The upholstery shop

My earliest and most prominent shop memory was sweeping.  In a funny little dress.  Because it was a weekday and I had primary that afternoon.  Sweeping could keep any girl occupied for a long, long time.  There were always bits of fluff, stuffing hiding in nooks and crannies, an abundance of staples and sometimes tack strips or long skinny pieces of cardboard.  Large patches of material almost too big for little hands.  Oversized trash bins, a necessity when dealing with couch shards.  Over the years the refuse was a constant source of entertainment for a girl who likes things tidy.

The shop wasn’t so much about a particular space—because the locale changed several times over the years.  So although the configurations occasionally switched around, the innards remained basically the same in my dad’s upholstery shops over all the years.  I can only recall a window of time when I was young—really little, like 4—when he didn’t have a shop.  He’d go to work at night as a CNA (I think).  I remember making him a peanut butter and jam sandwich in the evening.  But most of the other days of my life I could count on him being at his shop.  My favorite days were when I’d come home from college and he had his shop in our house garage.  How convenient and comforting to have him at home with me, but these days were far too few.   I would’ve loved that luxury as a kid.  So many days we spent alone while he and my mom were at work, how nice it would’ve been to know he was so close.

He left early, maybe 7:30, every day of the week except Sundays.  He’d pick us up from day-care around 5 or 5:30, although in the winter it seemed much later.  Sometimes we felt like we were forgotten, we were always one of the last.  But even then we might have to run an errand with my dad to do an estimate or a delivery or to go to Keyston’s (upholstery supply company) far away on the freeway.  But we also knew my dad would always be available to come get us since he worked for himself; he had the flexibility that I assume most workers would envy.  Occasionally he’d take us by the shop on the way home from school or we’d spend some time there on a holiday if there were no other options.  

The shop was, due to the nature of the work, necessarily a bit messy.  But orderly.  I noted his creations like the pin cushions attached to the wall by his sewing machine.  My favorite was his thread-color-er.  He built a contraption that ran thread through permanent markers that he’d slit open to dye the thread.  Ingenious and so interesting to our young minds, but I always wondered why he didn’t just buy the right colored thread.  There were little pegs for thread hung to the walls.  Cubbies that contained his work orders and stamps.  Pegboards where weighty sample books hung precariously.  He made work tables that seemed to run the length of his work shop, padded of course.  This is where he’d make us a bed if we were sick and unable to cope with school for the rest of a day.  My parents rarely, if ever, missed a day of work (unless they’d just had surgery), so we followed suit.  But kids in daycare inevitably fall ill on occasion and we’d find ourselves being nursed at my dad’s shop  if my grandma was unavailable.  Soup from one of those paper packets with hot water from somewhere (I don’t know if it was just hot from the faucet or maybe he had a coffee pot?) in a styrofoam cup.  Now that I think about it, what did he eat for lunch everyday?  I never saw him take a lunch.  All those years.  Maybe he delved into his soup supply, I don’t know what happened while we were apart.  I’d never thought about it until this moment.

He taught us how to make buttons—for his projects and for our amusement—when we had time to kill.  A fascinating experiment in creating something practical and perfect—even for our young and clumsy hands—out of seemingly nothing.  A magic show unfolding before our eyes nearly every time.  Now that he’s gone we still aren’t sure what to do with the old green metal contraption with no electrical parts.  It’s simply a lever that provides pressure to tighten the button components together.   Who needs or wants something like that?  And all the parts that go with it?  But to part with it seems so final.  Just opening the drawer containing all the button bones flooded my mind with memories of fabric-covered buttons of all sizes.  We felt useful, as every couch he made was tufted and required many, many of these small details.  Such a valuable skill that not many have honed.  Such a specific, albeit simple, machine.  And memory.

There was no better place for young girls than the portion of the shop where the office supplies lived.  He had forms in duplicate and maybe triplicate.  Rubber stamps.  Stapler.  Business cards.  Loads of pens and pencils.  Cubbies and fabric samples.  Obviously we played office and took customers’ orders for what fabrics they’d like on which pieces of furniture.  Stapled business cards in the top corner to tie the whole packet together.  Gloriously engaged, satisfying work that entertained me and my sisters for hours.

He had an industrial Pfaff machine that would sew through cardboard and even metal, it seemed.  It was made for thick and uncooperative fabrics.  But he made it purr.  He sometimes used clear, nylon thread like fishing line and he was always offering to repair pieces of our life, viewing all items as small pieces of a couch.  Backpacks, purses, blankets, clothing.  There was always a bit of tell-tale stiff fishing line-like thread left hanging out.  But the repair was strong, tightly stitched over and over, just like the seam of a cushion must be.  It was good at times.  Not so good at times.  When we needed sewing done, we naturally bypassed mom and simply went to the professional.  I suppose not many dads sew, but it was normal to us.  And interestingly, two of my kids have a natural inclination to use their hands in much the same way, both have seemingly innate ability for sewing just like their grandpa.

When we tired of quiet work, there were always couches and chairs to strip.  While he salvaged cushion wrapping of fabric so he’d have a pattern for the new ones, all furniture needed to be stripped before reupholstery could begin. We owned small, untrained hands with low muscle mass.  But we pried out staples and tacks with a special tool just right for the job.  We ripped off long strips of fabric.  We created our own piles of remnants to be swept and contended with much later.  We did all we could, like tiger cubs taking the first few bites of the latest kill then leaving the real meat for the older, stronger parent to finish up.  But we felt like we made a contribution, we thrilled in the challenge, muscle vs adhesive.  By the time we and our dad were done, the carcass had been picked to its bones, resulting in a form of pure and cleaned wood.  Always with a residual staple left sticking out, a little skewed from being yanked on by willing but not-quite-strong-enough hands.

He built couch frames starting with heavy wood, maybe a special kind of thick wood.  Because no one I knew then or over the years has ever owned furniture this heavy.  We never had store-bought furniture growing up.  And I didn’t dare buy any even as an adult.  What would he say?  But the store ones we finally bought are light and airy in comparison.  I’ve always been impressed with his abilities.  Although I never knew they were unique until I got older.  But to tie springs and get dimensions right, to be able to match up patterns like stripes that would run the length of the couch on the frame as well as the cushions was all ingenious to me.  He was always drawing couches and chairs at our kitchen table on bits of paper, so that kind of thing was constantly on his mind.  His homework didn’t travel with him in a briefcase like some dads.  He just sketched in the evenings and weekends and asked us for our school rulers to get things just right.  I recall little couch, chair, table, and bookshelf pencil drawings with dimensions written around their perimeters scattered throughout my life, a reminder that I lived with an artist.

   

It’s quite remarkable to watch any sort of structure come to life from the ground up, whether it’s a new bank, playground or couch.  It starts out so slowly you have to strain to make out in your mind how the pieces will work together to become something.  But then you start to recognize the outline, and eventually it begins to take on a familiar form.  Finishing touches like the newly polished wood pieces that stuck out or the just-tacked-on skirt or the arm covers completed the outfit and it was hard to match up the before and after pictures in my mind.  The reconstruction was always unreal, as remarkable a transformation as any beauty make-over touted in a glamour magazine.  I loved the newness and softness of the fabric, the personalities of the materials that matched their owners.  After the initial viewing, the pieces would be shrouded in an old sheet, protected from mishaps during the shipping process.  We were rarely allowed to sit on or touch the creations, but they were still marvels to me, even from a safe distance.   It was easy to tell which items were ready for delivery in the shop because of their cover.  He’d always eagerly show us his latest masterpieces, letting us sit down—supervised—for just a moment to test out the softness of both fabric and cushion-feel.

As every dad does, he brought home stories.  I remember some eery ones like the day he was working alone in an deserted shop on old wooden chair, he’d turned around to pick up the fabric to place it and the chair had faced the other way on its own.  Those kinds of experiences gave me shivers and made me question what sort of history or homes these pieces of furniture had lived in.  I knew he didn’t make up that kind of thing, so it intrigued me.  As did his discoveries, all sorts of items when he ripped down furniture, lots of lost coins, cockroaches, old-fashioned pig hair stuffing, we found it all fascinating!

I liked that, unlike most dads, he was done for the day when he picked us up from daycare.  He didn’t bring home stacks of paperwork.  He didn’t rush through dinner and have to run back to work for the night or stow away in an upstairs bedroom to finish up his caseload.  He worked a hearty 8-5 (or maybe 7-5:30? I never did pay attention to when we came and went) and called it a day.  He was ours for the evening.  Once in awhile he’d have an estimate or delivery, but not usually.  Like most families growing up in the 70s and 80s, we had dinner together every night. He’d show us his battle wounds, his fingers always stained and injured as he shared his stories from the day. It was all so familiar and comforting to us.  We knew the shop.  We could visualize where he’d been all day because we’d spent so many hours there ourselves.

Because we spent so much time in his shop, all three of us girls know songs from the 50s and 60s and early country that maybe most people our age aren’t familiar with.  It was just what we grew up with, and even as a teenager I started buying my own music like his.  I had an Elvis record, old 50s singles, and I knew exactly where to tune my radio to pick up his station.  Over the years as I’ve patronized antique stores I’ve been transported back in time when I’ve heard his music on the crackly store radios.  Usually an AM station.  It’s better than any time machine. Nostalgia inevitably sets in, memories cascade over me.  All at once all my days with my dad in his shop seep in, saturating me with familiar comfort and longing to be his little girl for just another day.

As I became a teenager and had jobs of my own I didn’t spend as much time with him ripping down couches.  But I remember driving my little Ford Escort into the alley every once in awhile for a little visit.  Just to hug my dad and to say hi and tell him I was thinking about him.  I wish I had thought to bring him a Slurpee.  Why didn’t that ever occur to me??  (Probably because I’ve never in my life stopped at a gas station to buy myself a drink.)  He would’ve loved that.  I was always baking cookies.  Why didn’t I think to make him a plate of warm ones to share with his workers?  Why is it when we have disposable time and income as a teenager we don’t think to think outside ourselves?  Such little things that would’ve been so nice.  I wish I could do that part over.  It would’ve been so fun to pamper him in small ways.

But I know he never thought of what he was missing.  He loved us all day.  His shop was plastered with our art work and school pictures.  He had his parents smiling over his sewing machine.  He never let go of the hope he’d see his other four kids again, keeping their most recent school pictures up year after year.  He eventually stopped receiving updates, and so we grew closer in age—in our pictures at least—to our long-lost half-siblings.  He loved them immeasurably, and their pictures remained right next to ours over all the years.

Just the day before he’d given his shop a thorough cleaning, a final cleaning.  That was one of the hardest parts to venture into in the days after he died.  Its smells were intoxicating and woody.  Smells of our childhood.  For the past 14 years he’d made his shop in the garage of the house he shared with my mom.  This was a perfect place for him to spend his weekends and evenings.  It was a simple, functional upholstery shop where he continued to create furnishings for friends and neighbors all over the Utah valley.  Brooms in their corner.  Old, but still-working radio in its.  Bolts of fabric remnants carefully compiled in under-the-table shelving.  Cabinets and small drawers for all sorts of hand and power tools.  The air compressor that always threatened to halt my heart with its abrupt and unpredictable groan.  Staple guns that I used to hide from, their pulsating shouts always scaring young Caren.  Carpeted sawhorses resting their backs from the loads they’d carried for years. Larger-than-life scissors and hand-made tool belt lay unobtrusively on the padded workbench at the end of the day.  The last couches my sister and brother-in-law and I quietly carried to their new resting spot.  A final delivery from the shop my dad loved so much.

A summer week without Todd

The kids and I got back into town last Saturday evening from being gone the previous week.  Todd left Sunday for his turn at scout camp.  So we kissed goodbye after a full day together and said we’d catch up in a week.  Lots of families do this, it’s not that weird.  But it switches things up a bit.  Inevitable, can’t be helped.

The first request the kids make when Todd goes out of town is that we have Hawaiian haystacks, which he hates.  Not my favorite, but I relented, as I usually do when he’s gone.  It’s tempting to forgo regular meals when he’s not around, but I just can’t do it.  We did dinner as usual, on the back porch at our metal tables, lingering in the warm shade for just a tad longer than we needed to.  Summer nights can be heavenly.  And there is nothing better than having all your kids under your wing.

As far as housework when he’s gone, it’s mostly the same as having him here.  I try.  And pretty much go to bed swearing I’ll get on top if all tomorrow.  I never usually care if the hand-washing ones sit for a day or three.  But maybe because I knew—really knew—nothing would happen if I didn’t handle it myself this week,I spent more time than usual keeping up.  Same with the floor.  What with popsicles, mud, smoothies, and watermelon juice, there was only one way around it.  On my hands and knees.

The shed has been demanding attention for the past year or so, and I finally felt I had no more excuses.  But first we had to move the wood pile.  I couldn’t help but notice how much it had deteriorated and rotted over the years.  And then I realized all the dark wood chips were mouse droppings.  I simply couldn’t get over the crawly feeling and had to abandon my post for weeding instead, instructing Mitchell to just huck the short logs onto the grass for now.  I’d compose myself and try again later.  I’ll let spiders live right beside me in the shower, the stairs, or even the bedroom. I pick up live earwigs and dead moths in my ungloved fingers to displace them outside.  I’m always on the look-out for worms after a rain so I can put them back in the grass.  But mice get to me.  Even Callum was too grossed out and refused to finish the work (like he needed another excuse).  So that left Mitchell, what a stellar woodworker.  The girls and I painted, but a thirsty wooden shed with walls looking over the south and west vistas took our gallon in no time.  Back to Lowe’s (as every good project entails), more brushes for good measure.  We’re on our second coat now.  Some of the high trim is still waiting.  For me to overcome my fear of really high heights.  Except that I did finish the wood pile side so we don’t leave the grass to die while Todd’s gone under a heavy load of rotting, mouse-house cottonwood logs.  Mitchell and I moved most of it back under a pastel summer sun last night.  There is no better way to solve the world’s problems than  while you’re engaged in manual labor, distracted just enough that you don’t censor yourself as you would do in a more concentrated setting.  So we talked about classic movies that hardly anyone his age knows about like Harvey with Jimmy Stewart, some of the musicals we’ve watched together like Phantom and The Music Man, as well as true classics like Monty Python and The Princess Bride.  We tried to remember the words to the songs.  It was sticky and hot.  Neither of us seemed anxious to stop because there is not much more satisfying than seeing your work unfold before you.  Just one more row and then we promised we’d quit.

While Todd and Andrew were on their own last week Todd managed to make progress on a few yard projects, but there is always more weeding.  Flowers need to be dead-headed.  Morning glories are more tenacious than a two-year-old in the middle of a tantrum and seemingly grow from nowhere and everywhere, it’s only surface work, there’s no end.  We have grass in the raspberries and raspberries in the grass.  Our strawberries are thriving and tangled.  Beans and peas and lettuce and spinach and currants and potatoes all need to be picked, dug, and used up.  The kids took orders from the neighbors, and we’ve tried to stay on top of the harvest.  We’ll make currant jelly later, thankfully they can just be frozen for now.  The kids are still doing their bucket a day of weeding.  Actually, I’ve let them trade it out for wood pile moving this week.  I’ve had some takers.  And some weeders.  Remembering back to Monday, we tackled a substantial weed-ridden area where we live.  But it’s disappointing because there’s so much more we didn’t get to.  Sigh.  Thankfully, we will always have weeds and thus opportunities to learn to love to work.

We’re expecting eight guests this weekend, around the same time Todd gets home.  Which is fine, great really.  We’re excited for his family to join us for a few days.  I spent the day making up six beds, putting up the crib with Bronwyn, cleaning bedrooms, trying to make it look like kids don’t live here, washing duvets and sheets, hanging them in the summer sun.  Thankfully Callum was being entertained by friends so Bronwyn and I could work harmoniously on project after project.

It’s Andrew’s 18th birthday.  I’ve already told you I’m not that into birthdays, but I have no idea what other people expect.  I’ve asked a million times what he wanted to do to celebrate.  Kind of hard with two family members missing, but I still wanted to do something.  I shopped with the little kids for sleeping bags, one thing he’d specifically asked for.  But how to choose?  Just want to make sure he has a good adult welcome, but I’m so not the party type.  Yet neither is he. So we had bacon and blueberry pancakes (hand-picked just a couple of weeks ago in Minnesota, in fact) for breakfast after sleeping in.  Then he took Callum biking and Bronwyn and I met him at Olive Garden for lunch.  Avery is still out of town, and  Mitchell was mowing and not interested.  He wanted a simple chicken dinner and we’ll have cake and presents tomorrow; he’s going out with friends tonight.  So that’s how turning 18 goes down around here I guess.  He also gets ordained this week, so I’ve been reminding him to follow up on that and his other church/Eagle stuff.  You know how hard it is to remind people to do stuff that would be easier to just do yourself.  Mostly because it uses up energy and brain space I don’t seem to have as much of anymore.

So the dishwasher’s been acting up for the past two weeks.  I finally got an appointment for  Thursday.  And yet Wednesday I realized we really hadn’t noticed the film that had been living on our dishes any more.  So I did the only thing you can do in a quandary like that.  I made cookies.  So then I’d have some nice greasy dishes to test my hypothesis.  And of course things turned out smashing, crystal clear.  Just in time to rescind my invitation to have the repair guy come tell us the same thing.  I was going to have him fix our ice maker at the same time (which I could leave indefinitely, I’m fine with our 3 ice cube trays, but Todd insisted if we were having someone come out anyway, have him fix it all).  I’ve also been researching washing machines.  I want an old-fashioned top loader with no electronic beeps or computer parts, but it’s been mind-numbing reading the reviews of such poor quality appliances available these days.  During this same past two-week period our van has been giving us some trouble, so I’d been concerned (since I’d be the one driving 1200+ miles alone with the kids), yet every time we’ve taken it in with the three different noises, it purrs like the cats who come into Todd’s vet office, having spent the past three days with vomiting and diarrhea but who now prance around without a care in the world.  Our computer also crashed during this time, so we upgraded.  But that’s taken some time to fiddle around with.  The morning after we purchased and set up our new computer, the guy at the repair store called and said they actually could fix our old computer after all.  But for about what it was worth.  I told him to just recycle it.  And then I called him back to tell him to go ahead and repair it, we’d use it for one of the kids.  I’m so embarrassed.  With all of it.  Good grief.  Does everyone go around in circles like this?

I figured this week would be a good time to paint the bookshelf that’s been hiding out in Mitchell’s closet.  Just needed to find the right sand paper.  Which made me want to clean Todd’s garage.  But I had to stop myself and just leave it all for another day.  I might go back this evening.  I set Mitchell up for the job and was pleased as punch (whatever that means) to see him out there on his own accord sanding away.  A glorious mother moment!

This was also a perfect week to iron every shirt.  And I meant to start Andrew’s quilt…  At least the window sills are void of fly corpses.  I just cleaned the windows and tracks two weeks ago, I don't know what they love about our house.

I’ve been camping with the kids in the basement for the past several nights.  I just thought it would be fun.  Maybe with Andrew being so old and all, I thought it would be nice to make some memories with the little kids since I’ve witnessed first-hand how fleeting it all is.  Plus it’s a lot colder and darker in the basement.  But the floor was so hard.  Even with our puffiest sleeping bag.  And the couches are too short for how long I am.  But I chose soft and squished over stretched and stiff.  I woke up before 5 today, always excited that I can put the sleeping part of my day behind me and get on with my projects.

I’ve had a meeting and a million errands.  I’ve made plans to get together with various friends and have just one day left of the week to prove myself.  We’ve gone swimming and had water balloon fights.  The dentist and my visiting teachers.  If you can believe it I’m still taking kids to the splash park—we were there for three hours!  The kids are on their second mowing of the week.  I’ve revived the dogs who survived a day in this heat with no water.  I’ve cleared away the piles by my bed and made Mitchell and Bronwyn gut their rooms.  I have a load to donate.  Well… the whole back of the van actually.  Recycling to part with.  More groceries to buy (I know we just went Tuesday).

I will admit that I haven’t exercised a single day this week.  I tried to last night, a last-ditch effort to manage all the cookies I’ve eaten.  But I was so impatient that I only made it through the warm-up.  I figure all my log-throwing will just have to suffice this week.

One of my favorite parts of the week was sitting on our front porch in my sweatshirt yesterday morning, when it was still chilly from the night, reading.  It’s usually so late by the time I get around to it, that I wanted to make it a priority.  I even wrote it down.  And it was perfect.  Not long.  But just right.

And so were the other parts.  I loved cuddling up on the bed-couches downstairs reading with the kids late at night, I felt like we were camping and like a kid instead of the responsible grown up.  Family prayer and scriptures just seemed cozier down there too for some reason.  I loved working with the kids moving wood and weeding.  I liked it when we all picked currants and just talked.  It was fun gathering the beans, noting that not too many were overdone this time.  So often I procrastinate and have to toss out handfuls without Todd seeing.  I liked talking on the phone with a good friend while I painted the shed—there’s no better way to iron or do blinds or paint.  I liked listening to our Beverly Cleary audio books as we crossed off our errands.  I liked our dinners on the patio and soaking up the night air, listening to the baby birds in their house right above us.

So many parts.  I’m just grateful to have been here for all of it, to have a family to take care of, to have a home that gets dirty and lived in, to have a garden and yard that produce—whether that’s weeds to help the kids learn to work or food that teaches them the law of the harvest.  I’m grateful for Todd, for his short absence that helps us cherish his presence.  It’s been a good week, most weeks are, but it’s just never the same when someone is missing.  So even though we’re doing fine, we can’t wait till dad comes home.

I hope we taught him enough

A friend mentioned on Sunday how fast time is going, her oldest is turning 11 in another month or so and she only has 7 more years to teach him everything.  I commiserated, reminding her I only have 3 weeks.

And I’ve known for a long, long time that time was winding down.  I’ve known it all along really.  But even after all these years, after all the tidbits we’ve tried to engrain in him, I feel like I’m going into my thesis defense as a grad student, but this time as a mom.  Will I pass?  Did I complete all the requirements?  Did I do what I was supposed to do?  Will someone catch on that I really had no idea what I was doing?  But what do you do?  Cramming never worked for me, and I doubt he’d pay attention to a condensed version of Life 101 at this point.  Plus I hardly ever see him.  But I know he’s mostly excited but apprehensive at the same time.  Real life has few safety nets, and I think it’s hitting him that he’s going to have to rely on his own resourcefulness.  I imagine most young adults have some of these thoughts.

It’s his 18th birthday.  And he leaves for BYU at the end of the month.  Our alma mater, his school of choice (with a little sales-pitch here and there from us, I’ll admit it).  Where we met.  Hopefully he’ll at least date.  People keep asking us in that voice how we’re doing with it all.  And we have to be honest.  We’re fine.  I hate that life is changing, I’ll give you that.  But it’s been changing ever since he went to high school.  At least that’s when it started to hit me because time sort of accelerated.  We’re good with it all because we’re so excited for him.  We loved college and being on our own, letting go of what people assumed we were, learning.  BYU was my dream come true and I relished my time there—maybe more than most—and recall many still-light evenings making my way across campus, silently yet genuinely grateful for the chance to be there.  That’s our backdrop, we have so many happy memories and look forward to him making some of his own.  And why we’re able to cheerfully and maybe even casually say good bye.  We just hope he’ll call and let us know what he’s up to.

It’s kind of weird backing off as mom.  He’s been bigger than me since 8th grade.  He’s been like a roommate to us instead of a son in a lot of ways over the past few years.  I’m even shy around him once in awhile.  I’ve never spent a lot of time around guys his age.  Up close anyway, never having had any brothers or close cousins.  So roles are subtly changing, and I think we’re mostly just looking forward to his new experiences, anxious to hear all about it.

Over the years as a mom, I’ve always felt my calling was to be a teacher because that seems to sum up what we do as parents.  Foremost we wanted to provide a nurturing environment, to help the kids feel secure and loved and valued, and that entails preparing them to leave as confident and competent young adults.  But even more than that, and this is what’s hard.   Anyone can teach life skills, but it’s not easy to teach them to be humble, to think of others’ feelings, to be selfless, to be compassionate, to be kind.  That’s the kind of stuff I worry and wonder about.  I feel like I missed some teaching moments along the way.  And I can’t help but wonder how they’ll all do without me reminding them.  I won’t be able to be there at their “comps” (comprehensive exams), and I cross my fingers they were paying attention.  And that they were listening more than watching.  But I know that’s not how it works.  I think that’s why I worry.  Because we all know kids pick up on our actions more than our words.  And yet, that’s why I’m grateful to have had so many teacher-aids in their school of life.  So many stellar examples of what empathy and humility look like.  What it means to be a dad and a man.  How to treat others, even the hard others.  We’ve had friends, as he has, over the years who have been on our team, who have backed up what we’ve tried to teach.  There’s nothing like Andrew coming home from his workout, for instance, with new tips for being a healthy runner, telling me what kinds of foods his coach suggests, how a lot of it is mindfulness, what kinds of stretches work best, etc.  I majored in health.  I ran track.  I thought I’d told him all that.  No matter.  At least he’s got it now.  I’ve got to remember to thank all the tutors he’s had along the road.

We’ve tried to teach them basic skills to be self-reliant.  And I think he’d make it if he were stranded in the wilderness.  He’s been packing his bags and playing with knives and fire for as long as I can remember.  When he’s stayed alone at home he’s forgotten to take care of the dogs or lock the door, and we’ve woken up with the garage door wide open, lights blazing after he’s been working on his knives late into the night many mornings.  But that’s suburbia.  Lost in the back country, I’d trust him with my life.

It’s the housekeeping arena I think I failed him. I tried to teach them to make their beds back when they were younger.  But it’s different than making a bed when I was a kid.  Back then we had sheets, of course, then a blanket, and then a thin-ish bedspread.  And you’d tuck the bedspread under the pillow to make a smooth, proper bump. These days there might be a top sheet, maybe not, but then only a lumpy, carefree comforter.  I did show him nurses’ corners and he was impressed that that was the way to get sheets to stay tucked in.  But he hardly ever makes his bed, let alone change his sheets (definitely not without me reminding him), let alone tuck them in like a nurse.

I am still giving bathroom tips.  Reminding them of crevices that need to be checked.  How to get off soap scum (I like Bon Ami with cheap shampoo), that the floor is still considered part of the bathroom, to use an old toothbrush for tough spots.  I typed detailed instructions and taped them to the insides of the bathroom doors.  I think just for me, no one else has ever read them.

I’ve tried over the years to get them to cook.  We’ve tried assigned nights.  Except that he gets home so late with all his sports and long work hours.  I’d like to do better; I feel like I missed some opportunities and because of that he’ll resign himself to nasty processed, sugar- and salt-laden food stuffs when he has to cook for himself this year.  He’s admitted that’s the one part he’s most nervous about.  I can imagine.  I didn’t know squat when I had to start cooking for myself back as a college sophomore and even as a new wife my repertoire was pretty sketchy.

I think he and the others will be ok in the textiles department, not great, but passable.  I sometimes see their white church shirts in with their black church socks.  Not what I had taught, but I suppose they’re trying be efficient (another lesson I’ve tried to instill in them, hard to decide which value trumps in a tricky situation, I get it).  They’re good with ironing.  Only because I won’t do something for them that they can handle on their own.  No idea about sewing, that worries me a bit.  Although Andrew makes knife sheathes by hand, so I suppose he can apply those tactics to attaching a button.  I notice they don’t know a thing about stain removal.  Probably because I rarely spend much time on things like that myself.  But I need to remember to tell him about collars on white shirts before he leaves.

I wonder who will do the dishes in his apartment.  Maybe the other roommate.  The one whose mom was on it, who taught him that they can go right in the dishwasher.  (Not to make excuses, but I feel like we were always waiting for the one who was on Empty Dishwasher so others could then load.  The timing just never quite seemed to match up.)  Maybe they all had moms like me, too little too late.  I’m sure they’ll figure it out.

We tried to help him understand why it’s important to be committed when you give your word.  Why you do your best instead of giving into your lazy side.  Why it might work out to study before the day before the test.  Or why starting a paper before the night before it’s due might feel stressful.  Why you stick with something even if it’s a little uncomfortable or you’re not that great at it.  Why it’s worth it to take a chance.  Some of those lessons have backfired.  But we we stand our ground.

We tried to teach them to work.  They’ve complained that they are our servants. We’ve tried to teach them about gardening and weeding and looking for ways to serve.  I know they’re never going to pick up trash when we aren’t carrying the bag for them.  They balk at weeding.    But so did Todd’s siblings.  And now they talk gardens when they get together.  There might be hope.

So at this point I feel like I’m earning about a C.  Nice.  Though I’ve always felt that, if nothing else, the kids do like to read.  I read to Andrew from the time he was a tiny newborn, just under 7 pounds.  I figured he’d like to hear words and his mom’s voice. I felt that reading aloud to my kids was one of the most important things I could do as a mom, plus it just fit me.  That, I feel, is my one redemption.  And that they all like broccoli.  Then again, that was the easy stuff.

It’s the other stuff I still wonder about.  Will he remember to hold doors open for the girls?  And the less-abled?  Will he read his scriptures? Will he ever change his sheets? Will he write thank you notes?  Will he study?  Will he ever eat vegetables?  Will he go home teaching without his grown-up partner reminding him?  Will he be generous and look out for others?  Will he return the favor when someone shows up with cookies? Will he look around for ways to help?  Will he filter and use discernment with entertainment?  Will he treat others—especially women—with respect?  Will he remember the values we’ve tried to instill in him?  Will any of this matter to him?

But, as I always say, I just don’t think it’s helpful to stress about things I can’t do anything about.  We’ve done what we can.  He’s officially an adult. It wasn’t always pretty.  It was far from perfect and not what I wanted it to look like all the time.  I can’t say we always did our best.  I know I faltered.  I was weak, I was too tired.  I was self-absorbed and distracted a lot of the time.  I think we missed a few things over the years, but I guess he’ll just have to learn the rest on his own.  Like we all do.  But maybe it’s not over.  Maybe there’s still more mothering ahead.  I think so.  Maybe he’ll ask for advice.  Maybe I’ll just keep giving it to him for free.  But I hope, like I wrote when he graduated, that he at least knows and remembers how much we love him.  And that he knows that’s what was behind everything we tried to teach him.

Remembering our wedding day

I’m definitely not the sentimental type; I’m much more matter-of-fact and practical, resisting clutter even if the pieces do have a story, I don’t make much of birthdays, and I’m especially not worried about my own, even those major decade ones.  But even I recognize a milestone like a 20 year anniversary.

I wasn’t looking to get married, I’d made other plans for my immediate future as a young adult.  But at the same time, I’d been planning my marriage for years.  Not the wedding or festivities, that kind of stuff is like a 3 to me.  But the marriage, the kind of guy I wanted, what I expected and hoped our relationship would be, that kind of thing I’d taken notes on over the years.

Just a few days ago, I dusted off an old journal from 1994 to remember what it felt like on the eve of our wedding.  Like most memories, it seems like a million moons ago, it’s hard to even recall what life was like before, what it was like to be just me in the world.  And at the same time I can conjure up the details without even furrowing my brow, it’s all just so accessible.  A little surreal to be sending our son to the same place we met; we can’t help but wonder if he’ll also meet his future spouse his first semester of college.  We certainly didn’t plan to.  We were simply friends who stuck together; how do you analyze falling in love?

We’d become friends over cafeteria food, we met for nearly every meal that first year.  Then we dated.  By the time he’d spent two years in Norway and we had piles of accumulated letters, we realized what we’d known all along.  We were now seasoned 22 year-olds with six more years of schooling ahead.  But we felt nothing but peace and calm about each other and our decision to face it all together.

As anxious as we were to get married after dating and writing for over three years, we still had to wait nine months after he returned from Norway to find an available date on the calendar.  We had to wait for our siblings to get out of school for the summer, for Todd’s brothers to attend scout camp, and for his family to make the trek to San Diego from Chicago.  We eagerly anticipated the wedding and our new life as husband and wife, yet we did our best to stay focused and be patient.  

Unlike most any girl I’ve ever known, I never really gave my wedding that much thought.  I knew it’d be in the temple, but I didn’t care about the dress or reception at all.  I just wanted a simple and inexpensive gathering, classy but basic.  It just didn’t matter that much to me.  I remember going home during a school break in April and going to the temple for the first time with Todd and my family, which I loved.  But I also endured tireless errands like choosing a cake.  Maybe we did flowers too; I have no idea.  I knew I didn’t want bridesmaids.  I didn’t want to make anyone stand in a line or buy a dress she’d never wear again.  I simply told our four sisters to wear any kind of navy church dress they could find and that they’d get some use from down the road.  Even my dress didn’t concern me too much.  I just wanted simple and easy.  No train, just straight.  True to 90s fashion, it did have puffed sleeves and a huge bow.  Good grief.  I had it made to save money; I never even went to a bridal shop.  I remember the material costing $60.  Now it lives in the dress-up box downstairs.  I shortened it a few years back so the girls could wear it.  I can’t imagine a more comfortable resting spot for it.

So while I was having my dress made in Utah between that break in April and July, my mom and her friends made reception plans.  The only input I cared about was that it be navy, my all-time favorite color even now.  The reception was in our friends’ beautiful yard surrounding a lake.  I loved that my mom’s friends made real food themselves, that we didn’t waste money having it catered and that it was low-key, like us.  As I read my journal entries from the days before and after my wedding, repeated are sentiments about being so grateful for everyone’s hard work on my behalf.  All the set up, clean up, prep, meals.  So nice.  I just couldn’t do any of it.  I was in Utah, we were working and finishing up the term.  I don’t know if I ever thanked them all properly and individually.  To be honest, I still kind of worry about that and hope somehow I did and that they knew how much it all meant.  It still kind of overwhelms me that so many people would spend their time decorating and cooking and cleaning on our behalf.  I’m so grateful, even twenty years later.

Todd and I flew to San Diego from Utah Thursday with the wedding Saturday.  We took Todd’s family to the beach.  I got my first and only manicure.  We returned to the temple Friday for a 7 a.m. session.  Had delivered pizzas and homemade cake on paper plates for our pre-wedding dinner.  So perfect.  So casual.  So us.

Saturday morning I woke up early (5:52) because of cat allergies and because I was sharing a bed with my friend, a sleepless night.  It never, ever, ever occurred to me to have my hair done or have someone help me with my makeup.  The last thing in the universe I would’ve agreed to.  Getting my nails done was a stretch.  So I just got ready like every other day of my life.  And so did everyone else.

I remember the ladies in the temple commenting how calm I was.  I didn’t know to be any other way.  I knew I was with the right person, in the right place, and even though we were only 22, I knew it was good, I had no reason to be anything but calm.

Two days after we married I recorded in my journal, “We got to the temple at 8:45.  It was weird before [and] during the morning because I was so calm.  It was as if it was a normal day, like we were just going to the temple like the day before.  Nothing fazed me,  it was perfectly normal for all of us to be going to the temple it seemed.  They took such good care of us!  They whisked away all my bags and let me relax.  We changed [clothes] and then we were able to sit in the Celestial Room all alone—to reflect and think about it all.  Beautiful room, groom, and time.  It was wonderful.  Then before we knew it, the sealer [the one who would be performing the ceremony] came to get us and into the [sealing room] we went.  It was a beautiful room and all our loved ones were there.  He talked to us specifically but so everyone could hear.  He counseled and advised us.  I was cool as a cucumber.  But after he told me we were married, the tears began.  I was so happy that all I could do was cry.  I was so happy to be able to be married there to my best friend whom I love more than anything.  It was an incredible feeling.  It is peaceful and joyful and good and right.  We were told to kiss, and it was the most beautiful and romantic and pure kiss ever.  I can’t think of any kiss meaning and conveying as much.  It was perfect!

“After kissing over the altar he told us to look in one mirror—symbolizing our our past, the altar was the present, and the other [mirror] was our future.  It was beautiful symbolism and it overwhelmed me to know I am sealed to Todd forever.  It feels so peaceful now.  As much as I couldn’t bear to lose him, it would be ok if we were separated now by death.  We are sealed for time and eternity.  We are bound together.  Everything will be ok. What a beautiful ceremony!  I wish I could’ve stayed in that room for a long, long time.  We exchanged rings.  We were told they were symbolic of our eternal love and that we should always wear them.  Then we stood in a “hugging line” so everyone could hug us.  It was so nice, I felt so loved.  It was wonderful!”

We eventually made our way outside to the temple grounds and, like most families and couples, had our pictures taken.  I wish I could change this part of the day.  I was grumpy and irritable.  I HATE getting my picture taken.  I hated being the center of it all.  It was all so awkward, such a waste of everyone’s time, I felt.  And yet, I wish I had gotten copies.  I have a few proofs, but I never ended up ordering any pictures.  After spending so much money on even such a simple wedding reception, I didn’t want to spend a dime more.  And so I put it off.  Indefinitely. I wish that I had been nicer to the photographer.  And gotten at least an 8x10.  I also never did a bridal picture session before our wedding.  I had no idea about that.  And it wouldn’t have mattered.  Could there possibly be anything worse than to be photographed repeatedly being the main subject?  And then having it displayed at a reception?  A bit later my aunt insisted I get some, even though it was after we’d been married.  So I brought my dress to work at BYU and she brought her young photographer.  We got some outside shots, and I do still have them.  I don’t love them, but I’m grateful she went to that effort for me.  Such a kind thing for her to do.

But back on our wedding day it seemed to take at least an hour to pose in all different configurations.  We even had to do that weird hand picture.  How young our hands look!  Finally we’d exhausted his roll of film and were permitted to meet up with my family and friends at our friend’s house for a delicious and beautiful lasagna lunch.  The weather was perfect, the day was just right for an outdoor reception.  It was July 16th in San Diego, which could’ve made for a sweltering evening, but it couldn’t have been a more beautiful day.

Everyone was buzzing around that afternoon, I felt out of sorts.  I like to be helping, to feel useful.  But I had to sit this one out.  I do remember getting ready for the reception, changing back into my wedding dress and fixing my hair.  But it wouldn’t do a thing because it was so humid.  I curled and curled, sprayed, used all my go-to tactics.  But I’d forgotten how limp the humidity can make straight hair, and I dismayed but figured, oh well, what do you do?

More pictures.  And this was truly another picturesque setting, with lush green grass, a wooden bridge, a lake.  It really was so pretty.  But I got grumpy all over again, hating this part of getting married.  I felt ugly and restless and hated being the main subject in so many photographs.  And maybe that’s partly why I never revisited the picture idea.

The reception turned out so nice, my mom had worked so hard with her friends to keep it simple but lovely.  The cake was so beautiful, accented with burgundy flowers.  The tables were white with navy ribbons.  Our sisters and mothers found perfect dresses they could wear again.  It was just right.  I loved seeing people I had missed over the years, but I was happiest when the line finally disbanded and I could just sit with my friends and eat.  Out of the spotlight.

Time came for us to change back into regular clothes and to head out on our own.  I hated to leave my family and friends with all that work, and yet I knew there could be no other way.  At least tonight.  I would take my turn over the years, but culture dictates that we leave quickly and ceremoniously into the night.  Married best friends.

Occasionally I’ve wondered what I would’ve changed about the day, you know, when the topic comes up in casual conversation with girlfriends.  I wish I could’ve helped more, taken some of the load from my family.  It was a lot of work with my mom working full-time and with a limited budget, so I wish I could’ve done it all cheaper.  I wish I would’ve been nicer to the the photographer and not been such a brat.  I wish I would’ve cared about my dress more.  Because I never felt that great in it.  I don’t think we had music.  I think I would put that in.  Because music is such a big part of our relationship; we’d rather have background music than a tv in our house, so I think that would’ve been really nice.  But not a dance.  (Even though I love to dance.  It just wasn’t ever on the idea list, thank goodness.)  Maybe had the reception earlier so everyone didn’t have such a long day.  And I wish I would’ve purchased pictures.  But other than those few minor tweaks, it was just perfect for us.  I loved the flowers, the pretty cake, the simple but thoughtful decorations, the setting, the people, having my family and friends with us.  It was a special way to begin our life, a beautiful send-off.  And I think most weddings are beautiful affairs, whatever that looks like to the bride and groom.  Our day reflected what was important to us, and I’m grateful for the careful touches, the time and effort of loved ones.  I felt pampered and loved and peaceful.  I knew what we were doing felt right.  I didn’t know how the rest of our days would turn out, what the years ahead would look like, but we became a team this day, a partnership that would last forever, and it’s those promises that comfort me and give me security in an uncertain world.  Regardless of what happens, I know we are bound to each other.  We were young by most standards, I know, but we knew what we were doing.  We felt confident we could make it.

We spent several years as students, moved across the country and back.  We’re raising five kids together.  Which is a huge blessing.  You just don’t know what kinds of trials will test your marriage over the years.  We’ve had a few bumps.  But every couple who’s honest about it does.  It’s the promises we made to each other on that warm July morning that stick with us, that comfort us and give us security.  We know this is the most important relationship in our lives, next to how we feel about God.  And so we’re careful with it.  We’re not the best, I especially have so much to work on.  But I’m grateful for all we’ve learned over the past twenty years, for marriage that is the the foundation of a family.  I’m so grateful to be blessed with a husband.  Not everyone finds someone to marry.  Sometimes things don’t work out.  Promises are broken.  Life changes us.   And our marriages.   Some say there are no guarantees.  And so I’m grateful for twenty good years.  How many more we’ll have, we have no idea.  But we know our time on earth is short.  And if we’re separated by death, the other would be on the other side waiting.  Our sealer in the temple reminded us of that, and it made me cry that day in the temple.  Because I knew it was true.  That’s why I never cared much about the reception and the flowers.  All I really cared about was getting the marriage part right.  And just like our reception, where I would’ve made a few minor changes, I would also do things better in our marriage if I could have a do-over.  But we move forward, grateful for another day together, for twenty years of living as best friends and spouses, for the institution of marriage, for the deep love that grows from everyday living, and the promise that our love can be eternal.

We were married in the San Diego temple (pictured) on a day just like this. To see what temples look like inside, click here.

A week in the North Woods

Todd pointed out, “You know it’s early when you can still taste your toothpaste (from brushing before bed).” We have the routine down.  We’ve been doing it once, twice, even three times a summer for as long as we can remember.  We set the alarm for 3:30,  but you know what it’s like the night before a trip.  A million last minute additions, regardless of how organized you think you are this time.  We stayed out with our friends later than we should’ve the night before.  And I can’t help but check the clock throughout the night.  Wondering if we got it all.  Hoping, but never really sure till we get there.  Inevitably I wake up before the alarm, forfeiting my last few minutes of sleep, surrendering to the dark morning when no one ought to be up for more than a bathroom break.  But I shower and summon Todd that it’s his turn.  I wake up the older boys so they can shower as well.  A 13-hour summer road trip requires this kind of preparation.  Even the little kids know the drill and dress for the day through mere slits of their heavy eyes, carrying their pillows and blankets to the blackened van, a small cave of familiar comfort enveloped in a sea of stars and silent night sky.  We pack the cooler with grapes, lunch makings, lettuce from the garden, water bottles, and yogurts.  A last walk-through to ascertain that toilets are flushed and lights are off.  We’ve been known to leave the glue gun plugged in for a day, and we’ve made a last-minute return for a forgotten item only to notice the front door wide open.  So we carefully lock up, hoping our house will remain intact for the week.  As we settle in for the drive ahead, intent as can be expected at 4 on a weekend morning, we petition Heavenly Father to watch over us on our journey.  

The town we know so well looks eerily different at such an early hour, and we can’t help but wonder where our fellow drivers are off to.  Before we even reach the highway, all is calm in our van and most of the kids have surrendered.  Occasionally they’ll stay awake and chat for awhile, but not for long.  I, too, succumb for an hour or two.  By 6:30 Todd needs a snack, maybe a Dr. Pepper if it was a late night.  Even pregnant, I’ve climbed all over the van, my yoga for the day, collecting various snack and comfort items for family members.  By 7 or so we need gas.  Everyone stretches, and I hand out breakfast as we carry on:  yogurt, cereal, muffins, fruit.  I take a turn for an hour or so while Todd rests uncomfortably and shallowly.  The kids continue their oblivious slumber for several hours, allowing me time to listen to my own cds, heavenly to be on nearly deserted roads alone with my thoughts.  As the day wears on we stop for sandwiches and gas.  The kids talk with us, we listen to music and audio books.  We make our way through several Dr. Peppers, handfuls of trail mix and sunflower seeds, cookies and sticks of beef jerky.  Some fruit, though never enough in my opinion.  Todd spoils the kids with gas-station sodas and treats.  I sometimes take a turn in the back seats and let one of the kids play co-pilot.  Avery, our 13 year-old daughter, dreads these road trips and the accompanying concoction of sweaty sandals, Funyons, beef jerky, and Zac Brown band.  But we laugh, knowing this is the fodder of fond memories she’ll one day treasure.

Somewhere along the road we lose an hour, but after 13-14 hours we pull off a dirt road and onto Todd’s parents’ driveway, a little piece of paradise, a cabin on a lake.  They’ve put so much work into their home and land, flowers welcome us from every angle, and their garden is in full bloom.  It’s a welcome sight, we are thrilled with the change of venue for the week and enthusiastically embrace the parents we haven’t seen in nine months or so.  It’s a toss up as to what we are more thankful for: to be out of the van or for a homemade hot dinner waiting for us.  We chatter happily, catching up on one another’s lives, easing back into the family dynamic.  The boys and dads effortlessly talk fishing and continue the tradition of playing games late into the evening with popcorn and Dr. Peppers; any other dad/uncle/aunt/cousin who’s around joins in.  The womenfolk might watch a girly movie or read, basking in a free evening void of real-life obligations.  It soaks in.  We’re finally on vacation.

The week unfolds in a predictable but unstructured rhythm.  We all sleep in much later than normal, what with the vacation mood, fresh air, time change, and late gaming.  But Todd and I sneak out each morning for a 3 mile walk to the lake down the dirt road, plastered with bug spray to abate the tenacious mosquitoes and larger-than-life biting flies.  We slowly make our way on the sparsely traveled sandy road, noting the occasional deer or snake accompanied by the cacophony of birds and insects in the background.  We’re home by 9 and wake up our contented sleepers, indulgently basking in their new vacation schedule.

After a late breakfast of blueberry pancakes topped with fresh peaches, we get to to work splitting and stacking wood or weeding the garden.  If it starts to rain we come in and play games or watch movies.  We have lunch meat sandwiches or leftovers and do more of the same all afternoon.  Maybe a small group will fish on a nearby lake.  They might kayak or canoe.  The girls worked on fairy houses all week.  Even the older boys amuse themselves with Legos from their dad’s childhood, unconsciously grateful for a grandma with foresight.  Last summer the kids created a treehouse teepee.  Someone’s always up for a game.  A puzzle patiently waits in the four-season porch if one of us  needs a little quiet solitude.  Nearly everyone is in the middle of a book, and we almost all end up snoozing at some point during the day.  Our kids were fascinated by The Price is Right this past trip, the first time they’d ever seen anything like it.  They think this is the answer they’ve been waiting for, all their financial woes abated.  The news was also new to them.  The girls and grandma and I went to “town” one day (population around 7,000; about 45 minutes away) to do some shopping and to check out library books and to spoil ourselves with lunch out.  Todd, Avery, and I found some buys at garage sales and antique stands and stocked Andrew up on old dishes and kitchenware for college.  He’s less thrilled than we were with the finds.  We picked wild blueberries on the side of the road as a family.  We went hiking and wading at a state park.  We lounged and talked about the past.  We contemplated the future over dinner.  Grandparents can ask the hard questions while providing insightful bits of wisdom from pages of their personal histories.

Some parts of our week in Minnesota remind me of camping.  Sand follows us everywhere.  Instead of pretty-smelling lotions and straightening irons, our beauty routine simply consists of pony tails, braids, and bug repellant.  We rarely feel squeaky clean except for after our evening shower; it’s just so humid and moist otherwise.  We count on a combination of engine oil, campfire smoke, citronella and incense to mask the sweaty smells.

A large family group reminds grandma what it was like to cook for six kids and she itches to try her latest recipe finds on us.  Vacation life revolves around meals, our only barometer of time.  An early dinner allows maximum time on the lake for evening fishing.  Remaining family members might gather around the small campfire with S’mores.  Whoever’s left might watch the news or Weather Channel documentary or an old movie.  Life is good.

No matter how late it gets, we can never fully fall asleep until the fishermen return to tell their tales and to show their wares.  One night this trip we were incredulous as they related their story of the truck brakes giving out while backing down the boat ramp.  Our 17-year-old son who had been directing his dad from the tailgate jumped off to the side right under the truck’s tracks as Todd swerved in order to stop the truck.  We couldn’t believe his close call and are still overcome thinking about what could’ve happened.  The rest of the week they only had the canoe to use, but I secretly liked having everyone around more instead of being a fisherman’s widow.  

As the last of the daylight fades, there’s usually time for one more late-night game after they’ve cleaned their fish.  We might drift off to the sound of grandpa’s late night news report, or maybe the kids will stay up late watching a movie or listening to the tales of the night.  I almost always spend the last part of the day reading contentedly in the basement bedroom with the windows open to the crickets and frogs and loons.  I never get better sleep than in Minnesota, cocooned in soft, clean sheets listening to nature’s lullabies, somehow completely exhausted from doing not much of anything, playing kid again, leaving the adult matters in the hands of someone else for a week.

Before we know it, we’ve spent our allotted days and always wonder why we don’t just plan two weeks instead of one.  We finally get into a sort of rhythm, a routine of sorts, and it’s time to pack up for the trek home.  Inevitable, yet regrettable.  Because now we have to be the adults again and get back to our lives.  Even the intermittent labor of splitting wood during a vacation hardly seems like work, everything is a bit more fun when it’s not your own house or yard or wood stack. But we know we can’t live in the North Woods of Minnesota forever; we’ve made our life here in Montana and a vacation, by definition, is temporary.  But we restock the van with sandwich makings and rhubarb muffins and chocolate chip cookies for the ride home.  We’ve picked up some wild rice, some cool burls for future knife handles (huge tree trunk segments that take up more than their share of the storage area), and of course we’ve got to make sure the cardboard and popsicle stick fairy houses remain intact.  It’s easier to pack this time, we just collect everything that looks like it belongs to someone who lives at our house and squeeze it in.  We’ll do the laundry when we get home, the kids will vacuum their rows of the van, the parents will call with a list of forgotten items.  The light in our cool basement bedroom wakes us before our alarm clock, and as if on cue, the kids know what to do.  We gather for family prayer with the parents, everyone still groggy from another late night, and climb into the capable van that has carried us across thousands of miles.  I don’t sleep much this time, it’s already light and I’ve adjusted to the Minnesota time clock. I’m content to be with Todd, who I normally don’t see much during the week.  We catch up on emails and messages as we regain cell service.  We gradually start to remember what it is we do, we slowly feel our normal life return.  And to be honest, we’d both be happy to put it on hold for just one more week.  We already can’t wait for next summer.  The drive might seem long to some, but it’s a road worth taking.

Behind the scenes of an LDS family

This one is for those of you don’t go to the same church as me.  And who can handle long-winded writings.  Don’t stop here and don’t worry, no doctrine, no silly stuff, I’m not trying to convert you.  I’m good with our differences.  This isn’t about our doctrine, it’s just to give you a behind-the-scenes glimpse into what we’re doing when we aren’t at a school board meeting or running the kids to art lessons.  And why maybe it seems like our heads are in a million places at once.  We are committed; you can depend on us when we say we’ll be there.  But there are reasons we can’t say yes to everything we’d like to or that we’re only able to play a small part.  We’re like you—we have a lot going on and we’re all just figuring out what we can handle, what will work, and how to juggle the rest. I just thought you might find it interesting to see what a week in the life of our LDS family might look like.

We have three teens and two elementary school aged kids at the moment, so life has evolved over the years, providing us a wide range of experiences.  Obviously every family has different needs and makes unique contributions, that all varies with the stages of the family.  In all we do, the church programs are to support the family, and so sometimes we choose to forgo something the church is doing because we need to be with our families.  But here’s a rough idea of what we’re currently doing in a typical week, at least as far as the church stuff goes.  And keep in mind, every family is different.  There’s no such thing as typical!

So starting with Mondays, we have Family Home Evening.  No other meetings or activities are scheduled on Monday nights.  It’s a time to gather as families in the home and talk about doctrine, do service, teach principles, work on home projects like the garden or landscaping an area, visit people, or have other families over.  So many demands pull at our families these days that this is a valuable opportunity to set aside one night a week to just enjoy one another’s company.  If we have sports or other conflicts, we’ll sometimes do a lesson on Sunday night and do an activity on Monday night.  It doesn’t have to be formal, it is completely up to the parents to decide what the family needs.  But we generally sing hymns, read from the scriptures, talk about some principle like honesty or prayer (the kids also take turns teaching the lesson as well as doing the other parts), end with a treat (in the summer sometimes we’ll go out for ice cream or have S’mores or a picnic) and play a board or card game or watch a short video (maybe comedy or something uplifting).  Even if religion doesn’t play into the night, it just feels nice to spend time together.  Any family could benefit from something like this.

Usually once a month the women of the church gather on a Tuesday or Thursday night for additional instruction and practical application of principles.   Any women are welcome.  During this time we get to visit informally and learn hands-on skills like maybe bread or pie making, self-defense, or car repair.  We’ve discussed depression and health issues that affect women.  We’ve practiced sewing and making hats and quilts.  We provide service.  We’ve exercised and cooked together.  We’ve learned about computer programs and family history and how to organize our homes better.  We learn to be better mothers and wives and how to strengthen our families.   These are optional, of course, but so much of what I learned as a young mother I picked up from meetings like these.

Once every other month the youth in our town are able to attend the temple on a Tuesday night, an activity few miss.   Several leaders attend with them.  My 9 year old daughter also has Activity Days twice a month on a Tuesday afternoon with other girls her age, where she has done sports, visited a retirement home, learned to crochet and lead music, for instance.

Wednesday evenings my husband and the older kids go to what is recognized as youth group by most churches.  The kids might play games, do service, learn skills, or go on hikes, just a variety of activities.

Thursday nights our 10 year old son has scouts.  Once a month there’s a pack meeting the family attends, same as in all the other packs in the Boy Scout program.  I just got back from spending three full days at Day Camp with 13 Webelos, including an over-nighter.  And Todd heads to Scout Camp for a week in July.  Just worked out that it’s our turn this year; the kids have a great time and we love seeing them outdoors enjoying nature and honing their skills.

Friday nights we might have friends over or attend the temple.  Or go on dates or just hang out as a family.  Watch movies, play games, sometimes go up to the mountains or out for dinner.  Occasionally we’ll have a wedding reception or the ward will have a dinner or a talent show or some other activity, but not too often.

Saturdays are wide open.  We could have an assignment to clean the church building, attend a scout camp or advancement day, take part in a service project, or attend a baptism.  A week not long ago the younger kids had a summer water activity making ice cream and playing water games.  I helped with a dinner for about 50 that evening and had a leadership training that took me from 2 til about 8:30.  Last Saturday we had a breakfast in a nearby park.  But there’s not something every Saturday, it just depends on the week.

Sundays can be pretty full.  We attend worship services and classes (Sunday School) for three hours.  Then there are meetings as presidencies, councils, and committees.  Some can start before 7 a.m.  We might have choir practice.  In the evenings we could have youth discussions or broadcasts or maybe home teaching visits.  My current assignment takes me to the “branches” in Harlowton, Red Lodge, Absarokee, and Belfry, as well as the various congregations in town, training and supporting the ward leaders.  Todd is over the 12 year old boys.  At the moment our Sundays are kind of quiet compared to some years with more intense assignments.

As part of the normal week high school-aged youth also attend seminary each school morning.  Our boys’ class this past year began at 5:50 a.m.  Others start at 6:30 and they all go for about 45 minutes, and they study the scriptures like the Old and New Testaments.  The boys also work on the Boy Scouts of America program and many become Eagle Scouts.  The girls have a similar program which also requires service hours and projects.  They take turns serving in presidencies in their age groups which involves planning meetings and visiting members of their classes or quorums.  The youth may also serve the ward (or congregation) by leading the music or playing the piano (or organ) in the worship service, for instance.  Young boys ages 12 and up prepare and bless and pass the sacrament each Sunday as well.  There are dances, youth conferences, scout and girls’ camps, special week-long Especially for Youth Conferences all over the country, high adventure and monthly campouts, and of course service projects.  They also help clean the church, take the sacrament to those who are homebound, and go home teaching with their dads or other older men monthly.

Nearly every adult member is a home or visiting teacher.  Every family is given two men to watch over them, ideally receiving a home visit each month.  These two companions—beginning at age 12 to 14—help with anything they can within the families they’re assigned to, whether it’s physically with repairs or meals or just emotionally or spiritually buoying them up.  Each companionship takes turns preparing a monthly message—even the young men—and are assigned maybe 3-10 families to visit each month.  The women are organized in the same manner, except they visit and watch over the other women, helping when babies are born or illness strikes or when a loving ear or heart is needed, ideally visiting each woman she’s assigned to in her home and maintaining contact throughout the month.  And each of these families have others assigned to visit them as well, so we’re all taking care of each other, teaching us to both serve and to humbly accept service.

Every part of the church operation takes work—as in all churches, and so nearly every member of the church from age 12 up is extended a “calling” or way to serve for a time.   These callings could involve serving as meeting house librarian, teaching a class, preparing the weekly bulletin, leading the choir, or running the scout or youth program, for instance.  We take turns and gladly accept the opportunities when they come.  We are not professionally trained or paid, but we jump in, follow the handbook and seek revelation and guidance to do what needs to be done.  We work in presidencies and councils, we delegate and serve together. It all works out because we support each other in our learning, acknowledging that we all have different personalities and strengths.

We, like a lot of you, try to keep up in our journals and compile personal histories, study the scriptures and try to find our ancestors.  It’s hard to fit it all in and, to be honest, we rarely get to all of it.  But we do our best to help each other move or with meals when members are sick or have emergencies or new babies or there’s a funeral.   We have a temple in town, and so many of us are able to go frequently.  There are always ways to help: food to make, kids to watch, houses to clean, porches to fix, potlucks, baptisms, Courts of Honor, missionary farewells, etc.  We recognize there are seasons of our lives, and we can't do all of it at the same time.  There's just no way!

I know it sounds crazy to you, but we can’t think of a better way to live.  We support one another as families, we help each other get to where we need to be, we teach classes for one another for vacations or if emergencies arise.  We just do what we can and do our best to maintain a balance, sometimes foregoing a meeting or activity in order to be with our families.  I’ve lived this way for more than forty years, and it has blessed my life and family in countless ways.  I know it might be hard to understand why we do it all, and I know it looks strange.  But I wanted to give you a glimpse into what we’re up to just in case you’ve ever wondered.

I also wanted you to see why we seem wrapped up in our own lives.  That is something I hate and am working on.  As you can see, we have a lot of commitments, but so do you.  Sometimes when we have a break it just feels good to hang out and relax as a family.  It is so easy to relate to other people who are living a similar life.  We have a lot in common, we’re at many of the same activities and spend several hours a week together.  It’s natural to become close to one another and to develop deep friendships.  But it’s so important that we are not exclusionary, and I find myself struggling with this.  I’m a quiet observer by nature.  It’s hard to put myself out there, to invite people over when I’m not sure what our common ground will be. But I try.  And I want to do better.  Maybe we’re all like this in some ways, sticking with our extended family that might live in town or the families in our neighborhood or people that we’re already friends with.   I know we have different ways of looking at life.  Everyone does.  I guess religion is just extra touchy.  And yet, I think we all have a lot more in common than not; most of us are just busy raising our families, worrying about paying for college, trying to fit everything in, hoping our kids are turning out ok.  I know you are busy in your own congregations and families, but over the years we have been so blessed by the friends we’ve made, those of our faith and those of other faiths.  It has been worth it to find the common ground, to spend time together, to let our kids play, and to help each other as neighbors and friends.  So maybe it seems like we’re preoccupied or unfriendly.  I hope not, but just call us on it.  Or better yet, call us and invite yourselves over.  We would love it and are rarely too busy to hang out with a friend.