I WANNA GO BACK!

So remember how I said I'd make up for only posting columns? Yeah, I lied. Don't look so surprised—you knew what I was when you started reading my blog. Well, maybe not when you started, but it had to have become clear when you returned. And yet you did...which continues to stump me.  ;) And for which I bow in gratitude. Two fingered heart pound kiss. Now, I give you my latest submission:

WE WERE POLLYANNA

Some of you may know me from my days playing Betsy Ross. You remember—the theme was The Bicentennial. The year, 1976. There I sat, in a wagon, being jerked in circles around the grassy field of Syracuse Elementary as I pulled my make believe needle in and out...in and out, of the beautiful flag that lay across my very important lap. And okay, sure, I was one of about 300 children with wagons and bikes decorated in red, white and blue crepe paper, but my mother had made me a mop cap, so I’m pretty sure you saw this star being born. And if not, well...I’m sad for you.

Such were the original Syracuse Heritage Days parades. But back then, we called it SYRACUSE STAKE FUN DAY! The LDS Stake was the host, but the entire city was welcome and came. You couldn’t help but know about it either, because just as dawn broke on the beautiful June Saturday, the entire town was jolted awake by Duffy Palmer and friends—Chet Ashby, Kay Darrington, Buck Holbrook and others—driving through every single neighborhood with a crackling bull horn, alerting us to the day’s activities. If the parent’s slept through the announcements, the kids’ screams of excitement would take it from there.

After the pancake breakfast and parade, ladies sold freshly baked bread, apple pies, taffy and fudge in the tented booths. Far as I knew, nothing was “Made in China”. It was made in our kitchens. Under the bowery, (where I kissed boys) men in aprons cooked scones, hamburgers and tacos and poured ice cold, foaming root beer. Everything cost a ticket, and you had to stand in line to buy them, which was AGONIZING for a child hearing the siren song of the fishing pond, because we just KNEW all of the good toys would be gone!

Assorted attractions covered the lawn—a mini train with wooden seats for the toddlers. Pooping horses all saddled up for a guided trot. The whirling wheel powered by burly men and teenaged boys where you’d climb in, strap yourself down and they’d spin you until their muscle power ran out. 

But the ride we anticipated more than aaaaaaaall the rest, was the “Bumpity Bump” ride. That’s right. The Bumpity Bump—an old gated flatbed truck with no shocks, lopsided wheels and car seats that lined the perimeter. Basically, the ride consisted of driving around the grassy field and bouncing. And by bouncing, I mean ALL HECK BROKE LOOSE, BODY PARTS FLEW THROUGH THE AIR, LITTLE KIDS RICOCHETED OFF EACH OTHER, BUMS LANDED ON HEADS, ELBOWS INTO EYE SOCKETS AND WE LAUGHED SO HARD WE ALMOST THREW UP! When it rolled to a stop and they opened the gate, we tumbled out in a sobbing, laughing, hysterical pile, covered in unidentified bodily fluids. Then we quickly searched around in each other’s skulls, found our two front teeth, plucked them out, and handed them to our mothers, as we ran back in line to do it all over again.

As the day wore on, they held the Old Timers’ Baseball Game. At bat were Thurgoods and Thaynes and Hamblins and Cooks. Fielders were Hansens, Barbers, Stokers and Briggs. Hand sewn quilts for auction lined the chain linked fence, and the rope pull with teenagers vs. men ended with the fathers dragging their kids across the length of the field until the rope snapped.

We eventually returned home, out of tickets, worn to a frazzle and covered in sunburnt flesh and snow cone syrup. Our mothers would bathe us, drain the water, and bathe us once again. Then, dressed in summertime pajamas and slicked back hair, we pulled our bean bags onto the front lawn, climbed under a blanket, and watched as twilight turned to pitch, which signaled the fireworks display. We’d oooo and ahhh and hope with each passing BOOM that this was not the finale.

They stopped with the bull horn when somebody on grave shift complained to the city. The homemade fudge likely ended when another became sick and pointed a finger of blame. The auctions and bumpity bumps and rope pulls and ball games ceased over the course of the years, as the Stake handed the reigns to the City, and the carnival came riding into town.

Boom. Silence. We didn’t realize until too late—the finale. 

But for those of us who remember the way it used to be...Oh, how we bless your heart, our old time Syracuse. Because every year, for one glorious day in June, Syracuse was Harrington Town. And we were Pollyanna.

“Oh what did you do in the summertime, when all the world was green? Did you sit by the stream (irrigation canal) and lazily dream on the banks as the clouds went by? Is that what you did? So did I....”

NO, I DON'T TRUST THEM!

I'm getting shameless, only posting with newspaper articles, rather than fresh blogs. You deserve better. I'll come up with something brand new soon, even if I have to make it up! (Like I've never done that before. Ha!) ;)

NO, I DON'T TRUST THEM

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m not a fan of my children having girlfriends or boyfriends in their teenaged years. And it’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s just that I don’t trust the flaming hormonal parade that IS them. So no, actually I DON’T trust them.

I’ve done my best to discourage any of their possible love interests from emotional and physical attachment. Through trial and error, I’ve found the most subtle way to do this is to put a pan of sulfur on to boil, when I know they’re coming over. This leads to a hasty departure and I click the lock behind them. Listen, a mother does what a mother has to do, people. 

This is not to say the battle is won. In fact, my daughter recently admitted to me that she is “going out”.  But truth be told, elementary crushes don’t really count, because the two of them only speak through interpreters, and haven’t made actual eye contact since they agreed to become linked. 

And to be honest, all of my kids had their fair share of early romance. My firstborn son was a chick magnet for older women, as he was deceptively tall. He loved this, until one summer afternoon when a flock of them came to call, then sat giggling like idiots on our couch. I hid behind the wall eavesdropping, as any good mother would do, when I heard this conversation extinguisher, “Sooooo...(uncomfortable silence)...any of you paint your toenails lately?” The discrepancy between his physical and intellectual development was suddenly so evident, their eyes rolled in unison and they all left in disgust.

My second son had an intense attraction to the daughter of a friend of mine, requiring me to drive him across town for play dates. He brought her valentines in October, and thousands of sketches of her standing under a rainbow. One day they were playing together in her backyard, and he accidentally let a shovel fly through the air, which whacked her in the head. She went wailing into her mother, and he climbed quietly into our car, never to return with honor again.  

My third son spent every waking moment polishing the skill of lifting one leg behind his head and hopping around on the other. When we received his 4th grade year book, we were surprised to see that every picture had been taken on the same day, as he was wearing identical clothing, and his foot was behind his left ear. Turns out nope. Not the same day. All different days. Apparently some girl had told him she liked that jacket and his trick was awesome. So he wore and performed them both. Every single day. Of the entire fourth grade. And never once do I recall washing that jacket.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Provost. So very sorry. 

‘Course, I myself had a bigamist love affair with Shawn and Joby from pre-school through fourth grade. I held them both spellbound, until Neely bewitched them by running across the playground faster than me, ending my reign of love in a pool of sweat and grass stains. But not before I was given my first real gift from a boy—a bottle of puce green finger nail polish. Regrettably, my mother deemed it, “hideous,” and made me throw it away. But I snuck it back out, painted my nails and admired my split-pea nubs all night long, lamenting how my mother just didn’t understand young love. 

This awakened in me a desire to find more boys willing to give me stuff, and I soon became loose and crafty with my promises, as I told my 5th grade boyfriend that, “I think I might like to kiss you behind the bowery. I love Atomic Fire Balls and Bubblicious gum.” (raised eyebrow and sideways grin)

Lucky for us all, that was about the time I entered the ugly stage. My disproportionate nose and love of sky blue eyeshadow kept me on the platform long past the curtain call, which may have been a tender mercy from heaven, saving me from myself.

Eventually I climbed back down to let someone else be ugly for a while, but by that time, I could buy my own candy and had little use for boys and boweries. It was also about that time I met my husband, and he gave me the best present ever, which I wear on my left hand. 

This brings us back to the reason I continue to interfere in the love lives of my teenaged children. There’s something greater on the horizon, and my job is to keep them distracted—even with rotten egg gas—until they’re able to see it on their own. And if this means I buy stock in Febreze and light matches like a caveman, well, so be it.

Bless my very determined heart.

SO FAST YOUR HEAD WILL SPIN!

Seems I'm lazy. Like that's news. Here's another newspaper article, but this time...THIS TIME...IT WAS PUBLISHED IN TWO NEWSPAPERS! Totally famous now. Don't hate.

SO FAST YOUR HEAD WILL SPIN

My daughter is playing city ball. I have been happy (compelled) to attend every practice, every game, and often commanded with raised eyebrows to report back the highlights in order to prove I was paying attention. We also had to furnish her with a new ball, bat, glove and shoes, because apparently she was the ONLY ONE wearing flip flops in the dugout, which I find hard to believe, but whatever. Of course, at the end of all of this, she’ll likely receive a two foot trophy for, “Best Ponytail.” This makes me question the sanctity of the league. 

Now when I played city ball, it went something like this, 

“Hey, Mom, I’m goin’ to my game! Do we have a mitt I can use?” 

“I don’t think so—use your hand. Have fun!” 

Repeat every week ‘till the end of the season, culminating with, 

“Hey, Mom! We won the championship game!” 

“Fantastic! I’m so proud of you! Now go clean your bathroom.”

This kind of thing happened regularly. In fact, I think the first words out of my mother’s mouth when Nicki was crowned Homecoming Queen were, “Homecoming Queen? Wonderful! What a beautiful tiara. Here, I’ll hold it while you go clean your bathroom.” 

Now it wasn’t that she wasn’t tickled for us. Or supportive. Or that we had really dirty bathrooms. It’s just that the sun didn’t rise or set on our golden fannies, which is a good way to see your children, if you ask me. I remember when I was trying out for the squad and my mother said, “Lisa, we don’t really CARE if you’re a cheerleader. We don’t really WANT you to be a cheerleader. In fact, we would really rather you NOT be a cheerleader, as it will be a terrible burden on our family. And with that being said, I want to make it crystal clear to you that if, at any time, your head becomes inflated, or you turn rotten and snotten, or heaven forbid, you begin to act entitled, I WILL RIP YOU OUT OF THAT UNIFORM SO FAST YOUR HEAD WILL SPIN.” 

She said that last part quietly, but it screamed and echoed through my brain...while I cleaned my bathroom.

Apparently, my mother found no pleasure in living vicariously through me. Inconceivable. (I bet you all said that with a lisp. Thank you, Princess Bride.)

My dad felt the same way. He’d known his fair share of kids who’d let their titles and sweaters get the best of them, and he wasn’t about to let his own children join the ranks. I’ll never forget going into town with him one afternoon. I had come straight from a school event and was wearing a shirt that the varsity team had chosen for us. FOR THE RECORD, I WAS A LOWLY JV, AND HAD NO SAY IN THE MATTER—A LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER, PEOPLE. AN INNOCENT, BLAMELESS, EXPLOITED BABY LAMB. Anyway, the back was completely devoid of any buttons or zippers—just gaped wide open making some sort of slutty fashion statement, and beckoning for the wrong kind of attention. 

Crossing the parking lot, I accidentally walked directly into my father’s line of vision, and Bam! Lightning fast came the grab and clench of his fist to the back of my shirt while he propelled me into the first store in the mall to ask for a safety pin. I didn’t say a word. Just picked up speed right along with him, as I knew my name was Mudd.

Many lessons were learned that day. First, avoid walking in front of your father if you’re tramping it up. Second, record stores don’t have safety pins—neither do Mervyns, ZCMI, Nordstrom, Nations Creations, Hallmark, The Copper Rivet, Orange Julius or the entire food court. And last, but most important, dads are protectors. Not friends.

Now this is not to say that my mother and father have not become my very best friends. In fact, all those years ago, we spent many wonderful, laughing, delightful times together, being just that. But their allegiance was first and foremost to parent. To raise up a child in the way she should go. Work without praise, be modest and have integrity. Three lessons taught that will bless generations much more than a trophy or a sweater or a tiara in a glass case ever could.

And now that I am old, I will not depart from it...mostly because it’s safety pinned to my blessed heart. 

DEAD IN THE GUTTER

Here's one of my most recent articles for our local newspaper, which explains the references to specific people and such. I find that people LUV to see their name in print, or maybe that's just me. Either way, I find I LUV to see your name in print, so I do it. Hopefully, nobody thinks a libel suit is in order.

I was raised in a 1970‘s two story mansion—okay, maybe they weren’t so much “stories” as they were “levels”...as in bi-level. But it must have been over 2,000 square feet combined, which was unheard of at the time. Moving from about a block away, I remember watching all summer long as the plans came to fruition through the skilled carpentry of Clair’s dad, George Smedley. 

Before the finishing touches, we decided to have a sleep over on the bare floors. We brought in our 10 inch black and white television and dumped a bag of penny candy on the floor. One of us kid’s digestive system rebelled, and somebody—I forget who (Chris)—puked his guts out all over the sub-flooring. Though we cleaned and scrubbed, the stain was still evident. But we thought it was kind of exciting that underneath the carpet, there was a special “secret” that only our family knew about. I guess it’s not a secret anymore. But don’t worry, friends, it’s likely that only one of you is standing on that spot right now.

I’ll never forget moving in—I couldn’t believe my luck. The popcorn ceiling set aglow with sparkling diamond flakes. The not one, not two, but THREE “We must be rich!” bathrooms. And what impressed me most—the glorious shades of brown and gold sculpted carpet. I’d never seen anything so magnificent in my entire life. I’d sit and run my fingers through it over and over and over again, reveling in the rich textures and earthy color combinations. It was the first thing I showed my friends when they came for a tour, and they were just as dazzled.  

In our neighborhood, all of the backyards abutted, as fencing was too expensive and unnecessary. This made for great big softball games and dart gun wars as well as pea picking parties in the community garden of Pat and Pam Handrahan...whether or not they wished their harvest to be an exercise in socialism. As a side note, they were the very first to install a fence...which is really weird. 

Since we were one of the first houses built in our subdivision, we (me) used the holes and hills of the new construction sites to practice being bionic. I remember babysitting at the Graham’s, sitting on their back porch and telling Dane, who was two inches taller than me, that I was, in fact, bionic. He was unbelieving. So I think I may have done something like lift him by his armpits high above my head to prove it. And then I may or may not have refused to put him down until he admitted I absolutely was bionic. Which should concern all the rest of the families in the neighborhood who hired me to tend their children over the years, but what’s done is done, people. That’s what statutes of limitation are for. 

We wanted our street to look like downtown Farmington, so we planted the fastest growing trees we could find—cotton-less cottonwoods. Lie. They were cheap and tawdry, and our neighbors cursed us year after year as the 50 foot monsters dropped piles of dead leaves and yes, COTTON, on peripheral lawns. Still, they held tree houses and rope swings for a good 15 years until their exceedingly shallow root systems gave way and they all came crashing down around us. But we needed a new roof, anyway, so it was all good.

We spent summer evenings playing night games and flirting, and I told Kenny Stoker that I just luuuuuuved going jogging, too! So maybe he could pick me up along the way? 

Which he did. 

And about half a block later—gasping, doubled over and pretty sure I could taste blood—I waved him on, telling him to leave me behind and save himself...

...Which he also did. 

And that is how I fell out of love with him.

Anyway, I know what you’re thinking—what does any of this have to do with anything? The answer is: hard to say. Maybe to suggest that we were easily impressed and entertained back then? Or to bring back sculptured carpet and popcorn ceilings? Or  even just to call Kenny out for leaving me to die in the gutter. The important thing here is, I have access to a newspaper that will print these musings, which for me, is akin to giving candy to a baby—Simply Irresistible. 

 

And it is why I now say, GOD BLESS THE ISLANDER!  And it’s very permissive heart.

LENS OF LOVE

I'm totally disappointed in me, too. But just so you know, I check a lot of YOUR blogs, and find the same dam thing I found three months ago too. So now we're even.

Something noteworthy: I'm going to be famous on account of I've been cast to play the part of "hostess" for a Scentsy training video. Mm hmm. That's right. So basically, Princess Lisa who naturally smells of licorice and roses already, will be adding a touch of cinnamon buns to the mix. Try not to gnaw on my neck.

Of course, the obvious problem here is my disturbing UN-photogenic-ness, (new word) which is clearly illustrated by the eyeball swapping which occurred after our last family photo session. And far as I know, nobody has figured out a strong routine to spot-train faces and necks. Oh, sure. They've got all kinds of exercise DVDs for abs, thighs and fannies. But chins of steel? Nothing.

Now apparently, this bad picture taking is nothing new. I made a HUGE mistake the other day, and looked at our engagement photos. Three strikes against them—first, taken in the 80's. 'Nuff said. Second, hadn't discovered eyebrow pencil yet. And third, the photographer was my own father, and he shot me through the lens of love.

The lens of love is a really, really serious judgment warper. Teaspoon of permed, blond hair, wearing a white suit against a white background? Bad.
Not ethereal. Not romantic. Just bad.

Allowing daughter's misguided sense of fashion to take center stage, in that she wrapped a cheap chain belt around her wrist nine times and called it a bracelet? Bad.
Not edgy. Not stylish. Just bad.

Saying it's a good idea to have your daughter wear her fiance's enormous tortoise shell gradient shaded eyeglasses and hold him on her lap? Bad.
Not funny. Not ironic. Just bad.

Anyway, there wasn't a single shot in that whole steaming pile that could be called pleasing to the eye. But Dad didn't know it, because to him, I was absolutely beautiful. And this was shown time and time again, as later on he took pictures of me a week after giving birth, all puffy and lactating, looking down at my red faced baby. Another time, shot from below as I struggled with two toddlers on picture day, wearing an empire waist dress that just SCREAMED, "I don't know who I am anymore."And all of those times, he was so excited to show them to me.

"Oh, Lisa. I took the most beautiful pictures of you the other day when you weren't looking. Just wait until you see them!"

And when I did, it took my best efforts not to shriek with alarm and curse righteously at the top of my lungs. HOLY &%#!

Anyway, I can't blame him for loving me. But I can blame him for capturing it on Kodak. Now if you'll all kindly place the 3-D love lenses on while watching this training video, I'd sure appreciate it. Because that's what friends do. And then they lie about what they saw.

ROCKS. MY. WORLD.

Seriously?  Seriously.

Vintage Table Cloth. I could just KISS the homemaker who kept this so pristine.

Vintage patterns, anyone? Yes, please.

Wicker handbag with rose voile hankie. I just got dizzy.

The kit and caboodle. 

Is it any wonder Brenda and Just a Bed of Roses FREAKING. ROCKS. MY. WORLD?

I submit no.

SCORING A SOUL

Okay, another Islander post. And I'm sorry to say there is no profanity, which may disappoint most or all of you. But apparently they frown on cussing in local newspapers. Whatever. (eyeroll)

Ahhhh, April! There’s nothing quite so intoxicating as the smell of freshly cut grass, exploding Peeps in the microwave and the agonizing thrill of what I like to call, “You’re scoring my soul on that clipboard.” Otherwise known as Spring Tryouts.

Soccer tryouts, office tryouts, baseball, dance team, cheerleading tryouts...the rights of passage that cleat stomp every earnest heart and smear the remaining guts across the football field turf. And yet, like a pig to the mud, me and thee return to it every year.

I first became enthralled when my big sister, Nicki, made jr. high cheerleader. Suddenly, to me anyway, her world became an ethereal haze of perfection. First, she got to be “initiated,” which was code for, “center of attention”. They kidnapped her and did her hair in crazy ponytails and made her wear a giant sign at the Layton Hills Mall. And when she returned, she was sporting a new t-shirt with pink bubble letters that said, “Improve your image, be seen with me.” Which I thought showed great confidence, but my parents considered elitist—aka; “Bunch of stuck up snots.” And of course, she pretended the whole hazing incident was mortifying, but deep down, I knew. I knew that it meant she was popular as H.E. double hockey sticks, and as the anonymous second child, I would need to find a way to be that, too. Or kill trying. 

You see, being a cheerleader meant you balanced precariously on the very tippy top of the pyramid, then flung yourself off into a back tuck, landing on your feet with spirit fingers and wild, thundering applause from the crowd.

Being a cheerleader also meant boys on bikes came over to your house all summer long—boys like Kent Nye and Chris Cannon—with awesome wispy feathered hair and comb tails that stuck out of the back pocket of their Hash jeans while they performed white hot, hands free, ten speed moves. 

And being a cheerleader meant you smelled like Doublemint gum, vanilla musk and Miss Clairol and had an immediate fade out of every awkward social skill and they let you into Lakeside movie theater for FREE, people! Just for being cute! Man, I needed me some of that! 

By the time tryouts rolled around, it was simply a matter of formality, and everybody knew it. I mean, duh, my sister was already a cheerleader (smirk, eyeroll and shoulder shrug). Donning my red jumpsuit with the stretchy rainbow belt, I leapt into the gym like a lamb to the slaughter:  

“Ready, okay! North Davis Jr. High, School we all love!” I knew the song and routine by heart. 

Jump, kick, round-off back handspring, splits! Nailed it! 

Now for the cheer we had to make up—”REACH FOR THE STARS, SHOOT FOR THE MOON, THE NORSEMAN TEAM WILL SHOW YOU HOW!” 

Wait—that doesn’t rhyme. My tongue went numb and I started to black out. Beautiful Head Cheerleader, Gail Keller, had to drag me by the hand off stage right and go over the words with me. I smiled and nodded, all the while my brain was a tree in the wind. 

I’m sure you’ve gathered by now things didn’t go as planned, because trees don’t belong in brains when you’re trying to remember a cheer. The judges chose to provide me with another year to ponder and prepare, before I eventually made the squad. 

And just like most things in life, the reality bore little to no resemblance to the fantasy, as my own cheerleading experience consisted of vicious ostracizing for not attending Spirit Camp, weeping, mournful journal entries and hunkering down as the base of every. stupid. pyramid. You can’t do spirit fingers when you’re the base, friends. Little known fact.

Ultimately, I tired of the ritual, but only after wearing it out. And then I went and had a fistful of kids to claim their victories as my own. (Their failures belong to their father, because I’m a giver.) 

In conclusion, a couple of things: First, Spring Tryouts are from Satan and they ruined my life. But good luck to the rest of you—MAY YOU ALL MAKE THE SQUAD/TEAM! And finally, would it have KILLED you, Kent and Chris, to have performed one single ten speed drive by? No. No, it would not.

Bless your selfish hearts.