Cradle

Pin It During long church meetings children may demonstrate their own response to the spoken word of the Lord. Feet twitch, eyes glaze and they look to perform restless mischief on their younger siblings. Such was my lot one hot Sunday afternoon. I am of an age that remembers attending two meetings on any given Sabbath. I am of an age that air conditioning purposes were served by the aged women in the congregation dressed in their best floral batting at the air with their fans.

It was the second meeting of the day. On a sticky wooden pew. Six years old. Bored out of my ever living (according to the doctrine) mind. I was just beginning my subtle side slide toward my two younger brothers intent on fulfilling my role as their constant irritant when Grandma hooked her gnarled, pointing finger at me and motioned once. I reluctantly skidded to a sticky halt and reversed direction, sliding down the pew until I was at her side, head down, a pout about my mouth. Expecting an intense hiss into my left ear that would sear my eardrum and stern up my spine I was surprised to see her take that same hooked flesh and dig her favorite “hankie” out of her purse. Grandma always carried handkerchiefs in the cool recesses of her black, snap-clasp handbag. My nose appreciated for two seconds the familiar odor of calf leather and mint.

Grandma gave me a stern, sideways glance tucking her head back like an old turtle to peer over her glasses. I thought for a dreaded moment that she was going to lick the corner of the hankie and rub some dirt spot on my face pink. I hated that when my mother did it to me. Always on a Sunday morning before church she would apply some of her “Holy Spit” while I pulled a desperate face and leaned in an unfriendly direction – away. I lifted my head briefly to look at my Grandma's eyes. They were always a dead giveaway to her mood. This time they were shiny, not hard. I relaxed. I leaned into her unpadded rib cage. My grandmother was built more Crone-like than Fairy Godmother-like. She was spare and at one time had been tall but now sat shortened by the crippling effects of rheumatoid arthritis. Even at that she had to lean over to reach my ear.

Her whisper tickled my ear, “Want to see my baby twins?” I pulled away and stared up at my Grandma. I already knew she had lost twins, my Daddy's two little sisters, when they were about a year old. To pneumonia. One right after the other separated in death by only three or four days. They were born a little too early. Grandma and Grandpa had kept them in shoe boxes the first few days of their breathing lives near the kitchen woodburner. They were very careful with them and did all they knew to do for them, which wasn't much. They died anyway. I figured she would pull a picture of them out of the depths of her purse. I had never seen a picture of my two infant aunts. I didn't think one existed. I looked at my grandmother harder. She stared back. I nodded yes and leaned against her bony hip again.

She did not reach back into her purse but instead took her hankie and smoothed it over her floral lap until it was wrinkle free. Lifting the upper right corner of the hankie she joined it to the lower left corner. A triangle was formed. With a deftness I didn't expect her to demonstrate so quickly she pinched both ends of the long line of triangle between the finger and thumb of both hands and began to smoothly roll those two ends together until they touched. Two tight, fat rolls of white were all that could be seen of that hankie at this point. I was curious but now not terribly impressed. If this was her idea of babies, it was stupid. I could make that.

Around it's corner the trick was about to be unfolded. She picked up the fat white rolls and at the pointy tips of them where they were separated a little she placed one tip in her mouth and pinched the other tip between her finger and thumb again. I was shocked that Grandma would look so silly in church with that hankie sticking out of her mouth, her head bent to hide what she was doing. I snorted. Momma heard it and turned to me, frowning. I looked back at Momma killing my fun. Grandma saw me and also turned to my Momma. Momma saw her first. She said she will always remember how Grandma looked with that hankie hanging out of her mouth and a kind of sheepish look on her face. She'd never seen Grandma look like that. Momma had to leave the meeting, red faced and choking.

Grandma watched her stumble out and then calmly turned her head and looking down at me proceeded to do the trick. With a literal flick of her wrist she tugged at one tip of the hankie pulling it away from the tip in her mouth until it formed a hammock-like cradle. Grandma took the miniature cradle out of her mouth and swinging both ends of it gently lowered it to my nose level. I had to stretch a little to peer inside the six inch hammock. Magic! There were two little babies lying there sleeping. Grandma sat staring into space for a few seconds swaying that baby cradle back and forth, back and forth. I reached up and pried it from her hands and then she smiled watching me mimic her.

Later, perhaps weeks, perhaps months for I was always over at Grandma's house as she and Grandpa lived just an alfalfa field away, she taught me this sad little lullaby to sing while I rocked my 'hankie babies”.

Wild flowers, wild flowers
Growing up so high
We're all pretty maids
And we're all going to die
Except for little (fill in your present grandchild's name)
She's the youngest one
Fie for shame, fie for shame
Turn your back toward the game.
(Then you repeat this same verse over and over endlessly until you have named every name in your family, your village, on earth or until the child has fallen asleep)

It took until I was a teenager to think about the fact that every lullaby Grandma taught me to sing was sad to me. Songs like Wild Flowers and Babes in the Woods. She said they weren't sad to her because nearly every woman lost children in those days of country doctors and no antibiotics. I've taught my own girls this melody. It's still mournful to me.

On Free Breakfasts and Free Speech

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: JAYNIEMOON

I love to be warm, to collect old books, to read home magazines, to eat treats, to meet with friends, to play with family, to teach, to sing, to listen, to visit the library, to write, to make others happy.


I don’t have high expectations when it comes to continental breakfasts. I mean, bagels, doughnuts, orange juice and coffee seem to be a typical selection of continental breakfast goodies. It is, after all, free. I guess generally I don’t have high expectations of anything that comes after the word ‘free.’ Free continental breakfast, free trial, free dinner at Olive Garden—(click now!). The value of these free items is generally just a step above free, or it comes with some giant catch, like taking out a second mortgage to pay for all your new subscriptions that qualified you for your “free” gift card.

But I’ve got to tell you, each year, when we stay at the Abbey Inn in Cedar City, I eat a better breakfast than I do the rest of the year. And it’s free. It used to be a “typical” continental breakfast, where we all crowd in together in the lobby and hope there’s still a frosted doughnut left, and then stand in each other’s breakfast space while sipping orange juice. And then we’d all end up at the IHOP next door anyway. But about five years ago, the Abbey really ramped things up. They bought a house just behind the hotel and turned it into their breakfast home. Every morning from 7-10 a.m., three nice ladies cook breakfast for guests.

Most anything you can think of is served at the Abbey Inn Continental Breakfast. Waffles, sausage, eggs, English muffins, cereal, toast, juice, milk , coffee, etc. etc. Oh, and every other day they serve biscuits and gravy (In case you’ve flown in from Tennessee or something).

One morning, I arrived at breakfast with my family, and we were filling our plates when I heard, “Where are the biscuits and gravy?”

Then, one of the three nice breakfast ladies said, “Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t have them today, we only have them every other day.”

“You don’t have them today? What will my mother eat? There is just nothing my mother can eat here.”

At this point, I turned my head, and looked at my family in disbelief. I think I sort of gasped. I repeated the comment (in hushed tones of course) and we were all totally shocked. No food to eat? What? Did she miss the Tupperware filled with muffins and bagels? The bowls for cereal or the eggs and sausage in skillets cooking right in front of her? It couldn’t be an allergy thing, because who is allergic to everything but biscuits and gravy? Nobody is. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

“You’d be surprised how often we hear things like that.” The third nice breakfast lady stated.

This got me thinking about perspectives. And complaining. And just how funny it is that two people can be at the same breakfast and one can be having a marvelous time, while the other (and her mother) are miserable. How glad I was to be the one having the good time.

It just so happened that the same ladies were checking out of the hotel at the same time as my grandma. My grandma, who hadn’t been with us that morning at breakfast, joined the rest of us in the car. She was visibly disgruntled.

“I can’t take it anymore. Some ladies are in there complaining that there were NO biscuits and gravy for breakfast, and the mother just couldn’t eat a thing.”

Upon hearing this report, my cousin went in to defend the nice breakfast ladies (now our friends after two days). After catching a moment of the “Debby Downer” conversation (by now they were complaining that there wasn’t whipped cream and strawberries with the waffles) she said, “Oh, are you guys talking about the breakfast? We’ve never had a better continental breakfast.”

At which point, she came back to the car. And with free waffles, sausage, cereal, eggs, toast, juice, milk, English muffins and bagels in our stomachs, we drove home.

After The Fire

Pin It On a recent hike I encountered something which struck me as so captivatingly beautiful that I have not been able to get it out of my mind. As I looked across the landscape before me there were trees as far as the eye could see; like twisted, blackened hands reaching towards the heavens. These trees were burned in recent years as a fire came through the area. Alone, they would be an amazing sight. However, with the green undergrowth encompassing the base of each stand of trees, the contrast of blackened branches jutting up among lush, emerald brush - it was breathtakingly beautiful.

Like these trees, we all must endure some kind of fire. It could be physical, emotional, spiritual or any number of other challenges, but through the fire we go. And in the end, what matters is how we handle things once we've been burned. Some will give up immediately and crumble into a pile of ashes, hopelessly waiting for the winds of change to blow their charred remains where they may. Others will stand firm despite the damage, constantly reaching for what they've been working towards with an eye fixed firmly upon their goal.

But ultimately, if we allow ourselves to be surrounded and sustained by splendor as well as true friends who embrace the good times with us and offer support when we've been through the fire, life always appears to be much more beautiful.

High-wire humor

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If it's a penny for your thoughts and you put in your two cents worth, then someone, somewhere is making a penny. Steven Wright

I think that most people that know me would say I have a pretty dry sense of humor. Teachinfourth is a particular friend of mine and I think he would probably admit that my wit and the Mohave Desert have a lot in common. I recognize that my humor can be a bit of a high-wire act sometimes, but generally I like my sense of humor although it does make me kind of a humor snob. This means that I may not enjoy certain types of comedy as much as others might. The Three Stooges for example have always been a bit of a mystery to me. But on the other hand I get a kick out of deadpan Steven Wright says things like “Don’t you think it’s wrong that only one company makes the game Monopoly,” or “Ever notice how irons have a setting for permanent press? I don’t get it.” Now I’m not necessarily saying that one type of humor is better than another. There is certainly a time and place for slapstick – who doesn’t like Lucy working the chocolate conveyor belt? But all in all I am just the kind of nerdy dork that would pick a funny little independent movie – probably British - over a Jim Carey Blockbuster. I like wit and irony. I love it when the state fair has a cow sculpted entirely out of butter. A Butter Cow – how ironic is that? Or the butter last supper with actual butter on the table right between butter James and butter Paul. Even annoying irony makes me smile. Like my colleague at work that always hangs out in my office, interrupting my work to complain about the woman that keeps hanging out in her room and interrupting her while she’s trying to work – now that’s comedy.

I’m always on the lookout for life’s little ironic moments and I witnessed a great one this last Friday evening. I was driving along a pretty busy main artery of the city and noticed I was following the Geico car. You know, it was a car with a big Geico appliqué on it so the whole thing was a rolling advertisement for Geico Auto Insurance. We were approaching an intersection and evidently the Geico car, no doubt feeling secure in their insurance coverage, decided that the yellow light was just a suggestion and sped forward to try and make it through the light before it changed. Unfortunately it wasn’t quite fast enough and it got in a little fender bender with a car coming the other direction. That’s right, the Geico car – an automotive monument to the importance of auto insurance had a car accident. Nothing too serious – no one was hurt, so I was able to laugh about it without the guilt – and that’s how I like my irony served my friends.

Old School

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I exited the graduation ceremony and made my way into the hallway, a part of the flowing river of bodies making their way from the confines of the UVU gymnasium to wide open spaces of the great outdoors. I’d enjoyed the proceedings, though I will admit that it was strange to see my first class of sixth graders graduating from high school.

I was as lost in thought as I was in that pullulating multitude; the years were flowing far too quickly, and there wasn’t anything I could do to quell them. Like that crowd, the years, too, were sweeping me away.

“Mr. Z!” A voice trumpeted from somewhere in the bustling mob behind me.

I turned and scanned the throng; I at once noticed three of my past students, all now young adults in high school, approaching me.

We edged our way through the crowd to a side wall and began to talk. These three teenagers all hugged me and told me they missed the years spent in a classroom when they were all significantly smaller. Did I still play the guitar? Did I still make students do pushups? Did I still give loads of homework? Did I ever keep anyone later than Randy with catching up on old assignments: 8:30 P.M.?

Each of these ‘kids’ also filled me in on what was happening in their varied lives: they told me about their classes, about their old friends who’d made some poor decisions, and about their future plans.

At one point, a student whom I’ll choose to call “Joey” asked if he could use my phone to find out where his parents had been swept away to. I pulled out my aged cell phone—the phone I’d upgraded nearly five years ago with my wireless plan, and had not done so since.

Something could be felt in the air; worlds were colliding…the old and the new, and I could tell that was now trapped somewhere in the in-betweens.

“Whoa, where’d you get your phone, Mr. Z; An antique store?” Joey asked with a laugh. “Isn’t this the same phone you had when I was in your class?”

My synapses were lightning quick. “Actually,” I responded. “This is the phone Moses used when he bought the Israelites out of the wilderness to the promised land.”

My three past students doubled over with laughter as Joey dialed his parent’s number and found out where they were stationed outside. In another few minutes I excused myself and made ready to leave.

“Catch ya later, Mr. Z!” Joey said as he extended his hand and starting a complex combination of moves, which I remembered all too well back from when I was a teenager…slaps, snaps, and general ‘jiggyness.’

By the time that Joey and I had finished the shake, it was obvious that he was impressed.

“Whoa, Mr. Z. You’re on your way to hip.” He said, nudging one of the other teenagers.

“No,” I responded with a grin. “…you’re old school.”


Image garnered from: http://blog.makezine.com/archive/2008/04/portable_cell_phone_booth.html