The Eye of the Needle

Grandma Rice used to have quilts set up in her living room. Mother would go over and help her sew, not tie them, while we sat quietly underneath and pretended to be in a little neat tent on some wonderful adventure, sort of a magic carpet upside down. Mother used to sew fabulous quilts out of something soft and satiny, but she was always good at threading the needle. For the purposes of today's blog, we are just talking about Grandma, for reasons I'll explain.

Grandma also used to embroider pillow cases, and crochet the edges as well. She taught me a little bit about it, let's say she tried. The most fascinating part was trying to tie those little french knot stitches. Hers were nice and tight. Mine were like blobs of ink. The concentration was such that you stuck your tongue out while trying to get them to work.

The point of all this is that she reached a time where she couldn't see well enough to get the thread through the needle and would just ask me to do it. That was cool, but in the back of my mind, I thought: "It's right there, big as the sky. How can you not see it?" It took me all of two seconds to thread it and hand it back to her WA LA. She had one of those little gizmos where you somehow attach the thread to it, shove the little pointed metal thing through the eye, and there ya go. I never even tried it out, why bother, being Miss Eagle Eye?

Tonight I sat down to do my yearly mending, hemming a sleeve that had come undone on a blouse and lowering the hem on a pair of slacks. I dug out my "sewing box", which in a former life was a Christmas cookie container. It's a pretty thing and I can cram all my sewing stuff into it, seeing as I don't need all that much. I had left a needle and thread all ready to go from last time, so fixed the sleeve in a flash. Then I had to "refuel." My goodness, you'd have thought little elves had come in the night and fused the eye shut!

I tried it with my glasses on. I tried it with my glasses off. I even stuck out my tongue for effect! It was ridiculous. I moved my arms around like a conductor trying to thread that needle and finally accidentally got it through, a big relief. But then, I ran out of thread again! I wasn't as lucky the second time...other than my grandson came by for a few minutes...so I pretended to be like Grandma and asked him for help.

The most wonderful thing happened. He couldn't do it either! We decided the eye of the needle was much too small, the thread was probably poor quality, and the lighting wasn't good from that dumb lamp.

Apparently it's a genetic thing.

As The World Turns...

Got a phone call yesterday while I was at the grocery store, but didn't recognize the number so just let it go to voice mail. I paid for the groceries, put them in my car and checked the message as I slid into my seat.

It was Bishop Pectol's voice saying something about a "glass ball and flames" but "all was well." He said something about they left it by my front door. When I got home there indeed was a little box by the door. Inside it was a little fire extinguisher, empty, and the strangest thing underneath in the bottom. It looked like a burned glass sphere...which it was...a little 3-inch glass ball with fish in it that I got at the Dollar Store and put out in a little spot in the yard at least two months ago.

Robin Pectol had been driving by and noticed what looked like a little smoke out back. She circled around just to make sure everything was ok. Lo and behold, the smoke turned to flames around a decorative glass ball, which just happened to be sitting on some bark chips. She tried to kick up some dirt to put out the flames, but could see that wouldn't work, so she called her husband to bring a bucket of water QUICKLY. He drove over with a fire extinguisher, which didn't quite do the trick. They ran to my neighbor's and together put out the fire with the hose.

Pretty good neighbors, huh? It's an interesting feeling to find out everything you have has been threatened while you were out, but you don't have to worry about it. Indeed, all was well.

It was the weirdest thing. After all summer of sitting in the same spot, it chose yesterday to instantaneously combust. The effect was exactly like those little magnifying glasses we kids held in the sunlight until the paper started to burn, like magic. The globe was still warm to the touch an hour later; the glass on the bottom charcoal black. Sobering.

I can't imagine the odds it took for it to catch on fire at that time. Even greater seem the odds that Robin was driving by just when it started, that her husband who just happens to manage Emergency Essentials in Orem, was handy and prepared, not to mention Reggie, next door, being at home and having his hose available.

I walked all around the yard to see if there was anything else that might cause a similar scenario, since I set out a lot of things for kids to enjoy as they walk by the house.

Thanks to EVERYONE involved! And now, like Paul Harvey used to say, you know the rest of the story.

Prayers answered each and every day...

Swan Song

While sitting in my hot tub tonight, I noticed that the crickets have lost some of their enthusiasm. Instead of sounding like the Tabernacle Choir, they're sounding more like a family reunion group, a little draggy and off-beat. Methinks the "first chairs" have gone where there's a little more S'uthun accent.

The summer nights have been as bold and expansive as Gregory Peck swooping across the valley on his horse to the strains of "Shenandoah" in How the West Was Won.

The music of Fall is always wistful to me, like a beautiful song you wish would go on and on, like Shari Lewis and Lambchop's "This is a song that never ends; it just goes on and on my friends..."

Why is it that a song you love ends way before you wish, but one you don't like at all seems to have never-ending lyrics?

That's how I feel about fall and winter, consecutively.

On a more cheerful note, I looked at the calendar and noticed there are nine more paydays til Christmas. Ho Ho Ho

Snip Snip Snip

Since I'll be working in Provo rather than Orem starting September 1st, I've been trying to figure out a working morning schedule, so as not to be late at the new office. I'll need to find an extra ten minutes to add to the routine to be prompt, either that or find somewhere to cut out ten minutes from the current routine. One thing I know for sure is I don't want to drag my body out of bed ten minutes earlier!

You know how you fight with your hair more and more every day until you know it's time for a haircut? Well, this past week has been increasingly like that. If they had an "I can't come into work today because my hair is just not cooperating at all" leave clause, I'd have used it.

For some reason, my thoughts got tangled up and I thought it might be a clever idea to get a shorter haircut, thus gaining a few more minutes in my schedule. This is probably similiar to ideas that seem good when one is imbibing in alcohol, but is not so in this case. While I was waiting for the stylist to finish up on another client, I looked through those big shiny books they leave lying around and found a style that looked really good on a woman of my age. She had beautiful silver hair, which thanks to Sally Beauty, mine is not. I admire people who can carry that off, but have seen "what lies beneath" on my head and it's an ugly salt/pepper, not attractive at all.

I like my stylist a lot and we always chatter away pleasantly. Somewhere in the translation of the photo in the book to her scissors today, we missed the communication link, probably by a couple of inches. No hair on my head is now currently longer than 3/4 of an inch. My son's friend, Stirling, just got off his mission Thursday and when Kyle saw me today, he said "Mom, Stirling has hair longer than that!" So you get the picture.

I washed it, put light gel in it, blew it dry with my head upside down, put some hair spray on the roots...and absolutely nothing happened. I look like Mary Martin in Peter Pan, only with dark hair and no green tights. To curl it would take an iron the size o a Qtip.

The positives are: 1-People are too kind to say "Whatever happened to your hair?" 2-I won't have to get another haircut for months or even buy new shampoo this year (as Kyle pointed out) and 3-I'll save some time in the mornings, probably enough to take up dancing or something.

I bought a new pair of dangling earrings in some wild hope that people would notice those and not the cut; at least it'll give them something to say. Sort of along the lines of a friend with a less-than-beautiful baby you see for the first time. You can always say "What a sweetheart, and such a lovely blanket!"

As they say, "The only difference between a good haircut and a bad one is six weeks." So that will be approximately Oct 2nd...

Colleen

My best friend growing up was Colleen McDemott, grade school through high school. We lost regular contact after graduation, but saw each other now and then. My mother told me that she had heard Colleen had a disease that was probably fatal. I'd just had Nik and decided to wait until I had time to write her a nice long letter rather than just a note. A few weeks later my mother called to tell me that my sweet friend had fallen down some stairs, gone into a coma and passed away. I was filled with regret that I hadn't just found her phone number or dropped her a card rather than waiting to do it "right." It haunted me for years but did motivate me to pick things up a notch and respond more timely. I had a wonderful visit with her parents a few years back before they passed away, and they were as sweet as ever.

Eleven days ago my daughter in law, Dayna, called to tell me that my former sister-in-law had been ambulanced from Vernal to the Provo Hospital with cancer and was only expected to live five more days. I just happened to have that afternoon off so rounded up Nik and my granddaughter and went down to the hospital. I wasn't sure what reception I would get after 17 years but decided it didn't matter...it was worth a try since I'd always thought she was a sweetheart. I gingerly walked into her room and was greeted by a big "KAY, how good to see you!" She gave me a wonderful 20-second hug and we visited like old friends for half an hour or so. They hadn't run tests yet and she didn't know the diagnosis, so it was a positive experience. She certainly didn't seem like someone who only had a few days left on earth.

The next day they ran tests, found it throughout her body and started chemo Thursday. She got steadily worse, slipped into a coma and passed away last night. It made me feel good not to have waited, because there would never have been another opportunity to visit with her before it was too late. Two nights ago I couldn't sleep because I hurt all over so was just lying there thinking. The most incredible thought came to me. It wasn't just that I had made a quicker response, though that was a big deal. I realized that both of these women were named Colleen, the only two Colleens I have ever known. Quite the coincidence, huh?

It was as if it were a gift from Heaven, a comfort from my old friend to fill that hole that never would fill. Finally, after 29 years, I can let that sorrow go.

My condolences to Dennis and family at this sad time for them. God bless.

Disneyland!

Well...almost, anyway. I'm not sure if it's Mickey or Minnie personally visiting our house, hopefully just one or the other.

Yesterday while I was at work, my visiting granddaughter sent me an email and started the following conversation:

"I had to get on to tell you, YOUR KITTY BROUGHT IN A MOUSE! The good news is I safed it but the bad news is it's still inside your house...."

Me: "Do you know where it is? "

She: "Under the couch, It is soooooooooooo cute!"

Me: "Well, try to scoot it out with a broom or something ok? It's better to let her get it so it doesn't die in the house and rot."

She: "I was going to move the couch and let her get it. She is trying don't worry. And the door is open so it can run out." (She apparently wants both of them to live happily ever after, just like at Disneyland.)

Last night after I got home from work, Kyle, who was unaware of the day's scenario, casually mentioned: "Mom, by the way, there's a mouse in my room." I said, "So that's where it went! Swirl had it." He said: "No, this one's alive." (Such is Swirl's remarkable reputation for causing mice demise.) I said: "No, Teelay tried to save it." That lead him to a discussion with her on feline instincts and not interrupting the cycle of life.

I told Kyle maybe he should let Swirl sleep in his room last night. He declined, and I fear Mickey/Minnie is still visiting us...perhaps seeking some weekend party rate.

As for me, I'm keeping the door to my room shut 'round the clock til further notice.

Those Loaf Things

While driving through almost the entire State of Utah this past weekend, I saw a lot of hay fields, no doubt "first crop". The first crop was the heaviest and came in June. The second crop was ready 4-6 weeks later. If you were lucky you got a third and perhaps tiny fourth crop; then it was into hauling straw after the fall grain harvest. Hauling straw makes you feel very strong.

The memories took me back. The hay-hauling itself doesn't hold any good spots in the memory bank, and thankfully I don't remember the time before baling, the days of derricks and forks and farmhands stacking it by hand. It was SO much work, always SO hot, and seemed SO thankless. There were always leaves flying down your neck and pokey things scraping you and sometimes the twine would give way and you'd have a big mess to gather up. Those alfalfa bales could weigh a horrendous amount if packed tightly. Some of them were even hard to roll. Dad used to try to make smaller bales, "lady bales", or something he called them. We got good at loading them and tying the special knot on the back of the load. He was proud of us, not a slacker in the bunch. It was always such a roll of the dice as to whether or not it would rain at the wrong time, or hail or blow, or all three. If you stacked bales that had moisture in them, your haystack and barn could all burn down from heat combusion...plus they could rot and make the cows sick. (Farmers don't have it easy.)

Anyway, it was so fun to see Dad out cutting down the hay. Raking it was easy, since you got to ride the tractor all day. The hardest part of raking was not getting sunburned. The smell of newly-mown hay is wonderful, better than fresh cut lawn even. (I suspect this is why I splurged and bought my red riding mower a few years ago, all the fun part and none of the work, simulated farming if you will.)

The gigantic bales of hay out in the fields from this weekend, created by special gigantic machinery, reminded me of a comment somebody once made: "What are those big loaves doing out in the field there?" It made me laugh.

Summer Nights

It's nights like these that bring back old fond memories of childhood games.

Remember Mother May I? Someone, "Mother", would stand at the end of the lawn and everyone else would be "Child" players. We would take turns asking permission to make certain moves, such as: "Mother, may I take ten baby steps...or...Mother, may I take two tree falls...or...Mother, may I take three giant strides...or run until you say stop?" If you ever moved without her permission, like Simon Says, you had to go back and start all over again.

"Mother" would then say "Yes, you may...or No, you may not." The first one to reach "Mother" would be the winner. In retrospect, what an unfair game! And worse yet, there was some unwritten rule that if you cheated and got away with it, good for you. If "Mother" didn't see you do something, you got away with it. Probably not a very good game, all in all.

Then there was freeze tag where "It" ran around, and the person who got touched by "It" had to freeze in place until another player touched them and set them free. Goodness knows what this was about.

There was hide and go seek and a game we played about hiding behind numbered trees. It seems like there were something like 5 trees. "It" would say: "Pauline behind tree #2!" If that guess was correct, Pauline had to step out. If that was wrong, "It" had to guess again.

Before my time, there was Kick the Can, which sounds kind of fun.

My dad had a furry coat that he would wear, always approaching dark. All I remember about this game was how dang scary it was. We would tauntingly chant "No-o bears out tonight! Daddy killed 'em all last night!" Then he, or whoever was wearing the coat that game, came lumbering out while we all squealed our guts out. Once he somehow broke his finger playing this game and was so humiliated, he didn't tell us for years.

You might call it cheap thrills :o)

One Size Doesn't Always Fit All

Today is an important day, Father's Day. I'm blessed to still have my dad on this earth and have been thinking about him a lot today...and about gloves.

There are many kinds of gloves. Some are soft and fleece-lined. Some are like ski gloves that keep your hands warm but don't allow for much flexibility. There are gloves just for looks, like ladies wear at fancy dances. Then you have the leather ones to protect the hands when serious work is being done, like fencing and such.
My favorite pair of gloves are Isotoner-like and wonderful for driving and keeping out a little chill. Of course there are boxing gloves and batting gloves and mitts, but right now I'm talking about the other kind.

As with gloves, which have basic similarities, one size doesn't necessarily always fit all...and it's the same with dads.

My dad is the leather-glove-like kind of dad, the one you need when there is hard work to be done. He's never been afraid of tackling a project, has always been responsible and gone the extra mile. He's up before the crack of dawn and doesn't go home til the job is done. He never has to be reminded to do anything and never passed onto someone else something he didn't want to do.

For years I thought weeds didn't grow in gravel, since I didn't see any in the gravel driveways on the property. Then I realized he spent hours spraying weeds or pulling them out by hand. No magic gravel after all. When we went to mow the lawn, we never had to find the mower or see if it had gas in it. There was no risidual grass gunked under it either, and the blade was always sharp. No magic there either, apparently.

It doesn't matter. I still think my dad is magic! Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Elvis has left the building...

My parents had a bird, seems like it was a magpie but don't quote me, that would come sit on their roof each year. It visited for several years and became such a solid fixture that they even named it...Elvis. One year Elvis didn't come back.

After spending the night in my room with the door closed very tightly, trying not to have dreams of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, I got up wondering when and where we would find the errant fowl's remains.

As Gomer Pyle used to say: "Surprise! Surprise!" There, fluttering by the back sliding door, was the bird, (not sure if was Elvis or Priscilla) but it was definitely wanting out. Swirl, the cat, was sleeping in the chair by the door. I walked over, slid open the door and hoped for the best. After a minute, it hopped out and looked around. I didn't see any way it could possibly fly, but more "surprise", it took off and flew over the carport!

Maybe that was because it wasn't weighed down with all those missing feathers we have been trying to sweep up for over a day. Did you ever try to sweep up little soft feathers? They either stick to the broom like little children whose mother is leaving without them or they scoot ahead of the broom like a fly does when you swing the swatter.

Anyway, Folks, Elvis has left the building and I'm so glad!