Getting to LaX

This last Saturday I attended what appeared to be the culminating event of CougNation Fantasy Camp. The Coug faithful, dressed in Western Viking Blue, donned pads and helmets and spent a couple of hours chasing men in purple Husky jerseys around a football field, beating them up with metal sticks.

There were refs on the field, but they were worse than any Pac 10 refs I've ever seen. Ignoramuses on the sidelines (self included) tried yelling out helpful observations, like, "Number Six just tripped a guy!" and "Over the back! Shooting two?" and "Sir! Assault with a deadly weapon on the twenty yard line!" and "Hey! That man just punched his opponent and left him for dead!" And about twenty minutes into the game, we discovered that they DID have yellow flags in their pockets. But despite all our hints, they did not USE the flags OR their whistles (if they had them) to stop the violence.

By this time, of course you have realized that I was attending neither a Husky Slam Fest nor a crime in progress, but a collegiate lacrosse game. And I was clearly an alien in a strange land. Nothing looked right. Lacrosse has always seemed like a finesse game to me--little ball, little nets, tossing and catching, keep away kind of thing. That whole finesse idea went right out the window during the first sixty seconds of the game. The ref dropped the ball on the ground and as soon as a player scooped it up, all other players began whacking him furiously about the legs and torso as if he had stolen the ball rather than merely acquiring possession.

Turns out the Iroquois were not kidding when they invented the game and called it "Little Brother of War." And the coaches are not kidding when they say that even seven year olds playing the game need more pads than a football player--arm pads! Wrist pads! Shoulder pads! Chest pads! Shoulder BLADE pads! Back pads! Finger pads! Plus a full face helmet, mouth guard, and chin guard. After all, in football you only get to use your bare hands. In lacrosse, they give you a stick. And to the amazement of the uneducated spectators at Saturday's match, they REALLY DO tell you to whack away!

Fortunately Alex's friend arrived about half time with his Dad in tow, and the Dad explained a few things to me. "What I love about this game," he said, "is that the coaches absolutely respect the origins of the game. This is our heritage, our oldest game, and disrespect is absolutely not tolerated, in any form. I really love that cheap hits are just not tolerated, just not allowed. If they refs see a cheap hit, that's an automatic penalty, and on the second one, you get tossed."

I deeply appreciated his sorting that out, although I was not then or ever able to distinguish a cheap hit from all the other hits (To the chest! To the legs! Up and over the shoulders! One earth shaking smash flattened the ball carrier and sent the ball out of bounds. The ball was then awarded to the aggressor and play continued.) One thing I did sort out: the object for spectators is to keep an eye on the ball, as the players are so busy whaling away at each other that the little thing often falls out of the "crosse" and gets "loste." At that moment, all in-the-know spectators cry out, as a man, "ball down!" and the players stop hitting each other long enough to find the ball, scoop it up, and carry on with the carnage.

Alex fell in love with this game at the age of six when he saw a pair of toy lacrosse sticks in JoAnn Fabric and Crafts (hmmm...another black eye for crafts). He saw those sticks and he just HAD to have them. He worked six weeks for them. He has been determined to play the game ever since. And he loves it. Well, what boy wouldn't? Here are your pads. Here's your helmet. Here's your stick. Now go to it, buddy!

But Saturday's bloodbath gave me pause. Out here on the West Coast, lacrosse is our own cherished blend of native origin and East Coast Prep, irresistibly snooty yet earthy, the ultimate Volvo mom club sport. That image lured me in. But it didn't convince me to stay.

I only came to peace with lacrosse by recalling a game I know much better. Sometime late Saturday night, I realized that the maiming of the ball carrier would seem perfectly legal in a game of American football. Beat him up? Try to strip the ball? Shove him down? Step on his face? Kick him out of bounds? All perfectly legal. This is just football without the psychotic football dads. Oh, and everybody has to run around a lot more. And did I mention that if you have to be on defense, they try to soften the blow by giving you a stick roughly the length of a transom pole? If play gets held up on the other end of the field, you can amuse yourself by fiddling around with the angle on the stadium lights (if so equipped).

All fine now. Play on. Except I may try to steer Timmy toward swimming...

SNOWBOARDING

I have skied most of my life. From the first time Bill Felsted took us to Brundage when I was 14, to skiing 5 different resorts on our honeymoon, to last Monday, I have many fond memories of the slopes, and I have skied at almost every resort from Bellingham to Salt Lake.

I have been pretty lucky about avoiding injuries, too. The only exception was one time when we drove up to Mount Spokane with our friends, Dave and Ken. I volunteered to take a big jump and landed in very sticky spring snow. When I woke up a few minutes later I noticed the snow covered with blood and Julia and two other people standing over me. As my eyes began to focus I exclaimed “Hey look, Julia! Dave and Ken are here too!” Ski patrol imprisoned me until noon for that comment.

My favorite place to ski is Alta – both because it has the most spectacular terrain and because it does not allow snowboarders. I have always considered them to be part of the coarser lot – just above dentists, telemarketers and real estate agents.

So it was with a conflicted sense of bemusement that I found myself snowboarding at Mount Baker last week. My logic was as follows: All kids want to snowboard these days. If I don’t learn how now before I get too old and brittle, I won’t be able to, like, get massive air with my shredder sons.

I completed my first run with no problems other than getting separated from Tim. After waiting at the bottom for a while I began to get worried and decided to head up and look for him. I came partly down the slope and was looking around and behind me when … WHAM!!

I hit a small piece of ice which caught my edge and slammed me to the ground where I landed with my full weight on my right shoulder. Thanks to my New Year’s resolution that I will not shave until I have turned my two liter bottle into a six pack (I have lost 7 pounds so far) you might think that my full weight could not do much damage. You would be wrong. I felt a hard crunch and two thoughts popped into my mind in the following order: (1) dang! A beautiful day of snowboarding wasted! and (2) I just broke my collar bone.

I sat there wondering whether I should get up and try to make it down to the lodge, but I realized that I was going into serious shock.

A skier who was also a nurse recognized that I was not well, and soon I was riding on a snowmobile down the mountain while struggling to maintain consciousness.

My main concern was this: It was a beautiful blue sky day and I had six kids with me. I had just shelled out over $120 for lift tickets and I did not want to ruin the day for them.

The doctor assured me that it would not matter whether I got an x-ray now or in a few hours, so I rested in the first aid shack, took some ibuprofen and relaxed until I was out of shock. I was joined by another snowboarder with a deep bruise to his gluteus maximus and another snowboarder with a head injury. No skiers reported to the first aid shack.

My only other concern was getting down the mountain at the end of the day. I was not sure I could handle the windy and snowy access road with only my left hand. I figured that if I walked around the lodge enough I might run into someone I knew. So wrapped in my new sling I wandered the lodge, getting many concerned looks (most from parents of snowboarders). I eventually did find someone I knew who had a friend who drove us home at the end of the day.

As we were driving home I overheard one of Alex’s friends call his mom on his cell phone:

“Oh, it was really fun! – except Brother Mumford broke his collar bone.” He was right. Except that technically I just have a separated AC joint. There is not much difference however, between the two injuries: both heal in about 3 weeks – which means I still might be able to get some more snowboarding in this season.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just ski.

A few Timisms:

While praying: “…and please bless my friends – and also all my foes…”

--------

Dad: “Tim, maybe you could invent a special pill that would take away the desire to do wrong. And it could be given to bad guys so that they would not commit crimes anymore?”

Tim: “Dad, I think that would be against Heavenly Father’s plan of free agency. So I’m not going to invent it.”

"Dad, I will come on the snowcave campout, but I'm just going to sleep in the car." insisted Zach.

"No, the whole purpose is to teach you survival skills and you are going to dig a snow cave and spend the night in it – and I don't want to argue about it anymore!" I said for the fourteenth time.

I had just finished reading an article about a team of Polish mountaineers who climbs Himalayan peaks in the WINTER just to prove that they are tougher than everyone else, and I was motivated to have my own encounter with extreme adventure by digging my first snow cave. I figured that if those Polish mountaineers can spend 2 days in a tent on top of an icy ledge in 40 degree below weather waiting for the storm to break, I can surely survive on night in a snow cave at Mt. Baker.

Making the cave was relatively easy – if you don't mind a little hard work and you are not claustrophobic. After a few hours I was soaked with sweat on the inside and damp on the outside from lying in the snow, but Alex and I had a comfortable cave – a tunnel that led to two sleeping chambers lined with a tarp.

We ate and went sledding and then bedded down in the cave while we were still warm from the exercise. Alex and I talked a bit and he was soon asleep in his warm mummy bag. Since we had several scouts who did not have sleeping bags I had loaned the other ones out, keeping just my regular cloth bag for myself – after all if those Polish mountaineers could survive 4 weeks in sub zero temperatures I was sure I cold make it through one night.

Well, at first I was quite comfortable in our snug snow cave. We were out of the wind and my body was warm. As I snuggled down deeper into my sleeping bag, it did occur to me that I probably should have changed into drier clothes. However, at that point I did not want to go back out into the cold and I did not want to wake Alex up. That is how I learned what it must feel like to be a fresh steak thrown into the freezer. At first, only my head and feet were cold. However, as the night wore on the sweat on the inside and the moisture on the outside began to slowly freeze and after a long time I began to feel a few involuntary shivers.

Still, I figured that at some point I would become tired enough not to feel the cold so I waited, shivering in my sleeping bag, and endured. After a few hours of this I was still not sleepy and was starting to realize that I was not going to feel comfortable unless I reached that point in hypothermia where you start to feel warm again – the part that comes shortly before death. Still, I figured that I could get through the night. After a long time I decided to just shine my flashlight and see how the cave was holding up. To my surprise, the ceiling, which had been about 18 inches above my face when the cave was dug, was now less than a foot away. I realized that our body heat was slowly causing the cave to melt and shrink, and I began to try to calculate whether the roof would stay high enough to last the night, and whether it would keep shrinking slowly or simply collapse suddenly. I discovered that thinking such thoughts took my mind off how cold I was feeling. I also discovered that if I could lie very still I could actually hear the cave slowly collapsing and that the effort required to do this also distracted me from the cold.

However, that sound was soon replaced by the sound of an animal rummaging through my backpack at the cave entrance. I figured it was not a bear or a cougar since either of those would have already eaten us. More likely it was a badger, raccoon or a squirrel. I also found that thinking about this took my mind off the cold. I didn't want to wake up Alex and go out in the wind, so I finally decided I could share whatever was in my pack with the critter which was so intently rummaging through it.

Unfortunately, after making the decision to abandon my pack to the creature, I found it more difficult to take my mind off the cold. I realized that as the cave continued to shrink, my body heat was slowly escaping me from all sides and I was becoming entombed in a tube of snow. Still, I figured that if those Polish mountaineers could endure temperatures in which any piece of exposed flesh would be instantly frostbitten, I could stick it out through the night. Besides, I was probably more than half way through already.

I had turned off my cell phone to save batteries, and I felt the urge to check the time. But I figured if I could hold out for another hour or two before looking at the time I would be close enough to morning that I would be able to hang on. So I waited, listening to the creature rummaging through my pack as the cave slowly collapsed and Alex snored.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity I worked my cell phone out of an inner pocket and turned on the power. It was eleven thirty.

I can not describe the sense of despair that I felt when I realized that I was going to have spend another two lifetimes even colder than the one I had just experienced before I would see the light of day. Would the cave hold up? Should we dig deeper? At this point, I was shivering and I could tell that it would not be long until my teeth would start to chatter.

After agonizing about what to do for another hour, the critter finally woke Alex up. We yelled at it and swatted at the pack, but it seemed to be tangled up in the plastic cover. Finally, realizing that we would have to leave the cave, I pulled my boots on and decided to try to scare the animal as I made my exit. As I scrambled out of the cave entrance, yelling, I pushed my pack hard, and it fell over – and out of the wind, where it at once became a peaceful inanimate object -- completely intact. But if you were there, the wind would have fooled you too.

We saw two other snow cavers huddled around the fire and joined them. However, we only had a few logs left and we found that while huddling near the fire was better than being in the cave, we were were still losing body heat. After burning our few remaining logs and drinking some hot chocolate, we scrambled up to the cars to get a little sleep. We found the suburban inhabited by two other scouts who had already homesteaded the best seats.

It felt so good to walk that we just kept going, walking up to the ski lodge and down to the security gate. Once the blood started to flow I realized that I was going to survive. As long as I kept walking I would make it through the night. A feeling of gratitude came over me as I felt the cold and fear melt away and I realized that even though I would be tired the next day I was going to be warm again.

Reflecting on this experience, I believe it is much like our testimonies of the gospel. When we are passive and isolated, worrying about ourselves in the dark, our inner fire begins to cool. Even basking in the testimony of others, like sitting by the fire, can make parts of us feel warm for a little while. But the only way to really feel the warmth of the spirit fill our lives is to be active in the gospel. Jesus spent his ministry among the people. And Christianity is much less of an abstract set of concepts that it is an active way of life. I have found that my faith is stronger when I am actively involved in teaching, serving and worshiping than when I a take a theoretical and abstract view of religion. As James said:

"Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world."

Epilogue

Eventually, all the scouts ended up sleeping the in cars. We ran the heater for a while and loaded up the gear around 5:30 am. I had not slept at all and I jokingly asked the boys if they wanted to stay and go sledding one more time before we left. The answer was a resounding YES! Sometimes in life your only choice is tired or cold. If you choose cold you eventually die, but if you choose tired you will always come through all right. I have to sign off now. I've got to catch up on my sleep.

The Requested Photos

The Puzzled Creator (Tom)

Why do we have the universal urge to make things? I have never been
very good at mechanical things like building with wood (I don't like
to measure), or fixing cars or doing home repairs. One time after we
were married I decided to make myself a pair of shorts. I cut out two
pieces of cloth that LOOKED like shorts – in fact they were the exact
size I wanted them to be. However, when I sewed them together and
turned them right-side out the leg holes were so small I couldn't even
fit my arm through them. Curiously, the waist part was large enough
for me and at least one more companion. I never did figure that one
out.

When I was about 11, I invented the flying skier. I did this by duct
taping roller skates to a ski. My maiden and farewell voyage left my
face spread out in chunks all down the right side of Crestview drive
in Pullman. Ask Brett about my other infamous inventions: the goop
shooter (the project was abandoned after several malfunctions
resulting in backfire of flour water goop all over the kitchen) the
wheel of fortune, and my old motorcycle I bought for $15 from Brett
Myers.

So it is with some bemusement that I am sitting here reflecting that
it is very strange that out backyard now has: a tree house (sort of
anyway – it is really more of a tree platform) a skate park (well, a
few ¼ pipe ramps anyway) and now… a waterfall – all of which were
built by ... me.

Well, not exactly. We had this sunken area outside our deck that I
never liked. It was always wet, and ugly and difficult to mow.
Sometime this summer, this idea came into my head that it would be the
perfect place for a water feature. I pictured a little cascading
trickle falling into a quaint pool set between two stones.

Well that idea would not go away. It kept torturing me all summer and
one day I saw an ad on Craigslist for some free rock. I drove out to
the country and met this farmer who said he had some nice rocks that
he needed to get out of his field and that he was willing to give them
away of I took all of them. Well, it just so happened that I have a
client who is an excavator who was going to dig a French drain for me
so I asked him if he would mind picking up the rocks for me when he
came to dig the ditch.

A few days later I returned from work to find approximately SIX TONS
of bounders in a big pile off the deck in the back yard.



"The Farmer wanted me to take one that weighed over 1,000 pounds" my
client, Hank told me, "but I figured you already had enough."

Enough? What to do with all this rock? Well, I went back to Craigslist and found a couple of plastic ponds and started figuring how to put everything together. My problem is that I cannot visualize how something will turn out. I just have to start moving things around and seeking how they look. Unfortunately, you can't do that very easily with 500 lb. boulers.

That is how I found myself one day last August, taking the day off
work to watch my client with his excavator machine being directed by
another client of mine who is an architect as they moved boulders
around, flipped them over, replaced them with others and basically
acted just like a woman directing her husband to re- arrange the
furniture.

The long and short is that I have spent all my spare time during the past two months working on the waterfall. I did have to hire an expert in pond and waterfall construction to give me some basic tips about how to lay out the rocks and prepare the flat falls, but most of what you see was my design. And so far, unlike my other great ideas, it seems to be working. Except that I have to put more water in it every day. Now when I come home from work the first thing I do is go
and visit the waterfall and make sure it is still working. THEN, I give JB a kiss and say hi to the kids. I am hoping that the water loss is due to splash and evaporation -- and not to a leak. But
knowing how my other inventions have turned out, it will only be a matter of time until we have a massive flood in our basement. In the mean time, however, I will keep the screen door open, even in winter, to hear the soothing sound of our waterfall.

Triple A

There are at least five things I ought to be doing right now other than blogging, but a promise is a promise, and it ought to be kept, especially when that means you can procrastinate doing laundry.

Today has been a bizarre day. Tim had oral surgery this morning and he got put under for it. I was a little nervous about that. When I went in to see him after it was over, it was strange to see him there but not there, his eyes stuttering as he tried to track the Doctor's face. He didn't talk for a while--talking is not his favorite mode of communication anyway--but he was ready to jump right up, in spite of the fact that he was bobbing and weaving as he tried to move.

We walked into the house and he promptly threw up and, to his bleary bewilderment, lost bladder control. Glad I didn't send him back to school (just kidding! I probably would NEVER have done that.) I don't mind the work of caring for invalids, but I don't like the people I love to be something other than themselves. He's feeling a little more Tim now, reading a book and banging on the wall with a lacrosse stick when he needs my help.

I went into school the other day to help Tim with writing and got the tail end of a pep talk his teacher was giving the class. He was just finishing telling a story about how his day had started (it seemed to involve mechanical failure of a car, a downpour, and a fair bit of walking), but told the kids that he'd seen a bumper sticker that said "No Bad Days" as he was trying to get himself to school. He asked them what they thought that meant.

My favorite answer was (can you guess?) Tim's. He said , "It means, 'You decide.'" After we had finished up Tim's writing and the kids had gone to PE, I was cleaning out Tim's desk (this is a job he sometimes needs help with) when the teacher came back. I asked what had happened, and he told me that his car had died--run out of gas, he thought--several MILES from school, that he had a class to attend (teach?) after school until 9 pm and that his other car was in the shop. But no bad days!

It took me ten minutes or so, but I finally extracted the key from his reluctant hand, grabbed a gas can from the garage, implored Teri to go with me (okay, it didn't take much persuasion--she's incredibly busy painting her house, but she fairly sizzles with jump in and do good spirit) and set off to find the car.

Now, I was not as optimistic as Tim's teacher that the car would turn out to be merely out of gas. He had confided a) that the 'car' was actually a Volkswagen Westphalia, b) that he was unfamiliar with the gas gauge because the car was a recent purchase, c) that he had bought it from a graduating college student, and d) would we please overlook without prejudice the marijuana-promoting bumpersticker affixed to the back since it belonged to the previous owner?

I thought (and Teri agreed) that if you buy a Westphalia from a college kid on weed, you get what you pay for. Which is a long walk to school. But this teacher is a great guy, dedicated, intelligent, hard working, and very much loved by both our kids, and a mercy mission makes more sense than plates full of cookies, so we both prayed that somehow gas really was the problem and went to work.

Teri, wearing paint clothes and a take-charge expression, grabbed the gas can while I got the gas key out of the ash tray. (Aside: keeping your gas key in the ash tray is the same as not bothering with a gas key, except that it increases the chances of dropping the thing down into the innards of the dash. Anyway.) The gas can spout was a tricky, and neither of us had used it before. It had sort of a retracting cover which we couldn't figure out how to pull back and the gas seemed to be supposed to come out the sides.

Finally Teri pulled the cover back with one hand and holding the gas can in the other, stuck the nozzle in and poured. Gas gushed out all over her hands and feet and splashed into her eye. She set down the gas can and calmly but forcefully asked for water. I ran around ineffectually, first looking for a water source (a mud puddle?) and finally settling on the box of wipes I keep in the car.

Once Teri's sight was restored we were back to trying to force gas into the Westphalia. After Teri had been doused a couple more times, I called Tom (fortunately without generating static electric sparks.)

"Hi," I said. "Teri and I are here with Mr. Smith's car and without asking for any explanations could you please tell us how the gas can works?"

Long pause. "Who's Mr. Smith?" he asked.

Finally he divulged that the gas can works on faith. You cannot see how the gas will get from the can to the tank, but if you shove it in there and pour, somehow the transfer becomes true. We tried this method. It worked as advertised. Until Teri pulled the can out.

As it turned out, there was a stopper in the end of the gas can spout. Had we seen it in the first place, we could have pulled it out and simply poured. Too bad we didn't, because as Teri removed the can, the edge of the stopper caught on the inside of the spring loaded fuel inlet cover and stayed caught half inside, half outside the gas tank.

The moment stretched painfully as the possibilities became clear.

"Ah, Mr. Smith....? Though we only wanted to help, unfortunately...."

I asked Teri if she thought it was appropriate for me to pray. She asked me why I hadn't been praying all along.

Clearly, in order to get the thing OUT, we had to open the spring loaded cover without dropping the stopper, but the space was pretty cramped. Teri clutched the stopper while I ran around looking for sticks...screw drivers...pliers...

"Do you have a chopstick in your car?" Teri called. I came up with a live-strong bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, and a capless pen.

After several abortive attempts, at last I pulled and twisted while Teri poked (with the sunglasses ear piece) and whew! Our prayers were answered and we hyperunventilated.

Teri's VW experience being more recent than mine (though I recall revving the rabbit frantically at every stoplight with the best of them), she got behind the wheel. The Westphalia belched several clouds of exhaust and miraculously started up.

We walked into the school together, smelling like a well-prepped arson site, and presented Mr. Smith with the key.

He walked up enthusiastically but was forced to take a step backwards as the fumes overcame him. He gave us a sincere if watery-eyed smile and gasped out, "I'm so sorry! You smell like gasoline!"

Which is all the thanks a couple of bored middle-aged stay at home moms hungry for adventure really need. I think Teri muttered that next time she's bringing HER gas can.

Five Things that Moms Say that Make No Sense (No Particular Order)

1. Why can moms not get that only girls wear coats? You'd think they were girls or something.

2. What is this bizarre obsession with mud? Sheesh! You'd think it was radioactive the way they carry on about it.

3. Eat! Don't eat! Eat! Don't eat! Moms cannot make up their minds. Look, Mom, there are two categories of food: good food (Lucky Charms, cheetos, root beer) and bad food (weird soup, spaghetti sauce, whatever's for dinner). If you'd just work on always getting us good food, we'd eat and you wouldn't have to say a word.

4. The room clean thing is one I'll never get. It's just a whole lot of effort for no reason. I've cleaned that thing a million times and no progress has been made. In fact, I think it's dirtier than when I first started. Could we just stop?

5. WHY do you want to comb my hair? And WHAT is the purpose of a "part?"

Okay, yes, I do admit you were right about the deodorant, and where did I put that, anyway?

Play it, Mom

I bought a bottle of fish oil pills at Costco. My thinking: yes, they could be quackery, and they do make you burp fish, but what ACTUAL damage can they do, other than to the pocketbook? So I told Tim that some studies show that Omega-3 and Omega-6 make you smarter. He wanted to try this out. I gave him a pill to swallow. About five minutes later I looked over and he was still trying to swallow it. He would put it in his mouth, fill a glass full of water, get an incredibly determined look on his face, and then throw his head back, splashing water all over his shirt, his face, and the floor. He would look hopeful for a second or two, then spit the capsule out, fill the glass again, and start over. After about fifteen minutes of this, he jubilantly yelled, "I did it! I did it! I swallowed the capsule! I'm going to be smarter--if that's possible."

Church today was one of those humbling, exhausting experiences. I got up at 5 am to finish up Program Practice Prep. This involved lots of printing, collating, copying, and one large Eddie Spaghetti poster. At 8 am, I ran to my Ward Council meeting. Bishop: "Primary?" Me: "Nothing from us."

All heads swivel. Bishop: (incredulous) "Primary has nothing?"

I know, I know, me and my big mouth are the most popular members of Ward Council. I got home to find Mom and all boys in action, having made SIX pans of rice crispy treats. Thanks Mom. And we were even all in the car and off to church right on time. A beautiful, textbook morning. And then...

It started with the Organ. About half way through the prelude, a sizzling fried-wires sound was heard from the vicinity of the soffits and POOF! no more organ. Then, just as the sacrament was just coming to a close, into the reverent silence came a distinctive, loud, IRREVERENT, musically electronic sound from our bench. As the noise went on...and on...and on...and on... and nobody did anything about it, I began to realize that it was NOT one of the boys. The sound was way too pretty. It could only be one person on our bench.

Mom.

That's right. Let one unsearched person onto the bench, and that's what you get. I couldn't stop laughing (silently). Then it got worse. I had planned a complex schedule for Primary time and as a result I brought a whole bag full of watches to distribute to watchless teachers. I never thought about the possibility that some of them might be have alarms...that were switched on...and left at the default setting of...what ever time but 12 noon? So right about the time our very excellent WML speaker was approaching his conclusion (and I was once again sitting at the piano), all beeping broke loose from the Mumford vicinity.

We heard last night at (yet another) ward fireside that a Puritan woman and her employer's family were forced to leave their community because she smiled in church. My friends all tell me the best part of the Mumford reverence fiasco is watching me try to hold it together while playing the hymns.

Tonight at bedtime, Tim for some reason had his heart set on sleeping on the downstairs couch. He gave me every argument he could think of. Finally, I said, "Look, Tim. We sometimes DO allow kids to sleep on the couch, but NEVER on a school night." He demanded to see a copy of the family rules where that one was written down. "Tim," I said, "studies have shown that sleep deprivation actually reduces your academic performance." "Oh, don't worry Mom," he said. "We'll make up for that with the fish oil pills."

I have so much more to say, but I'm exhausted and I have to get up at 4:45 am to take Tom to the airport. We're so lucky to have Mom staying here this week--but LOOK! In spite of that, I still blogged. What commitment!

Muddy

Hey, thanks for all the comments. I'm loving the blog renaissance!

It has been the ugliest fall here in Bham. It has rained and rained and rained. Out in the back yard where Tom was once building the canal, we now have a muddy rock pile rising from a puddle. I would imagine that this frustrates him, but we haven't talked much about it.

Last Monday was an early release day from school. I hate early release days. Not because I dislike having the kids home. On the contrary! But having them home every odd once in a while just for the afternoon means that they want to plan something out of the ordinary, and that inevitably involves extra kids and quite a lot of bother of one sort and another. This particular Monday, it also involved our old dead lawnmower, now bereft of blade, and the muddy rock pile/puddle. Also jumper cables (fortunately no one was blinded) and quite a lot of whooping. And truckloads of mud.

I know, I know, you're wondering, "Julia! Where were YOU???" Well, I was here. Mostly. It just didn't seem like the stunningly bad idea it turned out to be until the moment that I realized that (unlike me) the boys saw the old lawnmower less as a great learning experience in the shop and more as a poor man's four wheeler. When I heard the mower roar to life, I ran out to the garage to congratulate them. For a moment, I basked in the joy of knowing what a great, broad minded mother I am.

Then I turned into a shrill, narrow minded, screaming mother. "STOP! NO!!! GET HIM OFF OF THERE!! NO WHEELIES!!! ONLY ONE PERSON!!! I REALLY DON'T THINK..... ZAAAAAACH!!!!! HEY!!! WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS!!! COULD YOU JUST! YIKES!!!! TIME OUT FOR THE MOWER.....HEY! BOYS!!! NOT THE SKATEBOARD!!"

"What, John? A tow rope? Like for a... No honey, no tow ropes."

"I don't mean we don't HAVE a tow rope. I mean YOU can't have a tow rope."

"I mean, no tow ropes on the mower. Look boys, think about this picture. A rope tied to the lawn mower. People running around. Ropes twisting around limbs and necks. Ropes dragging people. Ropes cutting things off. Important things like heads, arms, and legs. "

"Look, boys, I totally get that you are VERY responsible and..."

"I never questioned your judgment, but..."

"BOYS!!! NO TOW ROPES!!! NO, NOT FOR THE BIKE!!! OR FOR ANY VEHICLE OR REASON!!!"

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GET THAT THING OUT OF SIXTH GEAR!!! DO YOU HAVE A SPEEDOMETER?"

My friend Teri's advice to her boys is, "If it looks stupid, sounds stupid, or smells stupid, it IS stupid." I don't know how she successfully raised two boys with this piece of advice, because frankly, NO idea which has just occurred to a boy strikes him as stupid. Ever.

And later, after it has been proven stupid, the idiot antics still have to be shared. My boys can't resist telling me all the horrifyingly stupid things they do. They just can't. It's great to pull it off without getting caught, but within 60 minutes, they find themselves sidling up to me and asking, "Mom, if I tell you something, promise you won't get mad?"

I love my boys, I DO, I DO!! But don't tell me I have my hands full. Everybody does. Do they think I don't understand this? I am in a boat with six adorable males. The boat is filling with water. I'm frantically bailing, yelling for help. The boys are looking at me. They're all wearing the same perplexed look and they're asking, "Why is water (mud, a party for sixty, hooky-bobbing, etc., etc.) a problem?"

Ten Blogs in Ten Weeks

Scott has thrown down the gauntlet. I pick it up. A challenge for all my beloved blogging sibs. I miss the blogs! I am as much to blame as anyone! So I'm going to take an oath: I will write 10 blogs in 10 weeks--a blog a week for the next two and a half months. May some of the rest of you take the challenge and help me avoid housework on Monday morning.

Oh, and if anyone can help me get rid of the little green bar in my pretty picture, DO IT!! PLEASE!! HELP!!!

The kids have started school and its been even more painful than usual. The lunches. The backpacks. The signatures on everything, though why they think it prevents things like progress reports and picture day from escaping my notice, I'll never know. Violins, Cellos, Double basses. Concerts. SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER. Birthdays for everyone. And SO on.

Alex is taking singing lessons, but don't tell anyone. He sings like an angel. He loves the lessons. He loves to practice. It's fragile bliss, though, because if even ONE person makes a derogatory comment, I suspect that I won't be able to drag him back to the lessons with a tow rope. His teacher is a lovely man who has an entire mantelpiece full of cut glass and crystal, sparklingly lit and backed by a gigantic mirror. It's probably half a ton of fragile leaded glass whatever. Honestly.

I've noticed that standing there gazing at the crystal makes the kids incredibly, perfectly good. They don't balk. They don't refuse. They don't look mulish and they NEVER EVEN THINK of banging the keys or stomping their feet. The possible consequences are just too terrifying. I wish I'd thought of that technique years ago.

Now, I have several more possible topics and I'd like to go on, but frankly if I'm going to make it through ten blogs in ten weeks, I have to save some topics. So remind me that I promised to tell you about a man, a plan, a canal...panama! next week.

I'll just finish up with a Tim. This is a report from Tom. The other day they were riding in the car together and this conversation happened:

Tim: Dad, as soon as the last of our friends move away, can we move to Idaho?

Dad: What are you talking about?

Tim: You know, most of our friends have moved away, so I figure after the Rosses move we might as well go, too.

Dad: But the Rosses aren't moving.

Tim: Well, it's only a matter of time. Besides, if we move to Idaho, Zach can save you some time by driving me to Scouts when he is 14.

Dad: True, but I have a law practice here. I have a reputation--people know I'm a good lawyer, so they come to me. If we moved to Idaho I'd have to start all over.

Tim: Sure, but if you're such a hot-shot lawyer, you can build up a new reputation in no time. And I don't mind eating smaller portions for a while.

Silence…

Tim: Besides, don't we have all those cans of wheat and stuff out in the garage? We can just eat that.

A Lone Man in the Garden of Eden

They say that Adam was lonely in the garden and needed Eve to be a help meet for him. Well this past week Julia and the Boys have been in Idaho having their 1940’s knee boarding vacation and as Julia put it that means that I have been left “a lone man in the Garden of Eden”. Let’s deconstruct:

“1940’s knee boarding vacation”: the original idea of this vacation was that it was going to be a rustic vacation in like in the 1940’s (see e.g. “Blueberries for Sal”)

No CD players, no Ipods, no cell phones, no computers, no radio, no tv and NO MOVIES. Just books, games, and puzzles. EXCEPT that they decided they would also take the boat. Well, the reports I am hearing are that they are out on the water all day every day taking turns knee boarding, wakeboarding, waterskiing etc. But when they go home, NO ELECTRONICS. Hence, the 1940’s knee boarding vacation.

Garden of Eden: That would be Bellingham. It used to be that when Julia left to visit family, I would eat many if not most of my meals in restaurants. It has not been a whole week, and I have eaten only one meal at a restaurant -- and that was mostly for convenience. Instead, I have been living off homemade bread and produce from our garden. For example I invented a new dish I call pink patriotic potato salad. We grew some BLUE potatoes this year and yes they are really blue. When combined with white potatoes and beets (from the garden) they make a patriotic combination. Except that when you add the mayo (I have now learned how to make homemade mayonnaise) everything turns pink. I made a large batch for our BBQ party last week and it was DELICIOUS, but most people avoided it because they could not figure out how a salad with obvious bits of egg and pickles could be pink, and not be some kind of Jell-O concoction. The result was that the left over potato salad fed me for a couple of days – YUMMY! When I want a snack, I just go to the garden and grab a cucumber from the cucumber patch. They are fresh and crisp and delicious. For lunch, I grab a garden fresh tomato and slice it on homemade bread with an avocado. Tonight for dinner I had zucchini with melted cheese. (That was traditionally my secret power meal before football games in High School). For breakfast, I have been making berry smoothies and finishing off the remaining hard boiled eggs.

Why do you need to know this? I’m not sure, but I suspect that Adam didn’t really need Eve to cook his meals for him, with all that fresh produce literally hanging around.

“Help Meet?” I have discovered that I can get a lot more done with nobody around. As a general rule, it takes at least 3 times longer (and 200% more frustration) to teach a kid to do a job instead of just doing the job myself. I have also noticed that when I clean a room, it STAYS CLEAN. What a concept! I have enjoyed being able to work at home without interruptions, and to follow whatever schedule I feel like (as long as I make my client meetings, I can work at the office, at home, morning afternoon or night. I have also enjoyed the peace and quiet of the house. And when I want company I invite my bluegrass buddies over for a jam session.

In fact, I have been enjoying myself so much that I was beginning to reflect that Adam may have been better off before Eve came along. As I was reflecting on this, I picked up this month’s Ensign. The feature article is entitled “Welcoming Every Single One” and talks about issues faced by single members of the church, who often find it hard to fit in to a church which places so much focus on families.

As I read the article, I realized that the only reason I have been enjoying being alone this past week is that it is such a novel contrast to my usual daily life. What would it feel like to come home every day and not have Nigel jump off the stairs into my arms? Or to hear silence all the time instead of Zach practicing his piano and bass? Or to not take Tim with me to the store and listen to his deep philosophical questions as we go? Or to take care of the yard without Alex to discover all the snakes, frogs and plants? And most of all not to be able to look into Julia’s eyes, to not hear her voice, and to not hold her close at night?

If I did not have the hope that my family will be coming home in a few days, the peaceful solitude I am enjoying now would turn into restless loneliness. Sometimes the grass is greener on the other side. Sometimes, seeing the greener grass on the other side just makes you more grateful for your own yard. Not because it is less green, but simply because it is yours.

So, I will enjoy my last few days of being alone. But I am already looking forward to the day when the house is messy again, when I have to come home for dinner every night, and when I have somebody to help me in the garden.

Fourth of July on the Pier

Whistling for Fish

I am totally convinced that fishing is a genetic thing. Either you understand it at a primal level -- or you don’t. I always thought that Brett got all the fishing genes for the entire family, but last week I suspected that perhaps I ended up with a few left over fishing chromosomes. It happened like this:

When school was finally out on June 22, we decided to get away to our new favorite playground … CANADA!

We drove along the majestic golden coast highway admiring the fjords and mountains until we arrived at our first camping spot .. Alice Lake.

I untangled the 6 bicycles tied to our 4 bike rack, and the kids were off! Zach and Alex to Jack’s Trail, a narrow path over rocks and slippery tree roots which I found a little challenging and Zach pointed out was only a green circle (“easiest”).

After thoroughly exploring the area on bikes, the two kids who HAVE the fishing gene, Alex and Nigel, wanted to give it a try. I sat down on a bench and after about 20 minutes I was able to successfully tie on two hooks and bait the poles. About that time, Julia wandered down to the lake to see what this fishing thing was all about.

Compared to Julia who has zero fishing experience, I am a relative expert (meaning that even though I never catch anything I have spent lots of hours hanging out on docks and shores talking with the guys and I have spent several hundred dollars on bait and hooks) and I patiently explained to her that fishing consists of (1) casting (keep it out of the trees) (2) waiting for an eternal 5-10 minutes until you reel in your line to discover that the weight you felt pulling your line was really just a twig and (3) untangling your line and replacing whatever got lost. If you are lucky it is just your bait, if you are not you have to re-tie a new weight, spinner and hook. I then showed her a sample cast and handed her the pole while I turned back to setting up two more rods for the other two boys who would be along shortly.

Julia took the pole and said, “So what do I do now, just sit around? Maybe I should go get a book.” Just then I noticed the tip of her rod jerking back and forth and side to side, easily the most lively stick I had ever experienced. “I think you have a fish!” I yelled.

“What do I do next?” Julia asked, panicked. “REEL it in!” “How?” “Turn the handle!”

Well you’ll never believe it but about 30 seconds after the cast hit the water, we had pulled in nice fat rainbow trout, Julia’s first fish – ever!

That was when I first suspected that perhaps there were a few latent alleles of the fishing gene in me after all. I got so excited, I hooked up the remaining poles and all the kids began casting wildly. Tim’s first few casts were in the tree, but hey, he had to learn somehow, right? Similarly Nigel had several snags which required me to retie his whole setup, but he is only 4 so I tried be patient. Zach crossed Alex’s line several times requiring me to cut the line, and as I tied more hooks and replaced more bait I became increasingly frustrated. Every cast seemed to result in a snag requiring me, the only one who knew the fishing knot, to re tie. This went on for several hours until I had completely exhausted the large supply of hooks and bait in the yard sale tackle box. By that time, my enthusiasm for fishing had wilted considerably. Still we ended up with 3 nice rainbows. Julia baked one in the coals stuffed with bacon and onions. The next two we ate for breakfast.

The next day dawned cloudy. I have read that in Alaska, the Eskimoes have over 20 different words for snow. In the great Northwest, we have over twenty different words for rain. A typical description of a camping trip might be like this:

On the first day, it started out lightly overcast but we caught a couple of nice sunbreaks in the afternoon and it only drizzled through the night. The next day was grey, but we got by with light jackets and it cleared up considerably by evening. We saw white clouds and blue sky on the third day.

I realized that I was indeed camping in the great northwest when I saw a group of Canadian kids trotting down to the lake with their damp towels under a grey and dreary sky for a nice swim in 60 degree weather.

In other words, in the great northwest, we deal with the rain by pretending it is not there. That’s what we did when we decided to bike all of Jack’s trail. Slinging down the slippery tree roots on my bike and thinking about the x-ray of the broken collar bone which our home teacher proudly showed us kept me on my toes (literally). I kept wondering, as Zach and Alex barreled down the hill in front of me, how I would be able to carry a kid and two bikes down the mountain if someone got injured. I answered this question by reasoning that this scenario was unlikely, since if anyone was going to be injured it would probably be me.

Through a combination of luck, minimal skill and walking on the steepest and slipperiest parts of the trail, we made it all the way down and Julia met us in town at the bottom of the mountain.

We bought several more packs of hooks and bait and went back to fish. After several more hours of tying line, breaking hooks, re tying and untangling snags, I decided that any fishing gene fragments I had probably came from fishermen who used NETS rather than LINE. We didn’t catch anything, which I found reassuring to be back to normal. The previous day had been like a bad fever -- hot in order to burn away any desire to make fishing a way of life.

That night, it rained. Now, for many campers, the fact that your tent has puddles in the corners and water is soaking in to your clothes would be a deterrent to further camping in the great northwest. We just call it sleeping in a waterbed.

We packed up our wet stuff and headed for our second destination – Whistler. Julia had carefully researched lodgings and had reserved a fabulous campsite right next to the river – coming straight off the glacier. The day was cool and overcast and with out wet tent and bags, the prospect of getting rained on again was daunting. But, in true pioneer spirit we refused to turn back and considering our options and being resourceful, we quickly upgraded to a cozy heated cabin.

That night, as we sat in our cabin playing games after warm showers, Nigel prayed that the next day “the rain would go away and the blue sky would come” and so it did. Our prayers were answered with a glorious day biking in Whistler. The highlight came at the end, when two bears walked right by us on the bike path. We went to Whistler village to watch the extreme biking championship and topped it off with dinner at the old spaghetti factory. Everyone slept on the 3 ½ hour drive home and they all missed some of the most incredible scenery I have seen as I watched the sun set on the Howe Sound.

All in all it was a great family vacation and I now feel that summer has finally come.

PS On the Fourth of July I discovered where my latent fishing talent lies. We threw our crab pots off the pier and went biking and in a few hours we had caught 9 crab. Nobody else on the dock caught much at all. At the barbecue that night we all ate as much crab as we wanted and there was lots left over for crab pasta and crab salad the next day. I never thought I would tire of eating crab, but we have about ½ pound in the freezer for the first visitor who wants to come to Whistler with us.

Parenteen

I'm trying desperately to escape the smothering, gooey, coax-and-coddle parenting so popular with my generation but I just can't...overcome...gravity... And so tonight I found myself doing something my parents would NEVER have done. Try to imagine it--my mother, 10 pm on a school night, hunched over the computer anxiously helping type up reams of "Campbell for Secretary" stickers. Dad helpfully coming home early from work to brainstorm campaign strategy. Yeah.

Anyway. Tom is helping Zach write a speech. I am helping him design a poster. Tom and Zach have invented a slogan. I put the slogan on a poster-sized sticker (yes, they really have these. Fred Meyer. Quick stop on the way home from Cub Scouts/Activity Days/Primary Presidency Meeting.) Now the slogan has been supersized and put in a slogan-appropriate font, Zach is trying hard to hide his consternation. I see it dawning. Mom and Dad have seemed a little less smart lately, but suddenly he KNOWS it. He really, really KNOWS it. If they ever had to survive a day in the halls of middle school, they would be teased. Humiliated. They would eat their lunch in the library. They have NO IDEA HOW TO SURVIVE. And if he takes their slogans and spiffy ideas anywhere near Shuksan Middle School, he will be ANNIHILATED.

He's backpedaling, pretty graciously for a seventh grade boy. He's offering his suggestions while trying to defer without giving in to the parental ideas. *Sigh.* Who knew this campaign was going to be so hard. But he's definitely showing his political savvy. Go Zach.

I realize two things, as I tenderly tuck my seventh grade boy into bed and quietly toss the darling "Zach's Got Your Back/Mumford for Secretary" half sheet stickers with black and white line-drawn head shot (seemed like a good idea at the time...really) into the garbage.

Number one is that by the time you get a teenager to parent, you're forty or pretty close. You've lost it, if you ever had it. You're tone deaf to the language of thirteen year olds. You are not cool--or you probably are because *cool* is not cool. You need to let your teenager handle his own campaign.

Number two is that if I had to walk in the doors of Lincoln Middle School again tomorrow, I'd be just as miserable as I was the first time around. I have learned very little in life that would make me better at middle school. Thank goodness.

May I be graceful enough to keep my mouth shut, remember where the trash can is, and have faith that Zach will do better all by his little lonesome self than he ever will with two meddlesome forty year olds running along behind plying him with pathetic slogans that probably would not have elected anyone even in the 80s.

Snot & Boogers

What Tim doesn't get, honestly, is why people think it's disgusting. "I mean," he says, "they just go down your throat the backwards way anyway, so when they come out your nose, why shouldn't you recycle them? That's not gross, it's just natural."

Squeamishness is such a satisfying state of mind, but squeamlessness is more lucrative. Think dentistry. Sure, marketing managers get to wear Brooks Brothers and comprehend The Office, but do they make as much as Urologists? We may as well focus on the positives of squeamlessness, because Tim is what he is. Now and forever. And fortunately, we have, this very week, seen one of the brighter sides of this personality trait. Tim narrowly missed suspension (for a third incident of fighting on the playground) thanks to quick thinking plus the contents of his nostrils.

The problem was simple. A girl--a girl--challenged him to a fight. Never mind what for. Nobody seems to know. But we DO know that equality of the sexes means you pretty much have to fight all challengers, even the ones in eighties style ruffled micro-minis, and somehow refusing to fight a girl makes you even more than just the ordinary kind of chicken. As Tim earnestly explained, "I know I'm not supposed to fight girls, but I had no choice. It was an impeachment to my honor."

So, standing there on the playground nervously facing a girl, caught between the principal and at least a month without dessert on the one hand, and a lifetime of his classmates' scorn on the other, Tim needed a little miracle. Fortunately, this all happened on his birthday, and as he puts it, "I had a bit of birthday luck."

Just as the efficient machine of womanhood (this is second grade, remember, when the boys still lag behind the girls in both size and coordination) charged him, a brilliant thought occurred. Standing his ground, no doubt with that unholy and gleeful smile I love on his face, Tim quickly emptied the contents of his nose into his palms and held them straight out in front of his body. According to him, "It stopped her in her tracks!"

So much for Lorian, terror of the second grade. And if any of you wise guys have visions of explaining to Tim that "suspension" means a day off school ("This kid was so bad, we're going to give him a FREE VACATION!"), think again. Do it and I'll assign you to "office support duty" during the next playground incident crisis.

I noticed this summer when Tim visited Brett and Alison that suddenly Brett had all the great stories and I had none. I really am tremendously indebted to this creative, insightful, lovely child of mine. The ten minutes I spend tucking him in to bed are always richly repaid. I just hope that somehow, someway, I will be given the wisdom to help him connect with something that will lead him into the amazing adulthood he deserves. The fear that I may not be able to do it keeps me awake nights. I'm glad he has more than just me pulling for him.

Rivers of Mucus

Let that title be a WARNING to you. If you have a weak stomach, don't read on.

I've been overwhelmed by slimy green goop, which has in the last 24 hours pretty much solidified to the consistency of double bass rosin. Okay, so you've never seen a tub of double bass rosin. It's so viscous that it appears solid, but if you tip the little canister it comes in, you'll discover that over a period of hours it responds to the forces of gravity and moves into a new shape. Last night I lay down on my left cheek and over the eight hours that I slept (remember Mother's Day. They let me sleep in.), the approximately one gallon of semi-solid mucus in my head shifted left, leaving me with a terrific headache and a lopsidedly swollen face. Ugh. This is just the second sinus infection of my life, but I'm starting to understand why people go to such weird extremes (snorting the contents of a neti pot, installing eucalyptus steam jets in the shower, submitting to that surgery where they chisel out your sinus cavities) to try to avoid sinus problems.

Anyway. Done moaning, but trust me, I needed to.

New topic. I loved Women's Conference! The conversation started at the Seattle Airport, wove in and out of the next two days of classes, and didn't truly stop until we were back at the Airport. It was hard to say goodbye. The classes were good--inspiring, motivating, full of insights--but the company was the best. Hurrah for eternal and amusing families! This time I felt that power of sisterhood and it was more than a cliche. How amazing to be there with thousands and thousands of women dedicated to service and righteousness. I've never been able to see that beyond the outward stuff that bugs me, but this time I really got it (as Kim can testify--I was moved to tears in the the crocheted mittens line).

I also thought (during Women's Conference) that I had made a marvelous new health breakthrough--sudafed plus as many ibuprofen as necessary (a cocktail recommended to me by Brett a long time ago) doesn't just make you feel better--it RESTORES YOU TO HEALTH!! You can ignore that pesky little cold that was keeping you down. Travel, stay up all night, eat mint brownies, be merry, for tomorrow there will still be sudafed and vitamin I! Ah, the body takes its ultimate revenge. My sudafed no longer comforts me, and my ibuprofen no longer makes me well. I have come to the valley of the shadow of secondary infection and I have learned my lesson. I know, Dad, I know. I was driving the combine with the air conditioning on and the stereo up full blast. I won't do it again anytime soon. I am forty and I know it.

Hubris

While sitting at the organ today, I looked lovingly at my husband and three youngest children and thought, "Just look at that! Only three short years ago, we were the subjects of an entire fireside addressing irreverence in our ward. But NOW! Look at us! WE ARE SO REVERENT!"

At that very moment nemesis was lurking under Timothy's shirt in the form of a white plastic electronic disk out of Nigel's Tweety Bird birthday balloon.

It carried on lurking right through the first two speakers and a lengthy musical number, but about five minutes into the High Council talk, Tom discovered it and yanked it out. It was motion sensitive, of course, so Tweety immediately announced in a loud voice:

"A witto biwd told me it was yow BIWTHDAY! (singing, obnoxious Tweety Bird voice)
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday to you,
Happy Biwthday witto tweety,
Happy Biwthday to YOU!
A BIG Happy Biwthday fwom a witto chick!"

The entire Mumford bench collapsed into a heaving, soggy pile of hilarity. Both adults were seized by the fatal combination of deep mortification and uncontrollable giggles. Without fully thinking things through, Tom attempted to muffle the singing (it was pretty loud) and as a result set the whole song off for a second time.

Tim and Nigel were both laughing--loudly--and Alex was trying to crawl under the bench. Tom and I were both hiding our magenta faces from each other and the rest of the congregation. Taking it out while it was in full voice was impossible, but the song lasted an unbearably long time. The High Councilor valiantly pressed on with his talk, although it was nearly inaudible.

At last, the song ended, and Tom and I started arguing, sotto voice, about who should have to carry the salad-plate-sized object out. It wasn't something you could tuck under your arm or in a bag--its extreme sensitivity to motion meant that it needed to be carried like a stick of live dynamite, S L O W L Y, S L O W L Y and
G I N G E R L Y down the aisle. The ultimate humiliation.

Alex at last took it. It didn't go off until he had (barely) cleared the chapel door. So much for the Mumfords and reverence.

When we got home, Tom asked Timmy sternly whether or not he had learned his lesson. "You'll never do something like that again, will you?" he asked, iron in his voice. "You've learned that it isn't worth it, haven't you?"

There was a long pause while Tim quite obviously considered whether it was more dangerous to tell a bald-faced lie, or whether he ought to risk the wrath of Dad by admitting that it was about the most worthwhile caper he had ever attempted.

"I think," he said at last, "that I won't try that idea again."

There's a ward fireside tonight--no kids, just parents. Wonder what they're going to talk about.

In other Tim moments:

Tim wasn't just pathologically irreverent in Sacrament meeting, he was miserably bad in Primary, too, so Tom and I had (yet another) big talk about reverence when we got home. Tim said, "Look. I've learned all there is to know at my level. I'm ready to move up."

"You have not!" Alex, who was illegally lurking, said. "Who wrote down the Book of Mormon when Joseph Smith was translating?"

"Well," Tim replied, "at first it was his wife, Emma, and then it was Oliver Cowdery."

Also, Wednesday night, he told me that he had written a "lyric poem" about his future. I asked him what the poem said.

"It's just about how I'll feel when at last I'm in my room with all my materials, inventing," he said.

"But Tim," I said, "What materials do you need? I'll get you stuff so you can start inventing now."

He sighed. "Sorry, Mom. That won't work. Eight is too young to weld."

Just Thoughts

One of the counselors in our bishopric bought a house in another ward (okay, it was my fault, but let's not go into that) and gave his farewell speech today. He made the BEST comment ever. He said: "Most of you are pretty weird. Maybe no one's ever told you that before, but it's true." Then he went on to talk about our terrific ward community. Well, what he said is absolutely true. Our ward is full of weird people. I'll frankly admit to being among them, but if there is such a thing as a weirdness level that goes from, say, believing that if you say your prayers out loud the devil can capture them (this would be a high level) or denying the truthfulness of plastic refrigerator dishes (still high for me) down to a propensity to sing certain hymns with a bluegrass twang (I would call this lower on the scale, if perhaps slightly more annoying in sacrament meeting)...um...this sentence is developing BOM proportions...IF, I say, there is such a sliding scale, I think the Mumford family is slightly below our ward median of weirdness. That is, we have a lot of people who believe, say, wear, and eat VERY weird things. But after our bpric member made this comment, I reflected that I would much rather have a weird ward than an ordinary ward.

We've LOVED our weird wards. In the ordinary ones, I think there is too much conformity of thought, which leads to both boredom and a stultifyingly orthodox culture. Narrow minds! Sleepy gospel doctrine classes! Uneducated youth! Etc. So give me the weird. A big group of people preaching their competing far-out gospel ideas makes for great table discussions at home.

It was a beautiful Easter for us. Long live the sunrise service, although Nigel fell asleep IN church, and Tom and I fell asleep after it.

I'm finally starting to prepare for Cub Scout Day Camp this summer. The theme is the Middle Ages. I have a problem with these themes. They sound fine in theory: last year, Pirates. Arrrgh! But after you've pounded together some treasure chests, what are you going to do with this theme? Next, we'll learn to rape and pillage on the north lawn! Well, the middle ages are just more of the same. I've never been too excited about the middle ages, to tell you the truth. All those SOCA dudes in their period dress with period names, heavy swords, and reenactments, they make me nervous. I've never liked dungeons and dragons either, or tae kwon do, and I'm going to freely admit (although I think I probably shouldn't) that all this stuff goes together in my mind. Anyway, I've been avoiding it for most of my life. I have a big historical hole from about the fall of the Roman Empire straight through to the Renaissance. I've always felt fine about this. Isn't that the definition of the dark ages--a historical hole?

Anyway, I just checked out a boatload of books from the library and pulled a bunch of relevant looking things off my own shelves to start doing my homework (Tom's comment: "You're reading Idylls of the King??? Who reads Tennyson to prepare for Cub Camp? I'm scared for those boys!") And guess what? This is going all the way back to the middle of the last paragraph where I observe that the middle ages is more of the same. WAR WAR WAR. Play war. Real war. Weaponry. Building castles for protection. Building trebuchets and swords and long bows and armor for attacking. Practicing the art of war by hunting. Feasting your friends and then (if you're a Campbell) killing them in the night because you decided they were actually your enemies. Oh, we can wring a few puppet shows and maybe a juggling class out of the lighter side of the middle ages, but let's face it. The whole period is death and destruction.

When I first heard about the theme, I thought we'd get creative and do Gallileo, Leonardo da Vinci, Copernicus, but of course all the good stuff is the RENAISSANCE...the END of the middle ages. Why do we choose these stupid themes for our boys? Because nobody is THINKING about the content of the program. They're just thinking that the boys like to play sword fighting. Duh. If I hear one more thing about jousting with fun noodles, I'm going to scream. Our Day Camp program is supposed to be designed around 12 character connections like citizenship, compassion, and cooperation. I'm not saying compassion was not present in the middle ages. I'm just saying that a lot of these character points were not hallmarks of the age. Maybe we could find better themes? Just a thought.

Work

No new comments from Tim. Zip. He's mainlining books. That seems to provide sufficient social interaction.

The neighbors hired Zach and Alex to dig flower beds around the edges of their front lawn. This involves removing quite a lot of sod. This has reminded me that Alex loves to dig. When he was a little mite of two, he used to walk crisply out the door each morning and go straight to his "office," a little hole in the dirt right next to the house. His "work" was digging. When I say that the hole was right next to the house, I don't mean roundabout. And when I say he worked...well, anyway, he successfully laid bare about a yard's length of the foundation, right down to the foot, of our little house on Radford Drive. He loves the neighbor project too. Today he got off the school bus, dropped his backpack, started digging, and didn't stop until called for dinner at 6:30. (Of course, he left his backpack in a heap right next to the piles of sod, see previous post.) I wonder profession this indicates?

Nigel, at any rate, is going to be a fire fighter. This was always in the cards, but then we went to the fire station on a preschool field trip today. Those field trips to the fire station are always fine--all the moms get scared and collect the red dots for the windows; moms are also the only ones who ever ask questions and the questions are always about pulling over in traffic and whether or not Firefighter Jeff REALLY wants us to sit tight in the left hand turn lane when we hear the siren. This time, though, the station boasted only two firefighters (budget cuts) and either because they are both naturally great with kids, or because the lack of laughing peers reduced their inhibitions, they did a terrific job. One donned all his bunker gear and crawled around on his hands and knees, sounding exactly like Darth Vader, smiling through the mask and urging the kids to pound on the floor so he could find them and get them out. The other took us out to see the vehicles. He let the kids sit in the ambulance, crawl around the engine, open doors at will, sit in the drivers seat and wiggle the wheel, and finally lined them up against the wall, opened the bay door, turned on the truck, and fired up the lights and siren. The moms then asked their questions, murmured approvingly to each other about the obliging firefighters, and turned to go. At that very moment, just like they had one of those "page me" buttons Brett is always talking about, their radios crackled to life and they got called to a fire. They said a speedy goodbye, donned the gear, jumped into the truck, and sped off, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

I've been thinking that it's not a bad idea. You sit around, do preschool shows, tidy up the gear, shine up the truck, have competitions to see who can get on the gear fastest, and then every so often speed off to a fire. Might work out for Nigel. Thank goodness, since I think he's completely and totally sold.