THREE OBSERVATIONS FROM A TRIP TO COSTCO

1-Once a bully, always a bully! A large, belligerent looking woman with a Dutch Boy haircut followed me into the warehouse. She snatched a cart and tailed me so closely that if I had stopped, she would have rammed me. She continued her pursuit as I turned into the book aisle. If I stopped, she stopped. If I moved, she moved, keeping her cart mere inches from my backside. She didn’t appear to even be looking at the books. Apparently her purpose was to keep me moving along. Perhaps she was the self-appointed book aisle monitor: “Just grab one as you glide past, folks! No stopping or browsing permitted.” Never mind that you might end up with a cookbook when you wanted an atlas! Well, anyone who knows me will realize that she was “messin’ with the wrong guy!” I stood my ground in front of the paperbacks and leisurely perused several of them while she fumed and fidgeted. I looked around to make sure I was not blocking her way. There were no other people nearby and she could have easily gone around. When I was finished, I moved on and she moved on right behind me, never showing a modicum of interest in the books in that area. She seemed motivated entirely by the desire to intimidate. I pitied her hapless classmates of yesteryear, as I envisioned a flashback of her as a tyrannical fifth grader terrorizing the playground. The low self-esteem that often spawns such bizarre behavior made me realize I should pity her also.

2- I came upon one shoe lying alone and abandoned in the middle of the condiment aisle. The sight of this caused me to reflect on what I call the “Lone Shoe Mystery.” I frequently notice a solitary shoe lying in the middle of the road. Doesn’t it seem rather odd for someone to be driving along when all at once one of his or her shoes disappears out the car window? And why does it seem to happen so often? Could it be Gremlins? If you are watchful the next time you are driving, you will likely see at least one stray shoe somewhere on your route. I wonder if these people arrive at their destinations and exclaim, “Great Scott, I could have sworn I left home with both shoes!” Quinton has a box of five or six spouseless shoes on a shelf in the garage and no idea where their mates might be. I suspect that those vagabond shoes are out there at this very moment littering the streets. Perhaps the whole shoe mystery could have been solved if I had rounded the bend into that aisle moments sooner and actually witnessed the person’s shoe fall off as he put a jar of mayonnaise into the cart, and then limped along to the pickles, oblivious to the fact that something was missing!

3-It was one-thirty in the afternoon when I entered Costco. I had eaten a very meager breakfast, no lunch, and I was ravenous. I decided I would take advantage of the tasty samples handed out in the food section. While this was admittedly not the healthiest meal of my life, here is what I had: One bite of white cupcake with gooey frosting, a Tablespoonful of tortellini with cheese sauce, one small slice of spicy sausage, a sip of Naked Juice, and two other things in tiny white cups that I cannot remember. Then I slipped back to the bakery section for another bite of cupcake, hoping the demo lady wouldn’t remember me. Before leaving the store I bought a bottle of water from the vending machine and downed it on the way home. Now this is the honest truth…20 minutes later I felt stuffed!! After drinking the water, I was full and didn’t feel the temptation to eat another thing all the way till dinnertime. My epiphany for the day was that I could eat much less, expand it by drinking lots of water, and not even approach starvation. The part of our brain that tells us we are full doesn’t kick in until about 20 minutes after we stop eating. By then, if we have continued to shovel it in just because it still tastes good, we will be chomping antacids by the handful. I also realized that in that 20 minute interval I could have polished off the entire box of cupcakes, (if the demo lady hadn’t been looking) and the management would have had to wheel me to my car on one of those big flat bed carts!

A GALLOP TO REMEMBER

I recall riding a beautiful, brown horse through the mountainous slag heaps that were piled up around the coalmines of Lancashire County, England. It’s something of a miracle that I remember anything at all about that grey, drizzly afternoon when I was only twelve years old.

I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!

I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.

When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.

Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.

After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.

All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.

Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.

I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.

The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.

Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.

After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”

He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.

After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.

The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.

We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.

Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.


This event occurred in England
Probably in1956

BARBIE DOLLS

“The Barbies are ruining my mind!” was my granddaughter’s reply when asked why she no longer played with the glamorous doll whose long legs and glitzy wardrobe defy reality. Instead, she carried around an American Girl doll, which actually resembled a little girl and did not own a brassiere!

I was amazed at the wisdom set forth by this seven year old.

Many of us march absent-mindedly through life neither identifying nor confronting the things that might be “ruining our minds.” They are often minor things, but could be anything that has become an obsession or that takes precedence over things of value. They are things that gradually erode our thoughts and carry us off course.

The scale is wide and includes an infinite assortment of hollow distractions. There is something for everyone. For me, Barbie dolls are not a problem, but there are plenty of other things that could be “ruining my mind.” For others it might be video games, Internet surfing, soap operas, gambling, the Sports Channel, anything done to excess and running in the opposite direction from “Improving our minds.”

I applaud the decision of my young granddaughter to leave behind an activity that she feels does not mesh with her goals. She understands that the flashy lifestyle portrayed by the doll is shallow and artificial, and not where she wants her focus to be.

Her insightfulness has blazed a trail for all to follow.

“And a little child shall lead them.”
Isaiah 11:6

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM MY JOURNALS

I first started keeping a journal in 1981.  I began by writing weekly, typewritten entries, but I soon realized that by the end of the week many of the interesting details of daily doings in a large family had drifted away, or all run together and lost their spontaneity.  

In April of 1982, I decided to keep a daily, handwritten journal.  I bought several blank page books covered in brightly printed fabric.  They were visually stimulating, and I figured they would keep me motivated.  They did, indeed, and I kept a daily journal continuously for the next nine years. Then for some reason I lapsed.  I didn't write regularly from 1991 through 1999.  During those years, however, I kept notes on a calendar and wrote an annual synopsis of important events at the end of each year.  Then in 2000 I bought an Ansel Adams day-planner, and started making daily entries again.  I have faithfully kept a daily journal since that time.

What have I learned from all this journal writing? 

 

1-Things that seemed routine or ho-hum at the time become vitally interesting 25 years down the road.  As I made daily entries,  I often thought such things as, "Who cares if Quinton, riding in the grocery cart, turned around while I wasn't looking,  grabbed the cottage cheese, removed the lid and dumped it out over all the other groceries?"  At the time it was just a very messy situation, now it is a hilarious memory!

2-Most of the crises and catastrophies that seemed so devastating at the time are no longer even relevant to my life.  "Time heals all wounds" is a truth.  Many of the seemingly overwhelming problems and issues just evaporated, often in a matter of only a few days or weeks.

3-Reading a journal entry from the past is like re-living a section of your life.  Its possible to retain a memory of an event without a journal, but writing it down brings it back with its full scope of emotions.

4-I've learned not to leave out the bad stuff.  Its a natural tendency to want only to write about the happy, smiley-face moments, but this is not real.  The bad stuff happens, and to have an accurate account of your life, it must be included.  As I said earlier, it will surprise you how irrelevant these shadowy moments in your life become as time erases, or at least diminishes them.

5-Several of my ancestors kept journals that are valuable to me beyond measure.  Durant Litchfield, my great, great grandfather kept a day by day account of his experiences as a soldier in the Civil War.  My grandmother, Loana Pickering Griffiths, wrote a detailed account of her childhood in the LDS colony in Alberta, Canada.  I love and cherish these writings.

I wonder if my ancestors ever wondered if anyone would really be interested in what they wrote.  I'm glad Grandfather Litchfield didn't say, "I don't think I'll bother to write anything today. Who cares about the boring, daily activities in camp.  Who cares that President Abraham Lincoln visited our company this week."  I'm glad my Grandmother Griffiths thought it worthwhile to write that her father took her and her sisters to school on horseback on days when the sub-zero temperatures of a Canadian winter prevented them from walking, but that on one occasion when they arrived at the school, the doors were frozen shut and they had to turn around and go back home.  

Great stories, all!  Aaron confiscating Ben's shoes is a great story, as is the cottage cheese incident, the Blue Donkey incident,  the dead mice dressed in doll's clothes incident, the "Nephi and the brass plates of Laban" re-enactment that frightened Mia out of her wits, and every other fun, terrifying, delightful, miserable or just plain ho-hum thing that happens in the course of the day. 

Write it down.  Someone, sometime, is going to just love it! 

A POEM FROM THE DISTANT PAST

This is for Mia, because I read the great poem she wrote on her blog and told her I would post one I had written when I was a child.  I wrote this poem when I was 8 years old for a school assignment.  The teacher thought it was too good for an 8 year old to have written, and accused me of copying it from a book.  My Mom (Grandma Kay) was furious, because she had been sitting with me when I wrote it.  She stomped over to the school and told that teacher a thing or two!!  Here is the poem:

THE BLACK STALLION

When everyone has gone to bed,

For the stallion comes at night,

He comes and goes without a sound

Just like a flash of light.

He lets the corralled horses free

And runs off to the plains.

The cowboys get up just in time

To see their flying manes.

They've tried to catch him many times.

He's the wildest horse out West.

They chase him over hill and dale,

But he always turns out best.

WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT???

In the small southern Colorado town of San Luis there stands a beautiful, old Catholic santuario situated at the top of a hill. A trail winds up the hill to the church, and along the route the traveler encounters several shrines and statues, which represent the various Stations of the Cross.

A couple of months ago there was an incident in the town, which made the news. Three LDS missionaries assigned to the area had climbed the hill, and had posed with the various statues in a disrespectful and irreverent manner while the others took pictures. When they reached the top, they clowned around inside the sanctuary and vandalized some of the structures.

Apparently someone witnessed this despicable behavior and reported it. The three elders were subsequently reprimanded and sent home. The Mission President and a local Bishop were sent to San Luis to apologize to the townspeople and try to undo some of the damage that had been done.

We read about this incident when it happened, lamented about how unfortunate it was, and then more or less forgot about it. This, then, is the back-story for the following experience in San Luis.

On our way home from New Mexico in early May, we approached a beautiful, well-kept, little town. We noticed a Catholic Shrine at the top of a hill near the center of the town. We also noticed that in spite of the town’s tiny size, there was a brand new LDS church nearing completion on the main street. We circled around to get another look at the newly built chapel, then drove another block or so back to the visitor’s center to use their restrooms.

A friendly lady greeted us, and engaged me in the usual “Where are you from?” type conversation. I commented on the new LDS chapel just down the street, and mentioned that we were LDS. She seemed somewhat taken aback, and referred to “The recent news stories concerning the LDS Church.”

Having forgotten about the missionary incident and having no idea we were in the very town where it happened, I assumed she meant the recent news stories about the polygamist cult in Texas. Our conversation went something like this:

Me, referring to the cult in Texas: “Oh, those people are in no way associated with the mainstream LDS church. We no longer engage in such practices.”

The lady, probably surprised that we at one time did engage in the practice of vandalism: “Well, those three boys are all back home now.”

Me, thinking she meant three young boys in the Texas commune who had perhaps been abused in some way: “Thank goodness for that! At least they are now in a safe environment where they will no longer be harmed.”

The lady, with question marks beginning to appear above her head: “It was a terrible thing. The townspeople were very offended.”

Me, determined to smooth things over: “I think the whole nation was offended. This practice is becoming more and more common and we cannot allow it to continue.”

The lady, wondering why she had not heard about this rampant vandalization of shrines across the nation: “Well, the LDS Bishop who came down here was very nice. We had a town meeting and he offered sincere, heartfelt apologies.”

Me, in my mind: “WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?"

The lady: “Yes, and another nice man from the LDS church came and offered to help repair the damage.

Me, wondering why a town meeting would be called in San Luis, Colorado because of a polygamist cult in Texas: “Those who practice this type of behavior are called Fundamentalists. The mainstream LDS Church excommunicates anyone who engages in this practice.”

The lady, somewhat shocked that an organization of vandals called Fundamentalists even existed: “That seems harsh. I think we should forgive them.”

Me: “Yes we should, but in the meantime women and children are being hurt and we need to think of them.”

The lady, unable to make heads or tails of this comment simply signed off: “We hope you enjoyed your visit to San Luis, and that you will visit us again. Goodbye!”

As we drove away, I tried sorting through the details of this conversation as my head spun in perplexity. Len salvaged my sanity by remembering the news story of the three missionaries and reminding me of it.

I’m afraid it was too late to save the sanity of the poor visitor’s center lady!

FUN WITH MAGNETS

We recently bought a set of magnetic words called "Magnetic Poetry". (www.magneticpoetry.com) We put all the words, (nouns, verbs, adjectives, pronouns, etc) up on our refrigerator, and when inspiration strikes, someone writes a message or a poem. It's fun, and really stretches the limits of our creativity because we can only use the words that are there. Here are three recent creations:

CHAIN ME TO A CHOCOLATE MOON,
LET MY DREAMS BE SWEET AND LUSCIOUS.
SMELL IT'S EASY POWER SPRINGING,
WHISPERING LANGUAGE OF A GODDESS.


WINTER'S SAD SYMPHONY FADES SOFTLY
AS SUMMER MUSIC WHISPERS NEAR THE GARDEN,
DELIRIOUS WITH SPRING.


BENEATH THE MOON
HEAVES THE STORMY SEA,
POUNDING OUT A WATERY SYMPHONY.