A New Kind of Hot Dog

Miles stood mesmerized as he watched the neighbors eating their corn dogs.

Running next door to his home, the three year old blurted out,

"Mom, I want a hot dog with a handle!"

Oh, dear Miles, I can't wait to give you a hug for that one....so hurry on down for Thanksgiving, and if you want, maybe while you are here, we will have a

hot dog with a handle!

Fashion Or Comfort?

"Those are really cute boots," he said on Sunday.

"Yes, they are...but they are also the most uncomfortable footwear I have EVER had on my feet!" I responded.

"Well, then, why on earth would you wear them?"

Why, indeed!

Because they are: stylish, classy, look great with long skirts...a host of reasons.

That's why I would wear them for four hours on Sunday.

That's why - three days later - I would wear them to the family history center for five hours where NOT ONE PERSON would see them or notice them, as I sit at a computer station with my feet under a desk.

And, why I would cry out of sheer pain/joy when I was within one block of my home, I was so excited to be able to take them off my feet. And, now at 11:00, my feet still hurt.

Why, indeed.

And, also worth asking, will I put them in the DI box, or will I continue to wear them, as I have for the past four years because they are..."really cute boots."

Gene Pool

He is relatively young; late 40's, early 50's.

He maintains a very healthy life style; no sugar, no red meat, very little meat, fresh fruits and vegetable, exercise.

Yet, in spite of it all, he has serious heart problems.

It's in the genes, they say.

For many years, I have complained, mostly to myself, about my genes that left me with:
my lily-white, albinoish skin (we're talking people leave the pool when they see me coming.."it's a ghost!" )
the bumps on my arms (which I recently learned actually have a name : bumps-on-the-armsitis or something like that)
my ultra fine, exceedingly straight, mousey brown hair on a head so tender-headed, I scream when I comb it each morning
my low, low blood presssure that makes me tired and need a nap by just raising the remote to change the channel.
the tendency in our family to be way, way B*I*G

But, in the grand scheme of things, those aren't really all that serious. (I don't mean to imply that I won't in the future get something serious or that my family hasn't had illness; my mother had breast cancer, my father had a debilitating case of shingles, etc.)

What I am saying is this - thank you Gees, Merrills, Stephensons, Kerrs for the relatively healthy genes.

NOTE: let's be totally honest here. This post does NOT mean that I will, in any way, stop complaining about issues with my genetic inheritance.

In fact, excuse me while I lie down. I'm exhausted from all this typing!

Help Wanted

"Grandma, do you know what I want to be when I grow up?" he asked leaving his pile of trucks to run up to me in the kitchen...

WOW, I didn't realize that three year olds had such weighty matters on their young minds.

So I asked, "What do you want do be when you grow up?"

"A roller coaster driver!"

After smiles and hugs, he left to run back to play with his cars and trucks.

And, it left me to ponder, once again, the absolute JOYS and DELIGHTS of children.

Your Pomegranates Taste Better Than My Pomegranates!

RAH said our pomegranates tasted just like Garn's.

I said Garn's were lots sweeter than ours.

So we had our first annual pomegranate "Close your eyes and decide which is better."

We put our juice in one set of glasses, Garn's juice in the other set...then all four of us had a sip.

Garn's juice won; hands down...here's Garn after tasting our juice....ewwwwwwwwwww...sour!

Best Little Paper Boys & Girl

The knock on the front door is always light.

We recognize the knock, so we will say, "It's the paper!"

It might be morning, afternoon, evening...we are never quite sure. It doesn't matter really when the paper comes.

We answer the door to the three cutest little kids.

They know the routine...they hand me the paper, then Addie walks straight to the candy basket. Stockton and Conner politely stand back until I say, "Would you like a piece of candy?" They look through the selection, pick one, then turn and walk to their home next door.

It's a great arrangement; they get our candy and we get the paper plus the privilege of seeing them nearly every day.

Oh, so, so adorable.

NOTE: they do NOT always look like this when they deliver the paper. And, the downright scary dad doesn't help deliver the paper; it's strictly a three-person job!

Jean

She was wonderful to visit...always upbeat, cheerful, positive, even though she was now almost totally home-bound.

We had been in the same ward; had two boys the same ages. We saw each other at church, Scout meetings, ward activities. I enjoyed her friendship.

Then, even though neither of us moved, we were put in different wards and different stakes. Our lives went on. Our boys grew up..we had grandchildren. I rarely saw her.

A friend from her neighborhood told me she was homebound. I started going to see her. We talked about books, our children, our grandchildren, her husband - who had died much too young.

Sometimes I'd drive over during my 29 minute lunch break from school - not often - but sometimes. I'd take her a book and say, "See if you like this book." Then we'd talk about it.

I always left uplifted, encouraged, happy, brightened by Jean.

I retired. Winter set in. In Idaho winters, I turn into a different person. I hibernate. I went only to church, to the grocery store about every two weeks.

The little voice would tell me to "visit Jean."

"I will," I said, "when the ice melts, when the weather is warmer, when I don't have to drive on the icey roads, when spring comes."

We went away for the winter: we loved the sights, sounds, scenery of a warmer climate.

Returning in the spring, I thought of Jean, mentioned her one day to a friend.

"Didn't you know? She died."

And, then I remembered - the voice.

"I MUST do better," I say to myself. "I must listen to the VOICE."

Because, I don't like remembering that I didn't visit Jean.