Our Holiday, in pictures

ornament memories IV

Dallin's 2nd grade teacher used to play music when they were doing their work, and one song that was on her disc was "'Tis a Gift to be Simple."  Dallin clung to this tune and sings it often.  He proclaimed it his favorite song and when we heard the Tabernacle Choir singing it one Sunday morning on TV, Dal was ecstatic.  "They are singing it just for me!" he declared.  (At least one member of the choir definitely WAS singing it for Dal...it is nice to have a Grammy in there, just for those occasions).

I think it is appropriate that my sort of simple boy loves this simple song about enjoying life's simplest gifts.  He isn't the top student or the best player on his sports teams or the fastest runner or, really, the best at anything that is measurable in that way.  But, his simple ways are definitely a gift.  He simply enjoys each day for what it is.  He has a hard time pinpointing favorite foods or books or activities or friends, because he loves whatever he is doing, and who he is doing it with, at the moment it is happening.  His best times are while doing simple things: making paper airplanes with Kate, chasing Davis around the house, reading a book to Lea.

Dal's life is a gift.  He has a wonderful, simple way of loving his siblings, obeying, waking us all up for scripture study in the morning, laughing a big, hearty laugh at something funny on TV;  He is simply a good kid, trying to do what his Father would have him do.

Chad and I picked up this ornament on our 5th anniversary.  We spent the day in a historic town called Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill.  We enjoyed the simplicity of the beautiful summer day, watched as our cute one-year-old Dallin reached through the fences to pet the horses and sheep, learned more about the simple life of the Shakers, and felt the blessings of the past 5 years.

Our life now seems so much LESS simple than it did back then, but the gifts really are found in the simple, special every day moments.  And I'm glad I've got my Dallin (and his favorite song) to remind me of the gift simplicity is.

ornament memories III

Chad served his mission in the Czech Republic.  He, of course, loved it, and he brought home many little treasures to remind him of his 'best two years.'  My favorite of his finds is a set of egg ornaments.  The eggs are painstakingly blown out and hand painted by amazingly talented artisans.  The eggs in Chad's set of 5 are all different, completely unique.  The Czech's decorate Easter trees with these beautiful eggs (we like to do that, too), but I also put them on the Christmas tree because they are so lovely and meaningful.

Last year, like every year, we hauled the Christmas decorations up from the basement and, as a family, decked the halls...but mostly the tree.  We always start with the garlands, then the ornaments.  And, as we pull each one out, memories are shared.  I think it is like that in most families.  

Since we have little fingers that live in our house some ornaments are automatically 'top of the tree' treasures, hung far away from the pint sized crowd.  The Czech eggs fall into this category, so last Christmas, Dallin picked up the box of eggs and started to hand them up to Chad, who was on a ladder, to be hung.  Somehow, in a split second that I can't fully comprehend, in the transition from one hand to another, a miss-step, lost balance, something happened.  Two of the eggs were crushed.  So was my heart.

But, the amazing thing was, Chad didn't get upset.  I'm sure he was sorry, too.  Maybe even angry. These were HIS eggs and HIS memories.  But, he knows his boy is more important than eggs and as Dal's tears immediately fell when he realized they were broken, Chad's forgiveness came just as instantly.  My first reaction would have likely been accusatory or questioning, "what were you doing?" or "why can't you pay attention?"  Chad simply said, "It's okay, Dal.  It was an accident. We'll just have to go back to the Czech Republic and get some more."  

This year, when I pulled out the remaining eggs and put them on the tree, the memory that came wasn't of missions or Europe or an unfortunately accident, but of forgiveness and compassion...the real spirit of the season.  The spirit of Him whose birth we honor and whose life we attempt to emulate.  Joy to the world!  He did come and I can choose to be like He is.  The eggs remind me of that now, too.

ornament memories II

One year of college, above all others, stands out in my mind because of the fun memories made with the wonderful roommates I had.  The Babes of 301A were perfectly matched (hand selected).  And, we had fun.  We stayed up too late, ate lots of junk, consoled each other and celebrated with one another, dedicated movie moments and songs, laughed a lot, and sometimes, we even studied.  

And we danced.  

Someone would throw on the tunes and all inhibitions were tossed out the door.  At some point in the year we decided that our dancing habits merited our throwing a HUGE disco dancing party.  We visited the DI for the perfect ensembles.  We made fliers to hang in our complex and pass out to our friends.  We made fondue.  We rented a disco ball.

I don't remember how many people came to our disco party.  We filled up our tiny apartment as we jammed to the songs of Gloria Gaynor and ABBA.  It was a night of memories that always make me smile. 

One of those fabulous roommates, a few years post-301A, gave me a tiny disco ball at an ornament exchange.  Every year, when I pull it out to put it on my tree, the strains of "Dancing Queen" pop in my head and my heart remembers these girls, my besties, from back in the day.  So glad to call you mine.

Merry Christmas to Mar, Lar, Les, Nat and Nat!

ornament memories

At Christmas, Grandma always decorated with two kinds of Christmas decorations.

Her front room was blue.  The fluffy, flocked tree filled up the front window with it's azure lights, white and silver glass balls, and birds in nests as ornaments.  This room was strictly forbidden for little people. I think only the home teachers ever got to sit in there.  I would catch a glimpse of the blue magic from outside, through the window, as we drove up, or I'd sneak a peek as I passed the front room, heading down the hall.  It was mysterious and special.

In Grandma's family room, however, red and green ruled the holiday decor.  The tree was trimmed with less-breakable things and lots of little Christmas knick knacks were displayed on shelves, the mantle and in Grandma's curio cabinet.  On the hearth, in the corner, sat Mr. and Mrs. Snow: homemade crocheted snowmen Grandma must have made in Homemaking at some point.  They had pom-pom eyes and pom-pom smiles.  She crocheted them each a hat; he wore a scarf and she, a shawl. They were frumpy and funny and always there, every Christmas, when Grandma's house turned magic for the holidays.

Grandma passed away 10 years ago this Christmas Eve.  At some point, during some great house clean-out, Mr. and Mrs. Snow came to live with me.  Chad wished we hadn't adopted this odd looking pair (missing a few pom-poms, no less) but I couldn't part with the memories they held.  I cleaned them up and, each Christmas, would set them out in our little apartment, much to Chad's chagrin.

I still have Mr. and Mrs.  They are too hokey to set out on my mantle, but I like to tuck them in, among the branches, in my Christmas tree.  Their pom-pom eyes and smiles are long gone (thank heavens), but those crocheted accessories still remind me of the hands that created them: the way she loved Christmas and presents, homemade holiday candy and family get-togethers.  And magic.  She definitely loved Christmas Magic.

Miss you, much.  Merry Christmas, Grandma!

leg warmer

Whenever we ordered pizza, as a kid (which wasn't very often), I liked to volunteer to ride with Dad to Pizza Hut and pick it up.  I'd jabber the whole way there and back.  My soft spoken Dad didn't usually have a lot to say in response to my ramblings (maybe he was ignoring me?), but I think it was just enough to let me get in some of my 7,000 daily words during our drive.

Once we had picked up the pizza, I got to ride home with the hot boxes on my lap.  I loved how they made my thighs warm, warmer, then hot.  It was nearly too much heat to take, but we'd pull into the driveway just as I thought the pizza would burn through the box.

Thursday afternoon got away from me and I was facing 5 o'clock without a dinner plan.  Thankfully, Daddy offered to "cook" and Papa John was called in as reinforcement.  I headed out the door to go pick up the pizza and my Kate rushed after me with a "Can I come?" on her lips.  She hopped in the backseat and chattered at me the whole way, talking about friends and school, games they play at recess and the boys she chases 'cause she's so fast.  It made me smile to remember my own talkative self as I stole a peek at my beautiful girl in the rearview mirror.

We grabbed the pizza and I slid the boxes onto her lap for the drive home. 
"Are your legs getting hot, Kate?" I asked. 
"I like it.  It is warm!"
And, as we pulled into the garage she said, "I want to stay under this pizza blanket forever!"

I guess she's better at handling the heat!

all for milk

Milk.  We drink a lot of it around here.  Like 8 gallons a week.  Or something.

I used to be a 'one trip a week' kind of grocery shopper, but since I have to two milk-addicted babies and a fridge that only comfortably holds 3 gallons (I need a deep freezer for extras, but that is another post for another day), I find myself frequenting the grocer's more often than I would like.

The other week I needed to make a milk run. At night. With all four children (plus an extra, just for fun...and because I told his mom I would bring him home from basketball practice).  Since we hadn't carved out time (pun intended) to find Halloween pumpkins yet, I decided the milk run would also serve as our 'pick your pumpkin from the bin' outing.  Not exactly the pumpkin patch experience of the mid-west, but kind of the way it is in these here parts.

Before exiting the car, I told the children that they needed to 1: walk, 2: stay with me, 3: not scream.  As soon as the van door opened, said hooligans children began to 1: run, 2: climb on top of the cart return poles, 3: scream.  This was going to be a pleasure, I'm sure.

I loaded Davis into the car cart (beep beep), the baby into the cart seat and tried to NOT let the other three kiddos get killed as we crossed the parking lot.  The pumpkin bins were our first stop, since they are on the way in.  Chaos ensued, but four plump ones were quickly chosen and loaded into the cart (and only the little guy dropped his 3 or 4 times on the sidewalk).

I walked into the store with the intention of going straight to the dairy case (which, by the way, do they HAVE to put it in the VERY back of the store?), but got a bit distracted by a few other things I needed to get.  By the time we had made it to the back of the store for the milk, and back again to the check-out, I felt a bit like someone stuck in the middle of the Tazmanian Devil's tornado.  Sheesh!  I was glad to get OUT of the store.

But, as we were loading everyone (and every pumpkin) back into the van, I noticed it....pilfered candy in the hands of the 2-year-old.  Eek!  My first instinct (I am ashamed to say) was to stuff it in the back of the van and pretend I wasn't harboring stolen goods.  I mean, the idea of hauling my crew BACK into the store for a $.75 bag of Skittles? Really?  But, the big kids saw the candy. Drat!

Thankfully, my often-shy-Dal was willing to go back into the store alone to return the snitched snack, while I ignored the shrieks of our thief who was screaming "TANDY, TANDY!" at the top of his lungs.  Dal was quick to tell the checker that is was the LITTLE brother who took it, not him.

And, we are honest in our dealings once again.

The moral of this story: Get a milkman.