The Think Method

My memories of many Christmases and the gifts I received are a little murky, but something that shines brightly through the haze, was the bicycle I found next to the tree one Christmas morning.  It was a blue Schwinn with chrome accents and a sparkly silver banana seat.  How could anyone possibly forget such a machine?

Of course if you are six (almost seven) and receive a bike for Christmas, you insist on being outside learning to ride it even on a cold December day.  My mom spent the day in her nightgown and robe so she deferred to my dad to be the one to run alongside their child while becoming acquainted with the ways of a bike.

My dad was never known for his patience, but looking back at that episode, I realize he was more than patient with me as he spent a good portion of that winter day running back and forth along the gravel road in front of our house.  What?! A six year old was expected to learn to ride a bicycle on a gravel road? And not just a gravel road, but an ice-incrusted gravel road?  Yep!

One day of running beside me holding onto the bike seat wasn't enough. The next morning we did it again; up and down the road we went.  Finally, dad pried me off that silver seat and rolled the bike to the house.  My knees and elbows were bruised and bloodied from multiple falls, but I didn't want to give up.  He said we would try again when it warmed up.  He parked the bike next to the porch and went in the house.

Over the next few days while dad was at work, I practiced some more.  I didn't succeed in staying upright on the bike.  I did succeed in gathering a few more grazes and contusions.

On the first day back to school, I announced to my class that I had received a bike for Christmas and had learned to ride it.  I don't know what possessed me to tell such a tale and I spent the rest of the day in deep anxiety that I would have to prove my deceitful boast.  After school, my friend, Lynette Hepworth, came home with me, saw the bicycle and expected me to ride it.  With severe trepidation I  wheeled it to the road, climbed onto the sparkly seat and pushed myself off into the gravel.  I moved my feet onto the pedals and started pushing them around.  Suddenly, I was riding.  I wasn't tipping over.  I was really doing it.  I zipped down the road, turned around and came back to where Lynette was standing and skidded to halt spraying gravel behind me.  She didn't seem adequately impressed, but I was in awe at what I had just done.

I have heard people say some things are "like riding a bike", meaning once you learn how to do it, you never forget.  The thing that stuck with me over the years is Professor Harold Hill's 'Think Method' (from The Music Man) isn't unusual, in fact is downright believable!

What are your memories of learning to ride a bike?  Did you learn on a dirt or gravel road?  Have you ever employed the 'think' method to gain a new skill?  Have you ever been saved from a lie by happy accident?

Reporting in...

I wanted to acknowledge and thank those who voted on the fireplace photos and report what I ended up doing with my 'place of fire' mantle.  Here is the empty space: 

Before

 I used a combination of things from the photos, since there really was no clear consensus of voting (thank you anyway, voters!)  Okay, I know it doesn't look anywhere near as beautiful as any of the HGTV fireplaces, but I'm also sure this photo does not do justice to how sparkly it looks in real life.  I used the bottom branches from my tree to add some greenery at the front and then interspersed some gold painted pinecones and twigs. I used gold ornaments and the floral arrangement with touches of gold glitter.  It is good enough for me, it feels warm and festive, and it makes standing at the fireplace toasting my buns even more enjoyable.

After

On other fronts, I did finish finals on Wednesday and last night grades were posted on Canvas.  I ended up with 'A's in both classes.  I am pleased about that, but actually a little melancholy to see my US Institutions class come to an end.  I enjoyed the repartee of other class members and the great instructor who made learning about the Constitution and our American Government so interesting.   I will be taking nine credits next semester (three classes) and since one is on-line, I started on it today.  I know I need a break, but I'm not sure I can afford to take it.  Hopefully the other two campus classes will not be too time consuming during this next semester because I'm afraid this persuasive writing class is going to be INTENSE!

The annual cookie exchange and book club was last night.  I made gingerbread boys and trees for my contribution and had a wonderful evening eating cookies and talking books with ladies I enjoy so much!  

Cutting out dough

Better tasting than they look

I started Christmas shopping yesterday.  I finished Christmas shopping yesterday.  My kids are at the age where it is just easier (and better?) to give them cash.  I've tried doing some online shopping and I spent yesterday at the mall.  I have a few things to wrap and put in stockings, but it is just too hard when the married kids received more household things for their weddings than I own after nearly 30 years of marriage and the unmarried kids are so particular about what they like.  I would never in a million years attempt to buy them clothes, music or video games.  I guess DVDs are safer ground, but even that is kind of a gamble.

I could use some good ideas of gifts for grown children if you have any… I did consider massage coupons, but only because that is what I want for myself…

My By-Line

I can officially claim the title of 'columnist'.  I received my first copy of the Millard County Chronicle in the mail this morning with my name typed below the title, "Rambling Through Time" and above my story about the Spud Nut Shop and glass milk jugs.

Plans are in place for another column next week and the paper's owner, Shellie, has said to keep the stories coming.  I don't know how long she will indulge me and my scribbling of childhood memories, but while it lasts I will enjoy it!

I sent another collection of four stories today and have about a dozen more waiting to be written.  I thought that seemed pretty good when the thought came to me: "There are 52 weeks in a year, Georgia!"  "Can you remember than many things that will be worth writing about?"

Who knows. Maybe my column will be shut down long before my existing stories have been told.  Maybe Shellie will need that space for an ad or an interesting current event.  Perhaps there will be letters to the editor expressing boredom with the recollections of a kid who lived in Hinckley in the 60s and 70s.

Whatever happens is okay  with me, because no one can change the fact that for at least one week I was a columnist and was published in the December 7, 2011 edition of the Millard County Chronicle!

Molecular Makeup of Molasses

This morning as the sun rose over the bitter-cold, snow-dusted landscape of my yard, I thought of how subjective time is in relation to the season.  It seems to me that when the sun is warm, grass is green and I am outside planting and harvesting; time slips through my fingers like water.  But when there is no warmth in the winter sun, when the wind strips leaves from every tree branch, and ol' Mount Ben Lomond himself seems to shiver in the cold; time slows like the proverbial 'molasses running uphill in January'.

I spend a portion of each winter morning warming myself in front of the fireplace.  I feel like a bird on a spit as I rotate myself around trying to roast each section thoroughly.  The fireplace is a gathering place this time of year, yet in warmer months, we scoot a couple of chairs in front of it and you hardly notice it is there.  I've been thinking about decorating the fireplace for Christmas.  It deserves to be honored for the comfort it provides every chilly morning and evening.  I found some HGTV ideas for decorating fireplace mantels.  Please vote for your favorite and I'll attempt to replicate the one that is the most popular.  After all, warming that upward flowing molasses is a big job and should be recognized with some handsome holiday decor.

Fireplace #1

Fireplace #2

Fireplace #3

Fireplace #4

Fireplace #5

I really would appreciate your comments and suggestions about Christmas decorations and the fireplace.  Thanks!

Eating Pets

I received an awesome Thanksgiving card in the mail a couple of days ago.  'Who sends out Thanksgiving cards?' you may well ask...Well, it is the one and only Lisa Paskins.  She is one of my very faithful visiting teachers, a blogging buddy, a good friend and an extreme sender of cards.

On the front of the card it says, "You know you are a redneck..." and on the inside it finishes, "If you have to choose which pet to eat for Thanksgiving."  Lisa thought this was funny because we have both eaten goat meat.  But I have been thinking about it beyond that experience to another random childhood memory.

Jim and I named pretty much every animal on our property (except for chickens, there were just too many chickens).  All of our sheep had funny names.  Jim was a good animal namer and his names reflected the personality of the pet.  We had loads of dogs and cats (see previous blogpost about some pretty snazzy cat names).  We  had ducks, pigs, goats, horses and cows that were named too and one year we had a turkey...

That is where this story begins.  Mom and Dad picked out a young turkey sometime in May or June of 1970 and warnings were issued that it was to be the main course of our Thanksgiving feast that year.  The warnings included the admonition to NOT name the bird because we were going to EAT him in a few months.  But telling a couple of little kids (we were 8 and 5 that year) that they were not to grow attached to a new animal which we fed and watered every day was fairly pointless.  Of course we didn't play with the turkey, he was in a wooden pen with a roof over it, but we would reach through the slats and pet his silky feathers and even though he had a homely face, his plumage was beautiful and we grew fond of him and started calling him Tom.

Tom grew larger and plumper each month through the summer and fall.  Each day, Jim and I would tell Mom that we didn't want to eat turkey for Thanksgiving.  We were happy to have mashed potatoes, stuffing, yams, and all the other stuff, but there was no need to kill Tom.  Jim and I would counsel together about how effective our persuasive arguments were.  We were actually feeling quite confident going into the week of Thanksgiving.  No one had made any more threats about slaughtering our bird and we had ramped up our efforts to stay his execution indefinitely.  Thanksgiving Eve came and Tom was still strutting around in his wooden pen at evening chore time.  If Jim and I knew what 'high fives' were, we certainly would have been slapping them all over the place that night.

The next morning, my Mom was up early peeling potatoes and rolling out pie dough when I got up to do morning chores. She didn't say much more than 'good morning' as I headed out the door. In the early morning gloom, I saw something strewn across the frosty ground as I headed towards the corrals.  As I drew closer, I realized it was feathers.  Lots of feathers.  Turkey feathers.  I rushed to Tom's pen where the lid-like roof was leaning against the side and no one was home.

I rushed back to the house, slamming the back door as I demanded to know what had happened.  Mom explained that Dad waited until Jim and I were asleep last night to butcher the turkey. She plucked and cleaned him and had him roasting in the oven.

I don't remember too many details of most Thanksgiving feasts, but that one is crystal clear because both my brother and I refused any turkey and were extremely morose during the entire meal and rest of that day.  In fact, we may have drug the sullenness on for several more days, I don't recall how many. But one thing I know for sure is our parents never bought a live turkey again.  Of all the animals we raised when I was a kid, we only had one turkey and his name was Tom.

The Case of the Purloined Puddies

Here's a random childhood memory that I recently found stuffed in the recesses of my brain:

     We had packed the old, orange cat we called Barfy in a box when we moved to Pleasant Grove at the beginning of my third grade school year. He howled the entire trip.  Jim and I tried to comfort him in his box sitting between us on the back seat of the car, but he would claw and chew us whenever we tried to hold or pet him.  Near the end of the voyage, we were all as miserable as Barfy and could hardly wait to release him from his cardboard prison.  

     As we pulled up to our new house, his box was the first one opened and the most easily emptied of all those we brought with us because as we lifted it out of the car, he bolted without a backward glance and was gone.  Mom, Jim and I looked for him for months after that, but never saw him again.

     The next fall when we moved back to Hinckley we had been without a cat for nearly a year;  I am sure that was the longest we had ever gone without a feline at our house.  Once settled back into our home and routine, Jim and I started begging for a kitten and Mom started looking for one to join the family.  I don't know where she found the two she brought home, but they were instantly accepted and loved.   They were yellow and white babies from the same litter, but one was much bigger than the other.  I think we must have got the runt and the biggest of the family so it made perfect sense to name the small one 'Itten Bitten Kitten' and the other one 'Biggie Kitty'.  Itten Bitten and Biggie were cute and fun. They would tangle themselves together wrestling and playing, they would bounce and bound around and on top of one another in their wild, cat games. They were very entertaining and we adored them.  Over the next two months, Biggie kept getting bigger, but Itten Bitten didn't seem to grow at all.  

     That next spring we went to visit my Grandparents for a week and left the cats at home with my friend, Lynette, as the animal sitter.  I don't remember much about the trip to Arizona, but I remember as soon as we pulled back into our driveway, bustling out of the back of the truck and running to the "Little House" where the kittens were housed to play with Biggie and Itten Bitten, but they were gone.  My parents made us unpack the truck and get everything into the house before I could call Lynette and find out where the cats were at.  When I did phone, she said she didn't know what had happened to the cats.  One day when she came to feed and water them, they were just gone.  The door was still closed but they had vanished.

     Jim and I mourned over those kittens and talked about them all the time.  A month or more later, we finally learned what had happened to our cats.  Mrs. Taylor who lived around the corner from our place, had her children and grandchildren from Salt Lake City visiting at her house and the kids had seen Itten Bitten climb under the door of the little house.  Biggie was inside meowing for Itten because he was too big to fit under the door and couldn't get out.  So instead of opening the door and putting Itten Bitten back in, they opened the door and let Biggie Kitty out and took them to their grandma's house where they fell in love with them and decided to take them with them when they returned to Salt Lake.

     I was absolutely incensed that Mrs. Taylor would allow her grandchildren to steal our cats.  It changed the way I felt about the woman.  As a ten-year-old, I felt there was something very immoral about an adult who would allow her grandchildren to take kittens home which obviously belonged to her neighbors.  Even today, I still feel a sense of shock and dismay that a grandparent, a set of parents and even children would have thought that was an acceptable behavior.

     After a period of grieving we did replace those kittens with two more.  The new pair was also from the same litter.  They were the same size, but they were not the same color.  One was pure black and the other one was all white except for a black splotch on his forehead. Again, we applied our creative naming skills and called them Blacky and Whitey. 

Family Lexicon

On our recent visit to our son and new daughter-in-law, Lindsey, Rob and I discovered that we had nurtured a tradition with our children which may not be appreciated by their spouses.

We had used some Crouch Family words during our children’s impressionable years that were not necessarily proper or correct which had become such a part of our vocabulary, we forgot that were neither proper nor correct.

Somewhere in Rob’s childhood, the word “Faunchy” became a term to mean ornery, upset or fussy.  I, without question, adopted the word when I married into the family.  We would use it in sentences like: “Quit ‘faunching’ around or you are going to knock over that lamp.”   OR  “He didn't get his nap today so he is really ‘faunchy' this evening.”

It works, don’t you think? 

Unfortunately, Kevin used ‘Faunch’ in a sentence while speaking to Lindsey and was quite adamant it truly was a word.  She argued that no, it was not and the debate landed them in front of the computer trying all possible spellings of the term and finally Lindsey declaring victory. 

Rob and I laughed about it with Bryan and Camille today and started thinking about some of the other Crouch jargon we have mixed into our daily language.  We came up with: “Runerwear” for underwear; “Wipperbuns” for slippers; and “Blessyoud” for a sneeze.  There were several others we chuckled over and then we discovered that all of these were cute things the kids had said when they were little that we just adopted into our everyday terminologies.   Perhaps I should notify the Webster’s Dictionary people and submit these as new and useful words for publication in their next edition.

Do you have expressions you have developed and use which only your family knows the meaning of?  How were those words/phrases developed?  How many generations have used these words?  Please use them in a sentence for me.  Otherwise, I might get faunchy!

Restaurant Review

I had such a fun Saturday.

I got to eat at three different restaurants for the three meals of the day.

This morning was our Stake Relief Society training. 

It wasn't so much of a training as it was a 'training table' at Jeremiah's on 12th Street in Ogden with a breakfast buffet (including scones!).

I was able to see and visit with some of the lovely women of our stake who serve in Relief Society presidencies in other wards.

Afterwards, I came home and hung out with Camille and Rob for a couple of hours and then I went and picked up my friend, Lisa.

We drove to the Noodles on Riverdale Road where we met up with three other girls who are former UIC employees.

We laughed together and consoled and congratulated one another while we ate bowls of yummy noodles.

One just had a baby seven weeks ago; one lost her husband to cancer eight weeks ago; one is going through a divorce and another is dealing with an unhappy home life. 

I left feeling blessed to know all four of them.

It was a therapeutic event, at least for me.

Back home,  I hung out for another couple of hours while I waited to eat again.

Rob and I left at 5:00 to head to Logan where we picked up Kevin and Lindsey and went to dinner at El Toro Viejo.

We enjoyed visiting with our cute, little married couple before heading back into the cold to find the 

Riter Mansion.

This was the location of the wedding reception of Lance and Katelyn Bosworth.  

Lance is the son of one of my oldest friends, Lynette.

Now, that is not to say that Lynette is old, it is just that I've known and loved her longer 

than almost anyone else.

Lynette is another Hinckley resident.

We have been friends since we were four years old.

We have stayed friends for 45 years.

It was a wonderful Saturday and now I'm going to go to bed. 

I'm stuffed, I'm happy, I'm content and I'm tired!

Stitches

Bryan has had stitches twice in the past two months.  Those dark blue or black threads tied up in little knots have reminded me of the stitches (and staples) I've experienced in the past.  Being cut and stitched closed is horrible.  I mean it is wonderful that the human body can heal itself and that if the edges of sliced skin are brought back together it can heal with less of a scar.  But just thinking about having stitches, makes the back of my knees ache and causes the bad kind of chills down my spine.

The winter I was in fifth grade at Hinckley Elementary School, it was bitterly cold and nearly all the pipes in our house froze.  We had a couple of episodes with broken pipes that winter in the new addition my Dad was putting on our house. Broken pipes are almost as terrible as stitches in skin.  When the temperature drops to a certain level, leaking or spraying water immediately turns to ice so we were having to use a blowtorch to melt ice so we could mop up the water.   My poor parents were buying heat tape and wrapping every pipe in the house, but for a good month the only running water in the house was in the tub of one bathroom.  We hauled buckets of water to the kitchen to cook and clean with.  We had to haul water to the laundry room to wash clothes.  We had to haul water from the tub in the far bathroom outside to water the animals.  It was truly a horrendous time.  At this point, my father was working feverishly to finish the addition so we could heat that part of the house.  He installed the windows at almost the same time the HVAC guys were there installing the new furnace.  Why do I remember this all so well?   Because on an especially frigid Saturday morning I was hauling a five-gallon bucket of water.  I weighed about 75 pounds and had sticks for arms, so I would use momentum to swing the bucket forward a few feet, take a step and do it again.  This was how I moved the bucket through the house to the back door.  Leaning against the wall by that door was a window that had just been broken during the rush to finish the addition.  Something had fallen through the glass leaving a gaping hole with giant shards surrounding it.  As my luck and the accident-proneness in me would have it, I lost my balance and fell right into that broken window.  Of all the places inside and outside the house I could have tumbled while toting that bucket of water, it had to be right into a broken window.  I must have shot out my left arm to catch myself and it went right through the hole.  I vividly remember that giant chunk of flesh hanging open and the amount of blood that immediately washed the area.  What I don't remember is how I alerted my Mom to my plight and how freaked out she must have been.  It seems like she was extremely calm.  She had the presence of mind to ask one of the HVAC guys if my artery was cut.  Maybe she was trying to determine if it would be worth the six-mile drive into Delta to find a doctor.

We did make the journey, with me in the back seat soaking blood into every towel my mother owned.  Dr. Lyman began by cleaning the wound by irrigating it with something that stung like the dickens.  Then he draped it and started sticking needles all around it to numb the area.  He determined that there were five severed vessels and a few damaged nerves as well.  He spent a couple of hours stitching inside before making 15 stitches on the outside to close the gash.  Then he did the cruelest thing of all, he gave me a Tetanus shot in my right arm.

When we got back home late that afternoon, my Dad had disposed of the window and had done his best to clean up the blood.  I was grateful for that.  He helped me prop the injured arm on a pillow to sleep that night and he sat and talked with me.  I didn't realize it then, but he felt so much guilt about my injury.  I knew very well that I had only my own clumsiness to blame and didn't even consider being upset with him about the broken window.  It wasn't until I became a parent that I finally understood what he was going through that night.

For the next several days I was in agony, not from the cut wrist, but from that Tetanus shot.  I was using my injured left hand to do things while I allowed my right arm to hang uselessly at my side because it hurt from my shoulder to my hand and was too painful to move.

For years after that incident, you could tell when I was cold because my scar would turn the most vivid shade of purple.  In the 40 years since that happened I wish I had kept track of the number of people who have asked me, upon seeing my scared wrist, if I had tried to commit suicide.  If I did, it was a completely subconscious attempt.

A Little More Lamenting

Okay, I am not going to say ANYTHING about the track except it is STILL locked.  End of topic.

But, my heartstrings were tugged at yesterday while driving down Washington Boulevard.  Blocks before I reached 22nd Street, I could see the giant crane looming over the temple block and tears sprung to my eyes. As I drew nearer, I could see the hollowed out shells of two beloved buildings above the 8-foot-high fence encompassing the entire grounds.  There was also an enormous mound of dirt towering over the height of the fence lending to the feeling of wreckage and destruction.

Photo from six weeks ago before the crane was set up and
the enormous pile of dirt appeared.

I miss the Ogden Temple.  I miss our Tabernacle.  We have attended Stake Conference in our ward building twice now. Watching a transmission on a little screen is less than satisfying and I detest sitting on the hard, folding metal chairs in the cultural hall.  I miss those lovely, padded theater-type seats in the tabernacle.

As much as I miss the tabernacle, I miss the temple a thousand times more.  How I long for the 15-minute drive and close & convenient parking.  Since the Ogden Temple closed, we have attended the Provo, Bountiful and Logan Temples and have appreciated those opportunities, but I have to admit to feeling a little out of place and disassociated compared the feeling of belonging I had always experienced in Ogden.

It has only been six months since the Ogden buildings were closed; demolition isn't even concluded yet.  With two and half more years of feeling sad over the closures of these  dearly loved buildings still to come, I realize what a joy it will be to have the new structures completed.  I guarantee I will never take them for granted again.

Artist rendition of how the new Ogden Temple will look.

Even as a child, I didn't tolerate alterations to routines without a fuss.  I know things change, but it doesn't mean that I handle it well.  I apologize for all my whining lately. I will try get through this bravely; anticipating the new beautiful temple and tabernacle… although, I think it would be helpful if someone would just unlock the gate to the track!

Lamenting my Loss

I know I have spent far too much time and space in this blog talking about the track at Weber High School, but just let me vent for another minute or two and then I'll be quiet.

The week before school started (that would have been the middle of August), all three gates of the track were chained and padlocked.  I figured that school officials were concerned about vandalism from disgruntled students having to return to school and that it would soon be opened.  I checked each day including the day school started, but everything was still locked up tight.

Two weeks later, big banner-type signs were displayed at the gates stating "Track Closed Next Two Weeks, Major Construction".   Okay, I can wait for two more weeks and continue to walk/run the streets of my town while I wait for my track to reopen...

Well, I want to point out that it is October 11, the signs are still displayed saying "...Two Weeks..."  Hello! Does anyone realize how much I need the track reopened?  Are they aware of how annoyed I am about walking up the hills with headlights in my eyes, dodging sprinklers, skirting potholes, slipping on gravel, and being startled by pets?  Don't they realize how frustrating it is to rattle a locked gate every morning?  Who would think someone could miss running in circles so much?!

Apparently, they are putting in a whole new track.  I forlornly peer through the chain link fence at the top of the hill on the west end each morning to see if they have made any progress (not much!).  Camille tells me that the new surface will be red when it is complete (who cares?)  I just want the track to reopen before it snows.

Thank you for allowing me my temper tantrum for the day.

Visit this Wiki Map to see a bird's eye view of Weber High School including the old track.  You can also see the Canal Road running east/west above the school grounds.  This is a fairly good running alternative, except for all the dog walkers who don't clean up after their pets (just one more little tirade...okay, now I'm done.) http://wikimapia.org/#lat=41.3240229&lon=-111.9822264&z=17&l=0&m=b

Marking Time

I know it was six months ago because I was listening to the Saturday morning session of Conference while I was out working in my garden.  I was tending tiny little lettuce, spinach and cilantro plants and pulling weeds and spreading mulch to be tilled over the rest of garden.  I was making decisions about what I would plant this year while being nourished by the good word.

Here six months later, I spent a couple of hours between Conference sessions cutting down the tall, dry cornstalks at the other end of my garden in preparation for the winter months ahead.  We harvested so many delicious ears of corn which nourished our bodies and I was able to cut and freeze many bags of corn to feed us until we have fresh corn on the cob again.

I am constantly amazed at how quickly time passes and things and people who come and go.  Marking time and looking back at things that have changed over time fascinates me.  I also like to look ahead and think of what will be new and different in another marked period of time.  I wonder how things will be and how I will feel in April 2012?  Maybe I'll spend some time in the garden anticipating another season of growth.