My dad forever

I was looking through some old photos this evening while I was digging for something a cousin of mine requested, and I came across a small handful of pictures that were right on time for Father’s Day. Want to see a few?

When I was little everybody said I was the spittin’ image of my handsome dad. “There goes Kyle, Jr.,” they said. I turned so painfully shy once I grew past toddlerhood that the attention and scrutiny used to embarrass me terribly, but I think it pleased my dad to hear people’s remarks. My mom? Not so much. I mean, really, where’s the mystery in that? Who wants to put in nine months of such hard work to have all your passed-on genes lie dormant? But here I am in this picture, pushing a year old, very much Daddy’s girl at this stage, the smidgey smoodgen of his eye, his only apple. Why didn’t he eat me for breakfast? I think he was tempted. It’s my understanding that no daddy was ever more attached to his offspring.

And here’s a picture from the next decade, the 70s, in case the sideburns and ties didn’t give it away. My dad’s on the right with my uncle, his younger brother, on the left. These two seemed to always be in friendly competition over who could keep off the most belly and keep on the most hair.

The last photo I’ll post tonight was taken when I was two (back again to the 60s), and it is one of the very few pictures I have of the day when my parents and I were sealed for eternity in a temple of God. I’m feeling especially grateful today for that one brief event on that longago day of my life I can’t even remember. In this picture, the lineup from left to right is: my maternal gram, my paternal grandparents, me, my dad, and my mom. My uncle was also there that day, with more hair and less belly than in the above shot, but I think he was probably manning the camera.

Daddy, I am glad that even though I didn’t get to celebrate you in person today, you and Mama aren’t lost to me. We will be together again. It lifts my heart to know that our family relationships don’t have to end with death. I miss you both so much and so often, but I have faith in God’s promises. My sweetheart and I renewed our temple recommends today, so I hope that will serve as a sort of Father’s Day gift to you. We love going to the temple. We started our marriage there years ago and made the same promises to each other and to God that you and Mama made on that pretty day in Salt Lake when I was still just your little apple. I want to keep those promises. They stretch forward into the future to those who will come after me, and they reach backward to those who came before me, and before you. That’s the best sort of tie I can give you on this day that’s just for you. I love you.

What’s mine is yours

Today I hauled a carload of giveaways to D.I. and decided to duck inside for a quick peek, just in case somebody had happened to donate the couch of my dreams. It wasn’t there, but I had a productive thrifting trip anyhow. I managed to find a perfect sort of pillow for the next incarnation of my dog’s bed. (He doesn’t get the ones from the pet store anymore because he inevitably gives in to the temptation to dig a hole in his nest and spread fluffy stuffing all over the house, and it can get expensive to forever be replacing them.) I found a bright, obnoxious vinyl tablecloth covered in toxic chickens for a mere 50¢, perfect for protecting our new Ikea dining table from Young Women craft projects, particularly those featuring Mod Podge. But the find that most directly ties this shopping trip into the subject of love is—

Well, hold on, before explaining that, I’ll hint at the strange and wonderful history I’ve had with getting paid to pick up second-hand treasures. For instance, in the spring of 2007 I got paid $94 to buy this awful jumpsuit which perfectly fit my grandmother—

Another example was the time I made $50 acquiring a warm coat to contribute to a needy neighbor swap in our old ‘hood. Sorry, no photo available. 

But those are stories for another time. Right now I want to describe the way I got to be a giving cog in the Abundant Universe wheel for just a small moment today. (It felt similar to being a producer for The 1 Second Film.)

I stopped to look at skirts for a few minutes, because it’s getting hot outside, and my weight is in flux, and I want to be comfy. I ripped through the racks in a hurry, not really in a mood to shop. As I paused to look at one denim skirt, I felt something crinkle in the pocket. Money? No, it couldn’t be! Yep, it was money, sure enough. And I had just been thinking to myself yesterday about that time last year with the jumpsuit, and how it was unlikely I’d ever get paid again to be Second-Hand Rose. Funny that. So, I stuck my hand into the skirt pocket: seven bucks. And the skirt was only four. I tried it on. What, did you think I would keep the money without purchasing the pocket which held it? Or maybe you expected that I’d turn the sweet moolah in to a cashier? Yes, that’s always an option, a good one, and I have willingly turned in my fair share of big bills and little pennies alike over the years—to cashiers, to managers, to employees. I haven’t stopped that practice. But occasionally creative ideas that feel appropriate and non-punishable by law and/or a healthy conscience do present themselves. 

It was not a nice skirt on me, far too big, and really, it had a bad cut, so I didn’t want to just stick the money back into its pocket; I knew that if nobody ever bought the thing, the money would go unused. That’s when I decided to spread the love around. I found a much cuter skirt (too short for me, sadly) and stuffed the fiver into its pocket. I put the other two dollars into my own pocket and went hunting for couple other clothing confederates so I could sneak a nice surprise to two other someone elses. But then I saw a girl I know and got distracted from my purpose. I forgot all about the money in my pocket until I was checking out. Oops, not good—I was about to leave the store a criminal. So, I headed to the bathroom to do my usual post-thrifting OCD handwash, and en route, I eased through the children’s and infants’ sections; I tossed one bill this way and the other bill that way when I saw that nobody was looking. I could just picture some young mom finding a rumpled dollar or maybe two while she was trying to make her own stretch, and the thought of her little delight made me smile. 

See? No big deal. It was over in a hurry. And a buck’s no more than a quart of gasoline anymore, but still. It made me feel good to play the giving game, even if it wasn’t with my own money. I guess that depends on how you look at it though.

Hey. You know what I realized tonight? Barbra and I are both older than Mod Podge!

Guitar, hero

There’s been such a lot of love in my world today, running through like a fast-moving river. The task of trying to write about the whole of it would be like attempting to catch all the river’s water with just my two cupped hands, dipping and dipping till exhaustion hit. I’ll just mention here the most surprising and lovely event, if it can be called an event, of my Saturday. 

There’s a small pretty wooden box in my possession which I’ve talked about in a different spot, and today as I was getting ready to go to a birthday breakfast, I noticed that my box had the May ‘08 letter-of-the-month inside. It was from my love, of course. That in itself is a treat. But this time it had a partner package, a black guitar case, parked there in our bedroom within easy sight. The funny part is that I hadn’t noticed it sitting there in over a day’s time, that’s how discombobulated our surroundings are while we finish up our house construction. I wonder what else Hoob could have hidden in our room!

Inside the case was a beautiful new sunburst Seagull guitar. I could hardly believe it. Recently I’ve been learning the basics on Hoob’s Sigma, and that’s been going pretty well, but the Sigma’s action is such that it’s really been killing my fingers. The Seagull is far less painful to play, and I proved that by spending several hours(!) today twanking around with it, and my fingers never threatened to bleed like I often expect them to while playing the Sigma. Yes, I had work scheduled for myself today. No, I didn’t get any of it done. Are you kidding? I have my priorities straight. I had to bond with Glory (pronounced glow’-ree, a la bluegrass and Grand Ol’ Opry, like you’re about to shout a countrified “Hallelujah!”). 

I have a guitar of my own! It’s a genuine and generous love gift. One of the many many things I adore about my Hoob is his encouragement of me in my interests. He is so supportive that way. 

As I told him tonight in a letter back to him, he is exactly what I want.

And Glory? Glory is pretty great. Wonderful tone, a warm beautiful color, and makes me sound better already. I can’t wait till I can keep up with Hoob’s picking so we can play music together. I can’t wait till Glory and I can write him a song. 

The tongue of The Lioness

I got to talk to an old friend of mine on the phone this morning. By “old friend” I mean that (a) she’s old, 87 to be exact, and (b) she’s been my friend for somewhere around sixteen years. (This probably means I’m old too, eh?) She asked my advice about local naturopathic doctors, because she’s come down with strep and doesn’t want to take drugs. It was such a delight to talk with her; our conversation about a world of topics made my day like no other phone call has in a long time. (I’m not generally a fan of the telephone.) She’s a talker extraordinaire, and so friendly and upbeat and still absolutely with it. The time flew. She shared with me a remedy for a sore throat, since I have one too right now (gratefully without strep’s painful white spots). Here it is, and if your mother got into yoga in the 70s like mine did, you’ll recognize this as the pose that made you laugh out loud when you watched her do it. My old friend The Lioness says: 

Kneel down on the floor and sit back on your heels. Place your hands on your knees and spread your fingers out, wide. Sit up straight, take in a big deep breath, and then you can roar while you stick out your tongue. Stick it out and down toward your chin, as far as you can stick it out till you start to gag. Then open your eyes wide till they bug out—bug your eyes. Then you tense up your fingers while they’re spread apart. Do this four or five more times in a row.

We both agreed to try this and think of each other across town while we knelt making faces. I told her about watching my mom do this pose (and other equally strange and entertaining facial exercises) when I was a little girl and we laughed and laughed together. When we hung up, The Lioness said to me, simply, “Love you,” and I felt it deeply. For a long time I smiled after our chat. It was so sweet to talk to one of my grandma friends; I realized my system’s been a little deficient of that kind of love for some time. Time for supplemental action.

Hot dog!

All the boys who work at the Ikea hot dog counter look like Amsterdam street fashionistas. I have one favorite kid in particular. He’s a little greasy-looking and very polite. We’ve had a few extended encounters because the condiment dispensers in the snack bar almost without fail shoot out watery mustard and sometimes I forget that and my bun gets soaked. Then I trade the soggy dog in for a new one. Occasionally my friend has tried to figure out what’s the matter with the condiment pump—all the fashionistas try in turn, when asked—but the mystery remains unsolved. Today when I laid my money down Mr. Mustard gave me back a handful of change with this on top and watched for my reaction:

This time when I pushed on the mustard dispenser and bright yellow water came out, my reflexes were quick enough to prevent total saturation, so I gave my greasy friend the day off and ate my hot dog without making a fuss.

See? It’s true what they say, about love being the answer.

Growling stomach, sleeping blogger

I’m hungry to write and I wanted to share today’s feast with you, but my appetite for sleep is greater tonight.

Here’s an appetizer to tide us over: Food is love.

HSL

I’ve lately been making my way through a book-on-CD, Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth, listening to it while I work. Today while I was making lunch I was struck by a short passage in Chapter 14. 

He could still discern the outline of facts, though his own relation to them had changed. He was no less conscious than before of what was said of Lily Bart, but he could separate the woman he knew from the vulgar estimate of her. His mind turned to Gerty Farish’s words, and the wisdom of the world seemed a groping thing beside the insight of innocence. BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART, FOR THEY SHALL SEE GOD—even the hidden god in their neighbour’s breast!

That’s what I’m trying to do, I thought, considering this new blog. I’m looking for the hidden god, the hidden love in every day. It tries to make itself obvious. But a thing can dance in your face, lie across your lap, and trounce on your toes, and you can yet be blind to its presence. I’m sure I’m not the only person who is frequently guilty of being ‘beyond feeling’ in this way. 

My aim in blogging about love is not to contrive beauty or to create substance from nothingness. I don’t care to spit-shine the vulgar; I mean to look beyond it, the same way I’ve learned to look past the black spots in my eyesight. What I want is to focus on the good that is—to recognize it, to receive it, to be grateful for it, to use it. There’s no way to comprehend all the available light and love, but I hope to notice and process more. I don’t claim to be pure in heart already but believe it is a condition worth working for, over a lifetime.

*************

I realized this morning that Dr. B(ee), who repeatedly stuck a needle into my head at the crack o’  doom dawn, actually does have a very bee-like name, even when I am not encoding him for privacy practice. I am dying to tell you so you can enjoy the joke too; his name buzzes like an excited apiary. The thought of it will make me laugh and thereby help me continue breathing next month when I receive another bee-swarm treatment. This morning the kindly Dr. B(ee) who always combs through my hair as carefully as a monkey and with at least that much enjoyment (he tells me so), took pictures of my most dramatic crop circle to date (4+ cm) and will likely expose my nearly half-naked head to his dermatology students at the U as part of a lecture. Maybe I’ll become famous. He said to me, sympathetically, “We know what you’ve been doing.” He meant stressing, not tearing my hair out. Dr. B(ee) and his nurse lavished me with warm praise, as they always do, telling me how brave I am, and how tough. There was some strategically distracting talk about alien abductions while I was under the needle, but I forget the details. They are very good to me. I think this is something to count as love, even though it hurts like anything.

Hoob and I went to Ikea to buy some big plastic tubs for the papermaking workshop next week, and while we were inspecting our options, someone slipped up behind me and called me by name: “Sister Salt?!” Standing there was a lovely woman who was one of ‘my girls’ fourteen years ago, the first time I served as president of a young women’s auxiliary in our church congregation. I hadn’t seen her in years. She’s married now, and has three small boys, who were all there with her, staring at me with their enormous eyes. It felt wonderful to give that grown-up girl a bear hug and catch up for a few moments. After she went back to her shopping, I reminisced with Hoob about a favorite memory I have attached to her. One Sunday when she was maybe sixteen, we were in class together—and now I forget if I was teaching that day, or if someone else was—but the group was challenged to think of women they admired, and to take a minute to explain why. This particular girl talked about a woman she knew who never, ever put herself down and who, when she spoke of herself, spoke in consistently positive, optimistic terms. That example made a deep impression on me, and I’ve never forgotten the desire I gained then to make that true of myself too. It was a gift to see that young friend from my past, and to imagine again her role model, a woman whose love and understanding has inspired me over and over for almost a decade and a half. 

Other loves du jour: I got to spend part of the late afternoon talking with Energy Man (maybe I’ll think of a better name for him when it’s not 1:30 a.m.) about his book, which I will soon have the fine pleasure of helping him bring to fruition. It’s a beautiful thing to have a friend with such an apparent and helpful gift. I almost want to call it the gift of tongues because to my view he is all about teaching HSL: Healing as a Second Language. I’m sure I’ll be saying more about this later. It was a boost to my heart to talk with him.

Lastly, I got together with several other women (including one of ‘my girls’) tonight for the first in a series of free guitar classes taught by a friend from church. It was mainly review for me, though I felt almost as if I was starting from absolute scratch. My fingertips definitely were. We learned tuning, plus some basic chords, then played a few unsteady songs. Our teacher told us a few acronyms to help us recall the notes of each of the strings, but all I can remember of that discussion is that I decided “Goodbye, Eddie” or “The Goodbye Eddies” would be a great name for us as we learn to play as a group. I strummed a little more on my own after I got home. Music and camaraderie both felt so easy to slip into this evening. I’m glad I didn’t cheat myself of the opportunity. 

Gold

I’ve been working on some announcements for one of my cousins who is graduating next month from dental school. Went out to the studio late this evening to print a golden emblem on these and put the finishing touches on what has shaped up to be an elegantly traditional piece of work. Miss Manners, Emily Post, and Queen Martha would agree. Hoob was working late on a gilding project of his own, applying white gold leaf to monoprints which are to be illustrations in an experimental book. He had mentioned to me over supper that when I came out to print I might bring with me a particular library audio book we recently checked out, the sequel to Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. That’s why I was surprised to find Hoob already engrossed in another recording when I joined him in our inky laboratory. He was listening to the latter part of Luke, from the King James Version of the Holy Bible. Did I mind, he wanted to know? Certainly not; I’ll listen with you. 

I don’t think I’ve ever before heard a recording of the Bible that wasn’t a little too dramatized for my taste. This reading was by a man who apparently understood and responded with tenderness and intelligence to the text, and wasn’t overbearing in his presentation. He didn’t get in my way as I listened. And I loved listening. I was surprised by just how much I loved it. And then surprised by my own surprise! I’m not sure what to say about it now, only that so many little parts struck me as new. Have I actually read that before? How did I miss this part of the story? Is this a different translation? Conversation, teaching, relationships, nuance, authority, preparation, Atonement, mockery, cruelty, devotion, forgiveness, submission, Crucifixion, mercy, death, Resurrection, compassion, patience, hope, and again, the continuation of teaching, relationships, authority . . . and more as well—all this I heard in the space of time it took me to produce a hundred golden snakes to represent mankind’s healing arts, and Hoob to create a precious few gilded vines. I felt kinship, and I recognized love. 

I worked at getting the other details of my cousin’s announcements completed throughout the day, and felt eager to have it done, but when this part of my letterpressing was finished, the part with the soundtrack, I actually wished I had a few more golden impressions to create. 

But it’s time for sleeping now. I have to get up before the sun starts shining its own gold, to go to my dermatologist three towns away and receive what I always think of as a swarm of really big bee stings—shots in my scalp—to treat my alopoecia. Doctor B(ee)’s office help was so kind today when I called to beg for an emergency appointment with the hive; they worked me in right away. 

As I printed earlier this afternoon on the hand proof press, occasionally I would have to turn on a motor to distribute ink across the rollers. One of the motor’s gears is tricksy and now and then goes the slightest bit off track and makes sounds like a bee from the Hell-hive. Since Hoob and I got buzzed by the Bee of Love last week, the jarring zzzzzs didn’t aggravate me too much; I just nudged that gear back into alignment each time it complained, and smiled to myself. Hopefully I can turn tomorrow’s sunrise grimace into at least an inner smile when the needle’s swarm descends again on my head. Think of our bee. Think of our bee!

There are those days

Love is calling to remembrance the natural beauty of a face even when its expression is spoiled by difficult emotion or its temper provoked. 

I made a new acquaintance today, somebody I loved at first sight. A male Ruby-throated Hummingbird showed up at one of my feeders. That makes two types of hummers already sipping nectar on the other side of the glass. Last week at the regular feeder two new birds came calling: a Lazuli Bunting and a Black-headed Grosbeak. It’s getting so colorful around here. I wonder who else will show up this season?

The amazing thing

The amazing thing about today is that I was not overwhelmed by Mother’s Day. I was up late last night and felt dread and a sad anticipation then, but by this morning—? I was okay, and I stayed okay for the duration. The other amazing thing about today is that I slept through the night without the typical day #2 menstrual pain that wakes me up in agony once my midnight ibuprofen mega-dose wears off. I got up at a leisurely hour and even began getting ready for church before the cramps caught up to me. Basically, I did fine this Mother’s Day. My sense of humor didn’t fail me; I didn’t break down; I held and kissed several babies; I thought of Mama and Gram without crumpling; I survived the annual Primary mommy-serenade; I smiled and visited and laughed; I worked on my calling; at church I fielded a few well-meant awkward remarks that were all some version of either “You’re not a mother, but Happy Mother’s Day” or “I can’t believe you’re here;” and . . . well, I made it through. I even decided not to make good on my threat to run away to the Episcopaleans just this one Sunday.

Honestly, I felt blessed today. It just seemed so obvious that a higher power than my own was at work for me. I was blessed with endurance and a cheerful mood. I was blessed with pain that willingly yielded to the persuasion of painkillers. I was blessed to eat Hoob’s terrific pancakes with yogurt and peach sauce and maple syrup for breakfast. I was blessed to have friends reach out to me with consideration—Real Woman, who called me this morning just to tell me she was thinking of me today; Fused Vertebrae, who gave me her Mother’s Day standard issue long-stem rose because, “Two look better than one, and anyway, you deserve it.” I was blessed to have two great women to go with me to visit young women families about this year’s camp: On The Ball, the Young Women secretary; and Kick the Ball, one of our Laurels, my special bud. We saw some success; it looks like we might get all of our girls, except for the one we learned is pregnant, to camp. That’s huge for us. Blessing, definitely. I was blessed, along with Hoob, to spend time with his parents, Gigi, the Moondoggies, and Sweet Patootie. I was blessed that my red velvet cake, the one that I’m turning into “bloody bon bons” for the women in the family, didn’t fall. I was blessed to be able to watch the newcomer to our birdfeeder, the black-winged  grosbeak, for over two solid minutes while I mixed batter in the kitchen. I was blessed to have willing and relatively reverent hangman companions on either side of me during sacrament meeting—Hoob and G of the Ts—when the first talk got a little hard to listen to. I was blessed to hear the second speaker, our newly-returned missionary, Jellied Coconut, share what his mission president said to him once during an interview: “You’re not a very good teacher, and you’re not a very good leader, but nobody’s more obedient or diligent, and that’s why you’re having success.” After an embarrassed laugh, I concluded that it was quite a profound thing to say, and very inspiring, and that I want to emphasize these qualities in my own life. I was blessed with a quiet confirmation tonight that the Lord actually wants the young women to be with me during our camp week and that’s why I’m here now, filling this particular position in the young women organization; I need to share with them what he would if he could be here with them in body—openness, love, acceptance, fun, an example of how to invite peace, and opportunities while we’re there to practice habits of peace. I was blessed to take a long walk after dark with Hoob and enjoy a wonderful wind coming up from the south. I was blessed to remember with Hoob, as we walked west along Center Street, the first time we crossed paths on that sidewalk—I was on my way home from Old Boyfriend’s house and Hoob was on his way to there. Now we walk together, hand in hand, the same direction. 

Mother’s Day wasn’t bad this year. Love flowed into me and love flowed out of me. I don’t have all the answers I want right now, and not every empty place in my heart is filled, but I have had a satisfying day, all things considered, and I am grateful, grateful to God for all these excellent gifts.