nothing to calm Mr. Hardy or persuade him of our
innocence. His verbal tirade went on as
he considered what to do with us.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">After exhausting his voice, Postmaster Hardy croaked at us to close
all the mailboxes, turn each dial at least one full rotation, promise to never,
ever do that again, and sent us home. Jim and I retrieved our own letters
and started down Main Street with our heads hanging down and our feet dragging
along the ground. You never saw such a pair of contrite federal
offenders. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">For the rest of the years I lived in Hinckley, I shirked mail duty
whenever possible. When forced to do that job, I dashed in, grabbed it quickly
and ducked back out hoping to not be seen. Even with limited dealings with
mailboxes, my fingers itched to turn those tiny, brass dials. I craved to open those little, windowed
doors, but because of the pledge I had made, I never opened another persons'
mailbox again. Who knows what I may have
become if a dedicated postal worker had not put an end to a terrible tendency? </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13pt;">Perhaps next time you are in a post office, you could thumb
through those 'wanted' posters and if you flip back far enough, maybe you’ll
come across the yellowing, tattered page with 10- and 7-year-old faces of the
federal mail criminals who broke into over a hundred mailboxes in their
scandalous career one summer day in 1972.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-64159244884663223542012-08-31T06:54:00.000-07:002012-08-31T06:54:52.249-07:00Why I Write (First prompt in my Nonfiction Class)<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Thanksgiving
2012 will mark six years since Ron Shumway passed away. In life he was a harsh,
outspoken man; impossible to please and constantly finding the negative in
every situation. He was loud, abrasive, and hurtful in his words and tone. For a
period of years in my adult life I
avoided all contact with my dad because his pessimism took me to a dark place I
didn't like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> In
the early 1990s I set up an email account and began a regular correspondence
with my mother. One day I received an email message from dad. He had been
reading my emails to mom and he responded simply, "You are a good
writer." Shortly afterwards and for a number of years, he sent me brochures, magazine clippings, and
newspaper notifications requesting writing samples for possible publication,
but I was in the midst of raising kids, running the PTA, and still holding a
grudge so I didn't respond to his suggestions. I also doubted the validity of
the offers and my capacity to contribute anything of value. I did; however,
reopen communication with my dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Six years ago when he was struggling with and dying from cancer, "You are a
good writer" became lodged in my head and it has been there ever since. It
was truly the first and only compliment I ever remember receiving from my
father. Suddenly it became my mission to authenticate his assessment of my
skill. Since then, I've taken every opportunity to write. I started a blog, I wrote
grant applications for schools and nonprofit organizations, I struck up a
conversation with a newspaper editor and started writing weekly columns and
special interest stories, and recently I returned to school working towards a
degree in Creative Writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Writing
seems to be the one thing I have an affinity for. I can more easily express myself
in a written format than by any other mode of communication. When I have
composed a lovely sentence, paragraph, or page, it brings me joy which is
rarely duplicated by other tasks. I write to remember and record. I write to
convey feelings or sentiments or moods. I write because something inside me desires
to find its way out. I write because it
is the connection I have with my dad. He recognized writing was something I needed
long before I did. His confidence in my ability to string words together on a
page established a father/daughter relationship which spanned the last 20 years
of his life and granted me the opportunity to love and respect him beyond life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Since
dad died, each phrase I construct, each sentence I craft is, at least in some
part, directed to him. It is a marvelous and miraculous thing to feel his
approval. For me, writing not only converses with the living, but also communes
with the dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-35087272105508813622012-08-24T13:37:00.000-07:002012-08-26T19:39:10.276-07:00End of Summer 2012<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2D1LiGkOnyuKwwGfAXIIXLpKFt5NGWQxFjeZ44byE59gjoDhrfxnU6ktxr_vDBRDaQ7NnaujvzRVYXJu-Xi_LvChSGupt59H8ZI7-dAcMERMb5_ertjAinZ75MFpcs7Bn6iCSgg1AQ20/s1600/Corn+is+done.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2D1LiGkOnyuKwwGfAXIIXLpKFt5NGWQxFjeZ44byE59gjoDhrfxnU6ktxr_vDBRDaQ7NnaujvzRVYXJu-Xi_LvChSGupt59H8ZI7-dAcMERMb5_ertjAinZ75MFpcs7Bn6iCSgg1AQ20/s320/Corn+is+done.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The corn is done and it's time to pull it out.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-L61W015q6Uk6clMfjcB8F3PmpP_u40xkMPTOwanvBxx1oWJqCtr5BF3WmttwkBmlshgC_CKDLb2F5VUGCaPvEUTrip3Sq_e8c9IIVytZd_cPwGMygcSf7PIFJJLiwPDArxvP06idLA/s1600/Huge+Squash+Plants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-L61W015q6Uk6clMfjcB8F3PmpP_u40xkMPTOwanvBxx1oWJqCtr5BF3WmttwkBmlshgC_CKDLb2F5VUGCaPvEUTrip3Sq_e8c9IIVytZd_cPwGMygcSf7PIFJJLiwPDArxvP06idLA/s320/Huge+Squash+Plants.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The squash plants are huge and prolific.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhel-QHi_dAAFALBbSPGVY6WczVbFmG_ESkdNgk9xSdflQKW1Pv6xmcG76mOL_htoOQvLINPAJ-71uAcxSHEg8UKHJW8sbV5E7bfFke4urP9kUOWyD_AIzwVGBjzk2arnQLF8wtA7jqf18/s1600/Finished+Hollyhocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhel-QHi_dAAFALBbSPGVY6WczVbFmG_ESkdNgk9xSdflQKW1Pv6xmcG76mOL_htoOQvLINPAJ-71uAcxSHEg8UKHJW8sbV5E7bfFke4urP9kUOWyD_AIzwVGBjzk2arnQLF8wtA7jqf18/s320/Finished+Hollyhocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hollyhocks are spent and I cut them down.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvTRVu9r4TjOJi8VLj1mDqDZMp1pdUWh5N_wZEE1VWCc0psO7Fk8PshsUo7nb_6-Dk1Y_CBfBz1s0LJr4oEZkm8pGBQmNhZpEzPjA61S8sXBHXUlFklkg9-tStFsHD5hdRR9QJYbt650/s1600/First+Peaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvTRVu9r4TjOJi8VLj1mDqDZMp1pdUWh5N_wZEE1VWCc0psO7Fk8PshsUo7nb_6-Dk1Y_CBfBz1s0LJr4oEZkm8pGBQmNhZpEzPjA61S8sXBHXUlFklkg9-tStFsHD5hdRR9QJYbt650/s320/First+Peaches.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've started picking peaches and bottling produce.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCoDoAk2_hPxR_VvVyO3jogxZtWUmjWEDjDmpeF4WfoXs2wA9Ym5q-cETgdDSSO0TOKV0_QjVHyC1bWVc86NTEknSH-ZgQb4ytDRxnrIZUVfJeGpftmHyNjNw2smmSLnR_Lhk-aoQFDo/s1600/Bottled+stuff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCCoDoAk2_hPxR_VvVyO3jogxZtWUmjWEDjDmpeF4WfoXs2wA9Ym5q-cETgdDSSO0TOKV0_QjVHyC1bWVc86NTEknSH-ZgQb4ytDRxnrIZUVfJeGpftmHyNjNw2smmSLnR_Lhk-aoQFDo/s320/Bottled+stuff.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chili Sauce, Raspberry Juice and Zucchini Relish I bottled yesterday.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WKj_otzOmroNY-zX8fV4M41ZC1vdcTIuxKxE3Dt6lui3uGi4xw3hORL1X9Iprzend6TKKV2zTi9RrHkqEvzR8otoCxb6jFPfzLB8eUQvb8W3RcPTh0oXNSzCmzWD2lpMGjP2m-MR0Yg/s1600/Flower+Pots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WKj_otzOmroNY-zX8fV4M41ZC1vdcTIuxKxE3Dt6lui3uGi4xw3hORL1X9Iprzend6TKKV2zTi9RrHkqEvzR8otoCxb6jFPfzLB8eUQvb8W3RcPTh0oXNSzCmzWD2lpMGjP2m-MR0Yg/s320/Flower+Pots.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New blooms on the front porch.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRffAvmsfp70E8qX9tKpXKMqBxeagSRfvxnRo2m8L-lHRKvs7XXcz4mWHGOlghMy7Tz-yNPeT822RnlQkhbBG_lkfQVgArX7KDbqAiBSrPVY9TCyPDbN9xcTXRmhhzWpept96jaKyYdk/s1600/Flower+Pot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRffAvmsfp70E8qX9tKpXKMqBxeagSRfvxnRo2m8L-lHRKvs7XXcz4mWHGOlghMy7Tz-yNPeT822RnlQkhbBG_lkfQVgArX7KDbqAiBSrPVY9TCyPDbN9xcTXRmhhzWpept96jaKyYdk/s320/Flower+Pot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The flower pots are full of color and so beautiful right now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQdngWkcSeCpwb7iplXXrjQAyctupkmKjNw1wynosIZOffdtOwqjmc5B9ijlLNeBO7-Ul1gJWVKxkaCugCKlKoB3bh93RG8SjYLlqL9RntIjwccbzqy3ZMoSvOHvRuPvLBuo7An193rX4/s1600/Coleus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQdngWkcSeCpwb7iplXXrjQAyctupkmKjNw1wynosIZOffdtOwqjmc5B9ijlLNeBO7-Ul1gJWVKxkaCugCKlKoB3bh93RG8SjYLlqL9RntIjwccbzqy3ZMoSvOHvRuPvLBuo7An193rX4/s320/Coleus.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coleus of many shades (I wish I could make this photo go the right direction)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c6Hcj_Y_D2BhmTBGtV4BXhmWCP_bytEReBWRE08zgqJuzSjD6a5lJVvt8XBQJl_p8I5O81VNpUVX6cC3Cz_Z5wTG3GtMi5BQ85btfVfT5klsySsgkjWpxgL6SnonKSCYwp9RRGy_wMw/s1600/Tomato+Vines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1c6Hcj_Y_D2BhmTBGtV4BXhmWCP_bytEReBWRE08zgqJuzSjD6a5lJVvt8XBQJl_p8I5O81VNpUVX6cC3Cz_Z5wTG3GtMi5BQ85btfVfT5klsySsgkjWpxgL6SnonKSCYwp9RRGy_wMw/s320/Tomato+Vines.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loaded Tomato Vines</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0h9RUez7ZF1KxzLSbHQqs7E4I2nAJriVpZ0oScRsrjJ8yRwth3SRg6uWuzYQwonAbs_DVy8QjIS64gFkWnEm4ITkHINo6R0QfD2F2mjuyqvvIBzMVC57unwN5ieJyH6tztvzmiYWfGA/s1600/Raspberries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0h9RUez7ZF1KxzLSbHQqs7E4I2nAJriVpZ0oScRsrjJ8yRwth3SRg6uWuzYQwonAbs_DVy8QjIS64gFkWnEm4ITkHINo6R0QfD2F2mjuyqvvIBzMVC57unwN5ieJyH6tztvzmiYWfGA/s320/Raspberries.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raspberries galore!</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ceG4FDYVHT-9hYrTMAoo9xPH4Fn9PmMgcSDy6ovqHGqcVPLLCKPKoNh6SY3MJYHo6IO31FxEnFz2jyy_2g5VR2YPvxqEKYrQxmlASdPV4lUfFdbBXIzO-x-mBnUOoFM5PB3BvjqCHoI/s1600/Cami+off+to+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ceG4FDYVHT-9hYrTMAoo9xPH4Fn9PmMgcSDy6ovqHGqcVPLLCKPKoNh6SY3MJYHo6IO31FxEnFz2jyy_2g5VR2YPvxqEKYrQxmlASdPV4lUfFdbBXIzO-x-mBnUOoFM5PB3BvjqCHoI/s320/Cami+off+to+school.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We delivered Camille to Logan to attend USU. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Back to school for me too. I will be driving to Logan<br />
three days a week this semester. <br />
Wish me luck!</div>
<br />Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-41975585437571396412012-08-17T12:14:00.006-07:002012-08-17T17:05:32.167-07:00Utah Olympic Park II<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One
year ago today, we took a trip up the canyon to spend the day at Utah Olympic
Park. I blogged about it <a href="http://thegeorgiapages.blogspot.com/2011/09/utah-olympic-park.html">here</a>. Yesterday we went again. We had had
another fabulous day. Camille invited her
friend, Kallie, to go with us and Bryan came this year so I would have someone
to ride with on the chairlift and zipline. We purchased the unlimited passes and did everything at least once.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBXAP85AusfBogkkU3FJw6hirB8xKYmZvcs4SZNXfTxTtE0hObfZTj93BPVaT5wbMhp9Bac3uLqXYrA-o9H3IwQ-NrdpfK09XLzRuaGghcTpnV2vy994l2L_akM9kSmtFqCFmYQSLoUM/s1600/Cam+and+Kal+at+Olympic+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBXAP85AusfBogkkU3FJw6hirB8xKYmZvcs4SZNXfTxTtE0hObfZTj93BPVaT5wbMhp9Bac3uLqXYrA-o9H3IwQ-NrdpfK09XLzRuaGghcTpnV2vy994l2L_akM9kSmtFqCFmYQSLoUM/s320/Cam+and+Kal+at+Olympic+Park.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camille and Kallie when we arrived at Olympic Park<br />in front of the Ski Jump Pool<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was another fabulous August day. The high temperature in Park City was only 87, and with clouds floating past the sun, we received periodic shade throughout the day so we never felt too hot or uncomfortable. The ski lift threaded us through the trees on the leisurely ride up the mountain and a soft breeze kept the lift rides cool and relaxing so we arrived at the top ready for the hair-raising races down the alpine slide or xtreme zipline.</span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefR5X2LkyQLcsdI96Lcq1261iiLTZe04kiCFYCBP8VoayfsUh0K9E_OOKHXQM5G4V20uzWJjX4ePtAzqLBsO2Xmplwc4BxO5bSi1RSqJ4j0Yi2udBgbP6_1v4Lk7tzHhuGdVkX5pEL_U/s320/Chair+Lift+C+and+K.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camille and Kallie in the Chairlift</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefR5X2LkyQLcsdI96Lcq1261iiLTZe04kiCFYCBP8VoayfsUh0K9E_OOKHXQM5G4V20uzWJjX4ePtAzqLBsO2Xmplwc4BxO5bSi1RSqJ4j0Yi2udBgbP6_1v4Lk7tzHhuGdVkX5pEL_U/s1600/Chair+Lift+C+and+K.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a
run on each of the rides, we took a break and ate our picnic lunch. After refueling we were ready for a couple
more runs and then up the mountain in the Jeep for the Bobsled ride. I opted out of this particular thrill.
My neck gives me trouble every day since I was rear-ended while stopped at a light in
1993, so I skipped the opportunity to fly down the mountain at 70-80 miles an hour in a four-man bobsled. Bryan, Camille, and Kallie
were game for the chance though. They got suited (helmeted) up, were instructed on
how to sit, what to hold on, and how to keep breathing for the one minute ride down
the long track. Bryan was invited to help push bobsled #15 before he climbed into the next sled with the girls.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkII3BGM0F6xLcYYC3DkTTg2miymq2Va9rTBEb5uyJazLkKbxeco-2BpjYCfwXrwZ-Ebo-fTDM0pyM8HjJ06QQAqSMn63t7DmWd_6tbWINzAuxD2cogYvVAgAbmn4A-h8C6fQ_zygFfA/s1600/Three+Helmeted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkII3BGM0F6xLcYYC3DkTTg2miymq2Va9rTBEb5uyJazLkKbxeco-2BpjYCfwXrwZ-Ebo-fTDM0pyM8HjJ06QQAqSMn63t7DmWd_6tbWINzAuxD2cogYvVAgAbmn4A-h8C6fQ_zygFfA/s320/Three+Helmeted.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helmeted for the Bobsled Ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDn5CDrdAjpGU24RGS19KgCppy0RGvKeUikuMB5DJr72Ft2wEWScLgbI-D6v3i0HBPNPFlAMqFB9tp598xLBS5_fPeLizZgSLeJc466MJNrRi37UQcX_vqRENqN20QYsx1yiTwwwwpZU/s1600/Bryan+Push+Starting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDn5CDrdAjpGU24RGS19KgCppy0RGvKeUikuMB5DJr72Ft2wEWScLgbI-D6v3i0HBPNPFlAMqFB9tp598xLBS5_fPeLizZgSLeJc466MJNrRi37UQcX_vqRENqN20QYsx1yiTwwwwpZU/s320/Bryan+Push+Starting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggURK0PRFPUEprn-MaQxf9phg-HTjuaOSJsf2U9FAfgN1tuL3q6F5RHRZNf_VOd5CPaOkVoBfgkl3Yd_4tEHoXHPko6JshAcIDRkbZvXM0PXjyQiByexAmrQCvEWp30hIoWIoKPdD78wU/s1600/Bryan+Push+Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggURK0PRFPUEprn-MaQxf9phg-HTjuaOSJsf2U9FAfgN1tuL3q6F5RHRZNf_VOd5CPaOkVoBfgkl3Yd_4tEHoXHPko6JshAcIDRkbZvXM0PXjyQiByexAmrQCvEWp30hIoWIoKPdD78wU/s320/Bryan+Push+Start.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryan doing a Bobsled Pushstart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQdpryytl7yqR2XsE2__tiN6Bue3O5e_eUDlhHbjOUX-OrihbXJDRkOUhJq_ggP9XRMuJGTGJ-aLaTVBwK6g-f1XC8TBoxVhi08D72w7vI4ALX9Pnf0Ag9mPX1q_iMX-w7NOi8E1INVo/s1600/Bobsled+Loaded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQdpryytl7yqR2XsE2__tiN6Bue3O5e_eUDlhHbjOUX-OrihbXJDRkOUhJq_ggP9XRMuJGTGJ-aLaTVBwK6g-f1XC8TBoxVhi08D72w7vI4ALX9Pnf0Ag9mPX1q_iMX-w7NOi8E1INVo/s320/Bobsled+Loaded.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loaded and ready to roll 80 mph down the mountain track</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The
score/time board is running for each of the bobsled rides. It shows the number of runs each day and then
ranks each ride. Bryan, Camille, and
Kallie were sled #16 for the day and at the end of their ride, they were ranked
#1! We are pretty certain they hold the
world record in warm-weather bobsledding now!
Yay, gold medals!! </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpNC-eWGSDG7-Ood6a0sj_yi4I5XnCaAqypwdwdxrc3AiNyoWm_WCM5K73MFgorGEPPRTbKE-bwFfZ98Fz8XKpKcIntaYLX_5JcbF-EgB6YnfcJXhSSsWWbfbt8lOMFnSEJcchCQ-IO4/s1600/Number+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpNC-eWGSDG7-Ood6a0sj_yi4I5XnCaAqypwdwdxrc3AiNyoWm_WCM5K73MFgorGEPPRTbKE-bwFfZ98Fz8XKpKcIntaYLX_5JcbF-EgB6YnfcJXhSSsWWbfbt8lOMFnSEJcchCQ-IO4/s320/Number+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 1 Ranking belongs to Bryan, Kallie, and Camille!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpUAljQ6rcCQXeMk35AdSCc8B_sCzFI2iNI8T6L88SCPE4hX95Zt47cPb4yJ4-JIxMTVt0focchCCJUYrSDRwG3fMZARNqIOSLUUbT78Q_HHrTB4grRnwLDFkNYMq5_D-96z0a2-fC-I/s1600/Back+to+the+top+of+the+Bobsled+Track.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpUAljQ6rcCQXeMk35AdSCc8B_sCzFI2iNI8T6L88SCPE4hX95Zt47cPb4yJ4-JIxMTVt0focchCCJUYrSDRwG3fMZARNqIOSLUUbT78Q_HHrTB4grRnwLDFkNYMq5_D-96z0a2-fC-I/s320/Back+to+the+top+of+the+Bobsled+Track.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to the top after the Bobsled run</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCtqBGM0fcat2kyeR7jVLCvfJv1f_-NrlFV0xOZiL93zISnDoq5ED_HPieOqnZgWbhiSHxquBXHSo336AyP554ZvceiqdtPYSD7VLWE2zzwbK_RQEB9GqgcDtZRdpPtb85hvKUT-jXQM/s1600/Back+from+Bobsledding+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCtqBGM0fcat2kyeR7jVLCvfJv1f_-NrlFV0xOZiL93zISnDoq5ED_HPieOqnZgWbhiSHxquBXHSo336AyP554ZvceiqdtPYSD7VLWE2zzwbK_RQEB9GqgcDtZRdpPtb85hvKUT-jXQM/s320/Back+from+Bobsledding+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the Bobsled Run - Fastest of the Day!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Utah Olympic Park makes for a fun day trip. In addition to the great rides, they have added a junior and an adult ropes course and are working on another attraction that will be open next summer. The only problem we had was wanting to stay longer and continue to play, but the park closes at 6:00. Bryan had plans for the evening so we didn't linger and shop at the outlet stores this time like we did last year. We have an excuse to go back! </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKECnP4NwXqjPGkLUX-d5RR62V0f877bsw9hDsyMpz7Fqwr4niMSqjqlZ6f3iK472K8rMAwdYdvo72DUGlQ0srtDFMSl8UXD66RzOGNi1Q0qpIPAr78t_wLtowgCkbTUSQjl7-KiWnJM/s1600/First+Chair+lift+ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKECnP4NwXqjPGkLUX-d5RR62V0f877bsw9hDsyMpz7Fqwr4niMSqjqlZ6f3iK472K8rMAwdYdvo72DUGlQ0srtDFMSl8UXD66RzOGNi1Q0qpIPAr78t_wLtowgCkbTUSQjl7-KiWnJM/s320/First+Chair+lift+ride.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chairlift to Zipline</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1NMlFtCLNbWG4qq43gr50Rv-N71AjV0pKc7THXFNKgX_EzczbozqmnkitjZc2PaTGFtNKwKeb6jw81REjuRhIxh-PJWLW8fg86WQxILxInxi5j-sTrFX_fxwNRDfZxa73iXV5N1niUE/s1600/Kallie+Bobsledder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1NMlFtCLNbWG4qq43gr50Rv-N71AjV0pKc7THXFNKgX_EzczbozqmnkitjZc2PaTGFtNKwKeb6jw81REjuRhIxh-PJWLW8fg86WQxILxInxi5j-sTrFX_fxwNRDfZxa73iXV5N1niUE/s320/Kallie+Bobsledder.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kallie ready to slide on Quicksilver</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oySlglWmsgxkCZCPBqYkXD4jhaddGwg0tGQZtBDLwhaWayClBHyeYkNNkj-WDA-v8XciiOIlARJ1JblmqNIPL_Tm6h6TsQ1ZDtDDdDJ8T1MPGBaT1q57tNTWIiOmqNX_dCEzAMhpteM/s1600/Chair+Lift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oySlglWmsgxkCZCPBqYkXD4jhaddGwg0tGQZtBDLwhaWayClBHyeYkNNkj-WDA-v8XciiOIlARJ1JblmqNIPL_Tm6h6TsQ1ZDtDDdDJ8T1MPGBaT1q57tNTWIiOmqNX_dCEzAMhpteM/s320/Chair+Lift.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chairlift to Quicksilver Alpine Slide</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-24915915773316222762012-08-12T21:53:00.000-07:002012-08-12T21:59:31.242-07:00Skunked<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 115%;"> My morning routine begins while it is still dark
with a few laps around the track at Weber High School. I typically walk up the
hill, stretch, and jog 10-12 laps, but this past Monday as I started my first circuit,
I saw something in the shadows moving towards me. Most days I wouldn't be overly concerned because there are joggers, cats, deer, mice, owls,
rabbits and other wildlife often making use of the track; but on this day the
animal ambling towards me was distinctive in its waddle and double white body
stripe. I came to a screeching halt, turned the opposite direction, and ran. I
am almost positive that had I been running alongside the Olympic track athletes
at that moment, I would have taken the gold medal in the Monday Morning Dash and
possibly set a new world record in the event.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 115%;"> When
I finally slowed to a walk, the memory of
a Millard County skunk floated into my memory like a bad smell. I wish I had
been able to run away from that one and the scent that lingered for days back in
1979.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 115%;"> We
knew our chickens were receiving a late-night caller in the form of some kind
of clawed, egg-loving animal. My dad was on alert and had his gun ready on the
third night of disturbances. He rushed out into the dark when the chickens
started making noises; the rest of us were awakened by shots. I'm not sure
which sense first warned my father of type of critter he had killed, but when
he came in, he gruffly instructed my brothers and me,
"Go out and bury the skunk I killed in the coop."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> All
of Hinckley had to have been aware a skunk was in town that morning--it reeked!
Jim, Mark, and I took a flashlight and a shovel down to the chicken coop but could not believe
our poor, watering eyes when we saw the size of the thing lying in the dirt.
The chickens were all huddled in a corner terrified by the racket or possibly nearly </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">asphyxiated by the stench</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">. The surrounding air was so saturated with scent
that it appeared yellow, felt wet, and tasted nasty! The closer we got to the toxic cloud the more painful it was to breathe and see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 115%;"> In
that terrible atmosphere, we debated over the pros and cons of digging the hole
close to the coop so we wouldn't have to move the skunk far OR of digging the
hole across the lot from the coop where the air quality was slightly better,
but we would have to move the body further. We opted to dig a hole close to the
coop, but first we ran back to the house and got wet towels to cover our eyes, noses
and mouths. We each took turns holding our breath and digging a few scoops then
handing the shovel to the next one while we stepped away and breathed through
the wet cloth. When we finally had a sizeable hole, we staggered into the
chicken run and forced the blade of the shovel under the skunk to drag him
through the coop, out the door, and into our waiting hole. We were surprised at
the heft of the dead skunk and argued about how much he weighed through moans, groans,
and streaming eyes. Unfortunately our hole wasn't near big enough for the huge creature.
We stuffed him in as best we could and started mounding dirt on top, hoping a
good Millard County breeze would start clearing the air and that hot showers
would cleanse the smell from us. As I recall, it took quite a number of windy
days and scalding showers to finally deodorize our property and our hair of
that scent.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> Walking home Monday without having completed my morning ritual, my eyes started watering and the back of my throat felt oily from that memory. Then I thought about how fast I had just run and the cardio workout I had experienced without even making one full trip around the track. I realized that a skunk could be a powerful Olympic training tool. What great motivation to move fast! Records are bound to be smashed with that kind of stimulus! Watch out Rio de Janeiro in 2016!</span>
</div>
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Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-69301486525257268132012-07-31T11:35:00.001-07:002012-08-01T11:35:07.451-07:00First Security Bank<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">There
must be many people throughout Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming who own sets of
Cherbourg French Lead Crystal glasses just like the beverage, champagne, and
wine goblets that currently sit in my china </span></span><span style="line-height: 18px;">cabinet</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">. I use them for Sunday dinners
and holiday meals when family and company gather. For many years, these glasses
were stored in their original white cartons with black lettering the way they
came boxed from First Security Bank.</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> During
the 1970s, 13 banks and 153 branch offices comprised the First Security
Corporation. It was the 59th largest bank in the nation. The tellers,
bookkeepers, and secretaries of the Delta branch remember how much work was
involved to balance their credits and debits, just like banks always have, but
unlike more modern banks, they had to do it without relying on the aid of
computers. Long-time employee, Anna Lee Hepworth says that when she worked at
First Security Bank, it closed at 2:00 pm but employees labored with the cash
and checks and 10-key machines until 5:00, accounting for every penny. There
were many more checks to deal with in former days than there are now with today's
electronic banking and credit card expenditures. The many checks had to be sorted
alphabetically, all deductions and payments accounted for, and every deposit
posted. Each transaction was verified and run through two systems of posts and
statements, again with both obliged to come out perfectly balanced before
employees could leave for the day. Yet, with all the time and toil required to
do this job, Mrs. Hepworth says she found great joy in the work, the
camaraderie of the employees, and staying busy all day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Former
employees of the Delta branch boldly proclaim it was 'the best bank with the
best people in the world'. Anna Lee found pleasure in her employment there,
praised the fine managers she worked under, and loves the great friends she
made and has maintained throughout the years. Several of these former employees
continue to meet monthly for lunch. The
'Bank Ladies' look forward to the chance to get together each month and
preserve the friendship they formed back in the days at First Security Bank. While
they eat, they visit about their families and activities; they also reminisce
about things that happened while they were working together. Recently they
recalled that when First Security moved to its new location in 1972, the big, heavy safe was placed
on a wheeled cart and pushed and pulled along the sidewalk on Main Street to
its new home. What a sight that must have been!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>I
remember going with my mom to the bank with my passbook and a check or cash to
deposit. The tellers were always friendly and kind no matter how small the
amount or the customer. They would take the money and mark the new account
total in my little blue book. I remember the vault where the safe deposit boxes
were located and the numbered metal boxes, which required two keys to open. I
remember those "premiums" offered during the late 1970s for savings
account deposits. First Security Bank offered two china dishes or two crystal glasses
for each $50.00 deposited in a savings account. Over the past 35 years my
goblets and my memories of First Security Bank have remained sparkling clear. I now lift a glass in tribute to the Delta Branch of FSB and the wonderful people who
served the community so well and made banking there such a pleasure. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3603918593099737980.post-42085275315099660882012-07-23T05:51:00.000-07:002012-07-23T05:51:45.425-07:00Not Exactly Rodeo Queen Material<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"> <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">When I was thirteen years old, I had
a horse named Buster. The defining attribute of this animal was his attitude.
Buster was naughty! Lynn Talbot, who lived across the street, said that Buster
need to know who was in charge, but Buster always knew exactly who was in
charge--he was! Mr. Talbot loaned me a saddle and bridle until I could purchase
my own, but I could not get Buster to take a bit, so Lynn exchanged the bridle
for a hackamore, with the admonition that I would have even less control of
this horse without a bit between his teeth to remind him of who was in
charge.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> It was exhausting getting Buster
ready to ride. He would kick and stomp his hooves and throw and thrust his
head, he would step away from me just as I would lift the saddle onto his back,
and he would snap his teeth at me as I mounted. Once I was on his back, he
would buck a time or two before he would finally submit to the yanking of reins
and kicking of flanks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> To put it mildly, Buster was
reluctant to be ridden. I could persuade him to walk and at times cajole him
into a trot. I rode Buster all over town trying to convince him that I was in
charge, but a slow pace was all he could muster, at least until I turned him
toward home. Once Buster sensed I was done fighting him, he would gallop at a
terrifying speed back to the house. Both Buster and I would arrive home in a
lather, he from his furious hurtle and me from just hanging on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The one place I could ride Buster
with less aggravation was the rodeo grounds. There, he was willing to canter
around the arena without all the work or the out-of-control, mad dash when we
turned towards home. Perhaps riding in circles kept him wondering which way
home was. We were relaxed and he was relatively well-behaved…at least until we
exited the ring. Once we went through that gate, all bets were off and so was
Buster, recklessly racing back to his hay and to be rid of his rider. This was
our routine for several months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> One day as we rode into the arena, I
was thrilled to see three barrels placed in the familiar triangle figure for
barrel racing and I decided we were going to try it like the beautiful rodeo
queens and grand horses I had watched in that arena over the years. I urged
Buster forward and we trotted through the clover-leaf pattern of the three
barrels finishing with a quick gallop back out the gate (because he thought we
were heading home)...FUN! <o:p></o:p><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;">I had to try that again, but this time with some real speed. I drove the
heels of my boots into Buster’s sides and forced him to gallop at an angle to
the right side of the arena to barrel number one…around we went! Pulling hard,
I convinced him we were headed to barrel number two and then things went south.
As we rounded the barrel, Buster reared and I slipped from the saddle and fell
into the soft soil of the rodeo arena. Even though the fall didn't injure me, I
instantly knew I was in trouble because my boot was caught in the stirrup and
Buster took off pulling me along. He abandoned the plan to circle the third barrel
and was heading straight for the open gate. My head and body were bouncing up
and down through the plowed ground making a cloud of dust as he drug me the
full length of the ring. I was certain this was the end; I couldn't see how to
survive that kind pounding when we came to the gravel and then paved roads, the
ditches, rocks, bushes and other hurdles we would cross between the rodeo
grounds and home--which is where I knew Buster was heading at a dizzying speed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I was struggling with all my might
to free my foot from the boot OR my boot from the stirrup as we flew through
the gate of the arena. I was screaming at Buster to stop, yet I knew it was
completely futile. Just as we entered the parking lot, Buster came to a sudden
halt…He just stopped. I didn’t waste a second, without the pressure of being
pulled by my foot; I could rotate the boot and extricate it from the stirrup. I
jumped to my feet, fully expecting someone to be standing there holding
Buster’s loose reins. But there wasn’t anyone there, at least no one I could
see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Buster allowed me to easily remount
and then he calmly walked out of the parking lot and turned onto the road. It
was the first time he ever returned home at anything less than a frenzied
gallop. As we made our way home, I reflected on the magnitude of what had just
occurred and what very well could have happened. I imagined the pain I would
have experienced being pulled by one foot along this road, I envisioned my
family finding my broken and bloodied body. I started shaking as these images
played through my brain. I was still trembling while I unsaddled Buster,
toweled him down, and gave him oats. I patted his head and went into the house marveling
that I was alive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <o:p></o:p><span style="background-color: white;">Since
then, I have come to the realization that I have a guardian angel. I have
experienced other miraculous interventions which have prevented serious injury
or death. I am certain my guardian angel has had to work harder and put in more
time than her counterparts. She is certainly due a great deal of overtime pay
on reckoning day.</span></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>Georgiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03291840678314592544noreply@blogger.com3