Sometimes it's hard for me to relate to family history. (Who am I kidding? Sometimes is code for 99.9% of the time.) But this makes absolutely no sense. I relish other people's history. I'm getting a degree in the study of history for crying out loud. Why not my own family? People who I should connect to on a deeper level? I have no idea.
But, I have had a breakthrough.
I'm not related to Emmeline B. Wells. But. That's not the point right now. The point is that this famous Mormon woman, when it comes right down to it, was just a hard-working LDS mother. Reading the pages of her diary for one of my history classes, I am overwhelmed by the balance she developed between civic involvement and a total devotion to her faith and her family. I am in awe of what she did and how simple and humble her journal is.
I'm not related to Emmeline B. Wells. But. I am related to many others who came across the plains and shaped modern Utah. Sometimes I take their stories for granted. But, in their own way, my ancestors are just as important as Emmeline because they to lived their religion and were willing to sacrifice whatever was necessary to do so. But, to me, they are more important than Emmeline; because they are related to me.
I may think that I can be a part of the legacy of Emmeline B. Wells because I am an LDS woman who wants to be a good wife and mother, but to also make a difference in the world. But it is more important for me to be a part of the legacy of my ancestors, because I already am a part of their family legacy. I have the responsibility, the obligation, to be worthy of that legacy.
A few years ago it was said that we were going to "raise the bar" on standards. Raise the bar? I can only hope to attain the level of Emmeline or any other early Utah settlers of Utah, including my family, who stand as remarkable examples of power, spirit, and love that I hope one day to emulate.
Sometimes it's hard for me to relate to family history. But not today.
Showing posts with label Ma Famille. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ma Famille. Show all posts
Friday, February 3, 2012
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Yes, We're Going to a Party
Today is my MOST FAVORITE person in the WORLD's birthday! Oh yeah, and it's Sir Paul's birthday too...
Today Paul McCartney turns 69. But, more importantly, it's my Mom's Birthday! I think it's so nice that Paul wrote this song for my Mom so many years ago. (They say it's your birthday. Well, it's my birthday too, yeah!) The song was released just over a year after Mom was born. Coincidence? I think not. She's so lucky. A Beatle wrote a song just for her, and all she had to do was be born on the right day.
Happy Birthday Mommy.
Today Paul McCartney turns 69. But, more importantly, it's my Mom's Birthday! I think it's so nice that Paul wrote this song for my Mom so many years ago. (They say it's your birthday. Well, it's my birthday too, yeah!) The song was released just over a year after Mom was born. Coincidence? I think not. She's so lucky. A Beatle wrote a song just for her, and all she had to do was be born on the right day.
Happy Birthday Mommy.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Week Fifteen: London and Philadelphia
Monday 6 December 2010
I went to bed reasonably early on Sunday night, in order to avoid studying for my Bible final, which took place at 1pm today. The morning involved intense study sessions with the class to prepare, but I still went into this test feeling the least ready for it over any of my other finals. I muddled my way through it, and felt reasonably confident at the end, though I knew there were some things that I didn’t really know.
After the final I headed out for one of my last days in London. Today, I finished up the City of London (proper). This is the area that includes St. Paul’s and the Bank of England. My first stop was Old Bailey, the criminal courthouse, where the public can go in and view trials. However, you cannot bring in bags of any kind, and I had a limited amount of time before dinner. My next stop was St. Mary-Le-Bow. This is a beautiful church but I couldn’t really enjoy it because I had a mini brush with trauma as I entered the nave. This is a tiny little church and the only other person in there when I got there was an incredibly tall and skinny homeless-looking man. He was wandering around in an odd manner, as if he didn’t know what was going on, and was smoking. At first he approached me and I became a little nervous, but he turned towards another door and left the church. After that I couldn’t really focus on the church. My guide book had a few exciting entries about what could be found in the crypt, so I went down there. It has been turned into a restaurant. Lame.
Next I walked to St. Stephen Walbrook. This church is located directly next to Mansion House, the residence of the Lord Mayor of the City of London, and is his parish church. Both Mary-Le-Bow and St. Stephen are Wren churches, but St. Stephen was definitely my favorite it was a mini study for St. Paul’s. It has a central plan, with a wonderful dome and a lot of light and open space. This church was astounding with its lights walls and almost black wood paneling. It was breathtaking. I just kept walking around and around, loving every inch of that church.
After leaving St. Stephen Walbrook I walked up Pudding Lane. Talk about exciting! Really, it's just a street. But, this is the very street where the Great Fire of London began in 1666 in the bakery shop of Thomas Fayner. From here it spread through the city, destroying as it went, until it was finally controlled at Pie Street. The significance of Pudding and Pie is certain--but as of yet, unknown. On Pie Street there is a statue of a fat boy eating pie, very close to where the fire stopped, because I never made it here I'm glad I at least walked Pudding Lane.
Beyond Pudding Lane I walked to the shadow of the Tower of London, where I found the church All Hallows by the Tower (which makes sense--because it is by the tower). I walked into this church too. Of all the churches I saw today, this one was the most beautiful as far as Christmas decorations go. St. Stephen Walbrook still had the best architecture, but there was a lovely nativity, large trees, and white stretches of glittering fake snow inside All Hallows. The most exciting part of this church is the crypt--and it was still actually a crypt. Huzzah!
Just as you arrive downstairs there is a stretch of cobbled/tiled Roman road. I was looking at it almost straight on, below Roman street level. It is one of the best preserved example of Roman London anywhere in the entire city (which makes sense because it is also close to the most defined stretch of Roman Wall--also close to the Tower of London). Further into the crypt there is a barrel that Sir Ernest Shackleton and his men used as a crow's nest during his last Antarctic expedition on the ship "Quest." I touched it. Now I have lived in his house, seen the photography of his trek across Antarctica (Liverpool), and touched his crow's nest. Awesome. There was also a plaque in the crypt stating that William Penn was baptized in All Hallows. That was a neat connection, considering that he founded the state that my family now lives in, and that I would be returning to in a few days.
I returned home with just a few minutes to spare before dinner, ready for food--but also full of love for London.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
Last full day in London. Cannot believe it. So, what did Bethany and I decide to do in celebration? Spend the rest of our pounds! The program gave every girl money back, because they had budgeted so well, and so we decided to visit all our favorite London shopping venues.Our first stop was at Camden Market with Katie Willard. My first experience at Camden was not my favorite. It smells like smoke and the people are quintessential edgy London with rude and crass t-shirts for sale at every turn. But, Katie loves Camden, so I decided to go along and find out why. Turns out the trick is to move past the first street into one of the other five marketplaces that make up Camden Market proper. Here we found terrific clothes, a funky hippie shop, a Beatles t-shirt which I bought (it has their faces on it--neither of the ones I got in Liverpool do, I don't know what I was thinking.), pretty jewelry, and we even saw the Camden Locks. This is a section of the Thames with locks to allow ships to move up and down the river. It's very neat. There are still some things I definitely do not enjoy about Camden, but I could see some merit by the end. Give me Portobello any day.
Next we arrived at Lillywhites. This is an enormous sportings goods store that is just outside of the Picadilly Circus tube stop. You walk of the stairs to street level and it is right there. They were having a sale, so Bethany and I both got a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Later today when we got home, we took a picture because we looked so funny with the same clothes on, just in different colors.
Next stop Primark. Here, I bought these long-sleeved stretchy t-shirts that I came to love the first time they arrived at this store. I am so glad to have a long-sleeve t in so many different colors now.
Finally we walked down Queensway one more time to buy Pashmina scarves. One of the shops has a deal of 7 Pashminas for 10 GBP and I had bought my London sweatshirt at this same shop earlier in the semester so I had a 10% discount coupon. Excellent. Even after all this rampant spending, I still had around 15 GBP left, not including the money I had set aside to pay for the taxi and train to get to the airport tomorrow. Even when I try to spend with reckless abandon, I still end up being a little frugal. I guess that's a good thing?
After we got home, I dumped my purchases and after a quick lunch headed out to meet Katy and Julie and some other girls at the London Eye. The plan was to have as many people as possible from the program in one of the "bubbles" on the Eye at sunset. Jordan and Grace had printed out 2 for 1 vouchers with a train ticket so we all got a nice discount. There was a 3-d movie right before heading to the actual queue for the Eye, which most of the girls really liked but I didn't see what was so exciting. It was just London--we'd seen it all before and without CGI. In the end we had a lot of girls on the Eye with us that night. Fabulously fun. There was Katy, Julie, and I, Jani, Jenna, and Claire (all from my room--dorm 1), Kim, Grace, Jordan, Molly, Morgan, Mackenzie, Amanda, Natalie, Nicole, Lisa, and Meegan. Kim's little sister was also there, and nice enough to take some group pictures for us (that is the only reason I remember who was there and who was not). It was a very full little bubble. Looking out over the whole city was remarkable. It was the perfect end to my London experience. I could not believe how much I could see, and how much I could recognize.
After we got off the Eye Katy, Julie, and I had a final dinner at Cafe Diana. I finally took a picture of the picture of Princess Diana that reminds me of Mom. Our waitress was incredibly slow--we just simply aren't European so we don't want to sit there for 45 minutes and talk after we're done eating. We want to come, eat, and leave, and then we'll go talk. It wasn't that bad and we actually had a fabulous time. Good food too. They make a pretty decent falafel. Now I just have to go to Jerusalem to try the real thing. We also finally took pictures in the tube, to prove that we rode it ALL the time. I am going to miss the mobility it gives me. I can just get up, swipe my Oyster card, and go. No cars, no traffic (except people traffic), and the ability to go anywhere in the city just by getting on the right train.
After dinner, the three of us and Katie Willard did Christmas lights. We first went to Trafalgar Square where they have a large Christmas tree and menorah. They actually weren't all the exciting of lights, but the fountains looked very pretty lit up and it was nice to begin really celebrating the Christmas season. I also got to say goodbye to the National Gallery and St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Looking down Whitehall you could almost see all the way up to Westminster Abbey.
Next we took the tube to Sloane Square. Here the Christmas lights were much better. An entire side of one office building was covered in lights that shined out across the square where large snowflakes hung from the trees. We had a good time running around and taking pictures. We were there for quite a while, in part because crossing the street there is an absolute nightmare. No crosswalk or zebra of any kind. You literally fend for yourself trying to get back to the tube station. That's in addition to having your wits about you any time you step out in front of London traffic.
After that I was up all night. Well, I got around two hours of sleep, but they were fitful at best. I was so nervous about packing, and getting to the plane, getting all my stuff on the plane, leaving the country (oh my gosh, where's my passport! did I leave out money so I could pay for the taxi? what are we going to eat for breakfast?), the list goes on and on. I was also incredibly sad to think that this would be the last time I would sleep in my own tiny, cramped bunk bed at the BYU London Centre. Indescribably sad.
Wednesday 8 December 2010
I was up a full hour before my alarm, there was no way I was going to sleep anymore. What seemed like an age later I had finally finished packing, was barely under the 50 lbs. weight limit for my checked bag and Julie and I were ready to hail a taxi. At the front door we said goodbye to Aunt Jo Ann and Sister Tate. I was so grateful to come to London with them. We called a cab who took us to Paddington Station. I could actually give him proper directions this time. Eventually we got our train tickets, and took the train back out to Heathrow. The last time I made this trip I was anxiously excited and worried about getting to my new home. This time I was a little slap-happy and wanted to get to the airport with time to spare. But, we also rode that train with confidence. We had conquered London Transport.
When we got to the airport we checked our bags and Julie began to say that she felt very ill. Turns out, we had planned on eating breakfast before we left the Centre but it had slipped our minds. Now she was starting to feel the affects of being without food. As we prepared to walk through security Julie kept saying: "Emily, where are you? Are you there? I can't see you?" I was in full-on panic mode now. What should I do? Should I tell an airport worker that she was feeling sick? That might make us miss our flight. Was she really this bad or was it just from lack of sleep last night. She was half-laughing as she said it--was this some kind of twisted joke? Then she stumbled into me, almost as if she had just fainted and then come to right after. I supported her, trying not to attract the attention of the workers in Security--not wanting any sort of scene. "Julie! Are you okay?" She straightened and blinked. "I think so?" Then I was called to come through the metal detector. I told her to stand up. It would be okay. As soon as she gets through the metal detector, go sit down. I'll get all the stuff. I walked through the detector, and watched her do the same. She seemed normal, though gaunt and silent. She quickly went and sat down. I collected the baggage and sat down next to her. Slowly both of our heart rates returned to normal. Eventually she could walk again and we quickly headed to purchase a large breakfast.
It was quite a scare, but thankfully we weren't detained. The airport workers at 7am aren't too interested in two teenage Americans who can't exactly walk straight anyway. We bought a large breakfast--we had to blow all our British cash. In a few more hours there would be nothing more to spend it on. And then settled down to wait. We had a few hours and then we boarded our flight home. It was exhausting, as all transatlantic travel is (I'm a seasoned veteran now--ya know) but at least there were movies to watch and time to get some of that sleep we had missed out on last night.
We finally touched down in Philadelphia and I could hear American accents everywhere. I almost kissed the ground at Baggage Claim after we had cleared customs. There we were, tired but happy and safe and sound back in the good old U. S. A. I said goodbye to Julie who was heading home to Provo and walked out of the International Terminal. Somehow I missed everybody waiting for me as I cleared security and walked all the way out to the street, didn't see anyone, tried to use a payphone but I had less than a dollar in American change and I can't working a payphone. Being around all those London phone booths did not do me a lick of good. (By the way, American change is incredibly thin and light. Even now I'm surprised how little it weighs and how little space it takes up in my wallet. And the dollar bill is an incredible thing. No more one pound coins.) I finally headed back up towards security and ran into everyone while they were looking for me. It's good to be home.
London truly was the most wonderful experience of my life. I wouldn't trade one day there for all the world and I am so glad I have the memories to keep me company all the rest of my days.
"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." --Samuel Johnson
I went to bed reasonably early on Sunday night, in order to avoid studying for my Bible final, which took place at 1pm today. The morning involved intense study sessions with the class to prepare, but I still went into this test feeling the least ready for it over any of my other finals. I muddled my way through it, and felt reasonably confident at the end, though I knew there were some things that I didn’t really know.
After the final I headed out for one of my last days in London. Today, I finished up the City of London (proper). This is the area that includes St. Paul’s and the Bank of England. My first stop was Old Bailey, the criminal courthouse, where the public can go in and view trials. However, you cannot bring in bags of any kind, and I had a limited amount of time before dinner. My next stop was St. Mary-Le-Bow. This is a beautiful church but I couldn’t really enjoy it because I had a mini brush with trauma as I entered the nave. This is a tiny little church and the only other person in there when I got there was an incredibly tall and skinny homeless-looking man. He was wandering around in an odd manner, as if he didn’t know what was going on, and was smoking. At first he approached me and I became a little nervous, but he turned towards another door and left the church. After that I couldn’t really focus on the church. My guide book had a few exciting entries about what could be found in the crypt, so I went down there. It has been turned into a restaurant. Lame.
Next I walked to St. Stephen Walbrook. This church is located directly next to Mansion House, the residence of the Lord Mayor of the City of London, and is his parish church. Both Mary-Le-Bow and St. Stephen are Wren churches, but St. Stephen was definitely my favorite it was a mini study for St. Paul’s. It has a central plan, with a wonderful dome and a lot of light and open space. This church was astounding with its lights walls and almost black wood paneling. It was breathtaking. I just kept walking around and around, loving every inch of that church.
After leaving St. Stephen Walbrook I walked up Pudding Lane. Talk about exciting! Really, it's just a street. But, this is the very street where the Great Fire of London began in 1666 in the bakery shop of Thomas Fayner. From here it spread through the city, destroying as it went, until it was finally controlled at Pie Street. The significance of Pudding and Pie is certain--but as of yet, unknown. On Pie Street there is a statue of a fat boy eating pie, very close to where the fire stopped, because I never made it here I'm glad I at least walked Pudding Lane.
Beyond Pudding Lane I walked to the shadow of the Tower of London, where I found the church All Hallows by the Tower (which makes sense--because it is by the tower). I walked into this church too. Of all the churches I saw today, this one was the most beautiful as far as Christmas decorations go. St. Stephen Walbrook still had the best architecture, but there was a lovely nativity, large trees, and white stretches of glittering fake snow inside All Hallows. The most exciting part of this church is the crypt--and it was still actually a crypt. Huzzah!
Just as you arrive downstairs there is a stretch of cobbled/tiled Roman road. I was looking at it almost straight on, below Roman street level. It is one of the best preserved example of Roman London anywhere in the entire city (which makes sense because it is also close to the most defined stretch of Roman Wall--also close to the Tower of London). Further into the crypt there is a barrel that Sir Ernest Shackleton and his men used as a crow's nest during his last Antarctic expedition on the ship "Quest." I touched it. Now I have lived in his house, seen the photography of his trek across Antarctica (Liverpool), and touched his crow's nest. Awesome. There was also a plaque in the crypt stating that William Penn was baptized in All Hallows. That was a neat connection, considering that he founded the state that my family now lives in, and that I would be returning to in a few days.
I returned home with just a few minutes to spare before dinner, ready for food--but also full of love for London.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
Last full day in London. Cannot believe it. So, what did Bethany and I decide to do in celebration? Spend the rest of our pounds! The program gave every girl money back, because they had budgeted so well, and so we decided to visit all our favorite London shopping venues.Our first stop was at Camden Market with Katie Willard. My first experience at Camden was not my favorite. It smells like smoke and the people are quintessential edgy London with rude and crass t-shirts for sale at every turn. But, Katie loves Camden, so I decided to go along and find out why. Turns out the trick is to move past the first street into one of the other five marketplaces that make up Camden Market proper. Here we found terrific clothes, a funky hippie shop, a Beatles t-shirt which I bought (it has their faces on it--neither of the ones I got in Liverpool do, I don't know what I was thinking.), pretty jewelry, and we even saw the Camden Locks. This is a section of the Thames with locks to allow ships to move up and down the river. It's very neat. There are still some things I definitely do not enjoy about Camden, but I could see some merit by the end. Give me Portobello any day.
Next we arrived at Lillywhites. This is an enormous sportings goods store that is just outside of the Picadilly Circus tube stop. You walk of the stairs to street level and it is right there. They were having a sale, so Bethany and I both got a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Later today when we got home, we took a picture because we looked so funny with the same clothes on, just in different colors.
Next stop Primark. Here, I bought these long-sleeved stretchy t-shirts that I came to love the first time they arrived at this store. I am so glad to have a long-sleeve t in so many different colors now.
Finally we walked down Queensway one more time to buy Pashmina scarves. One of the shops has a deal of 7 Pashminas for 10 GBP and I had bought my London sweatshirt at this same shop earlier in the semester so I had a 10% discount coupon. Excellent. Even after all this rampant spending, I still had around 15 GBP left, not including the money I had set aside to pay for the taxi and train to get to the airport tomorrow. Even when I try to spend with reckless abandon, I still end up being a little frugal. I guess that's a good thing?
After we got home, I dumped my purchases and after a quick lunch headed out to meet Katy and Julie and some other girls at the London Eye. The plan was to have as many people as possible from the program in one of the "bubbles" on the Eye at sunset. Jordan and Grace had printed out 2 for 1 vouchers with a train ticket so we all got a nice discount. There was a 3-d movie right before heading to the actual queue for the Eye, which most of the girls really liked but I didn't see what was so exciting. It was just London--we'd seen it all before and without CGI. In the end we had a lot of girls on the Eye with us that night. Fabulously fun. There was Katy, Julie, and I, Jani, Jenna, and Claire (all from my room--dorm 1), Kim, Grace, Jordan, Molly, Morgan, Mackenzie, Amanda, Natalie, Nicole, Lisa, and Meegan. Kim's little sister was also there, and nice enough to take some group pictures for us (that is the only reason I remember who was there and who was not). It was a very full little bubble. Looking out over the whole city was remarkable. It was the perfect end to my London experience. I could not believe how much I could see, and how much I could recognize.
After we got off the Eye Katy, Julie, and I had a final dinner at Cafe Diana. I finally took a picture of the picture of Princess Diana that reminds me of Mom. Our waitress was incredibly slow--we just simply aren't European so we don't want to sit there for 45 minutes and talk after we're done eating. We want to come, eat, and leave, and then we'll go talk. It wasn't that bad and we actually had a fabulous time. Good food too. They make a pretty decent falafel. Now I just have to go to Jerusalem to try the real thing. We also finally took pictures in the tube, to prove that we rode it ALL the time. I am going to miss the mobility it gives me. I can just get up, swipe my Oyster card, and go. No cars, no traffic (except people traffic), and the ability to go anywhere in the city just by getting on the right train.
After dinner, the three of us and Katie Willard did Christmas lights. We first went to Trafalgar Square where they have a large Christmas tree and menorah. They actually weren't all the exciting of lights, but the fountains looked very pretty lit up and it was nice to begin really celebrating the Christmas season. I also got to say goodbye to the National Gallery and St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Looking down Whitehall you could almost see all the way up to Westminster Abbey.
Next we took the tube to Sloane Square. Here the Christmas lights were much better. An entire side of one office building was covered in lights that shined out across the square where large snowflakes hung from the trees. We had a good time running around and taking pictures. We were there for quite a while, in part because crossing the street there is an absolute nightmare. No crosswalk or zebra of any kind. You literally fend for yourself trying to get back to the tube station. That's in addition to having your wits about you any time you step out in front of London traffic.
After that I was up all night. Well, I got around two hours of sleep, but they were fitful at best. I was so nervous about packing, and getting to the plane, getting all my stuff on the plane, leaving the country (oh my gosh, where's my passport! did I leave out money so I could pay for the taxi? what are we going to eat for breakfast?), the list goes on and on. I was also incredibly sad to think that this would be the last time I would sleep in my own tiny, cramped bunk bed at the BYU London Centre. Indescribably sad.
Wednesday 8 December 2010
I was up a full hour before my alarm, there was no way I was going to sleep anymore. What seemed like an age later I had finally finished packing, was barely under the 50 lbs. weight limit for my checked bag and Julie and I were ready to hail a taxi. At the front door we said goodbye to Aunt Jo Ann and Sister Tate. I was so grateful to come to London with them. We called a cab who took us to Paddington Station. I could actually give him proper directions this time. Eventually we got our train tickets, and took the train back out to Heathrow. The last time I made this trip I was anxiously excited and worried about getting to my new home. This time I was a little slap-happy and wanted to get to the airport with time to spare. But, we also rode that train with confidence. We had conquered London Transport.
When we got to the airport we checked our bags and Julie began to say that she felt very ill. Turns out, we had planned on eating breakfast before we left the Centre but it had slipped our minds. Now she was starting to feel the affects of being without food. As we prepared to walk through security Julie kept saying: "Emily, where are you? Are you there? I can't see you?" I was in full-on panic mode now. What should I do? Should I tell an airport worker that she was feeling sick? That might make us miss our flight. Was she really this bad or was it just from lack of sleep last night. She was half-laughing as she said it--was this some kind of twisted joke? Then she stumbled into me, almost as if she had just fainted and then come to right after. I supported her, trying not to attract the attention of the workers in Security--not wanting any sort of scene. "Julie! Are you okay?" She straightened and blinked. "I think so?" Then I was called to come through the metal detector. I told her to stand up. It would be okay. As soon as she gets through the metal detector, go sit down. I'll get all the stuff. I walked through the detector, and watched her do the same. She seemed normal, though gaunt and silent. She quickly went and sat down. I collected the baggage and sat down next to her. Slowly both of our heart rates returned to normal. Eventually she could walk again and we quickly headed to purchase a large breakfast.
It was quite a scare, but thankfully we weren't detained. The airport workers at 7am aren't too interested in two teenage Americans who can't exactly walk straight anyway. We bought a large breakfast--we had to blow all our British cash. In a few more hours there would be nothing more to spend it on. And then settled down to wait. We had a few hours and then we boarded our flight home. It was exhausting, as all transatlantic travel is (I'm a seasoned veteran now--ya know) but at least there were movies to watch and time to get some of that sleep we had missed out on last night.
We finally touched down in Philadelphia and I could hear American accents everywhere. I almost kissed the ground at Baggage Claim after we had cleared customs. There we were, tired but happy and safe and sound back in the good old U. S. A. I said goodbye to Julie who was heading home to Provo and walked out of the International Terminal. Somehow I missed everybody waiting for me as I cleared security and walked all the way out to the street, didn't see anyone, tried to use a payphone but I had less than a dollar in American change and I can't working a payphone. Being around all those London phone booths did not do me a lick of good. (By the way, American change is incredibly thin and light. Even now I'm surprised how little it weighs and how little space it takes up in my wallet. And the dollar bill is an incredible thing. No more one pound coins.) I finally headed back up towards security and ran into everyone while they were looking for me. It's good to be home.
London truly was the most wonderful experience of my life. I wouldn't trade one day there for all the world and I am so glad I have the memories to keep me company all the rest of my days.
"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." --Samuel Johnson
The Person I Most Want to Be
Bent double and gasping. There are two situations where this would make sense, either I just ran a great distance or I am in the presence of my mother. It's not from fear or pain when my mother is involved (though for running, it is a different story). I'm gasping for air because laughing hard tends to knock the wind out of a person. One also often starts to fold in half when they are laughing hard. I don't know why, but it's true. Just watch the next person you see laughing, they will contract.
Some of my most vivid memories of my mother involve being bent double and gasping for air. When we are playing ping pong and it is clear that both of us has missed our callings--truly, we could have been table tennis champions (that is, if it's better to have the ball off the table more often than on it). When we spent a Sunday afternoon at my grandparents playing games and the same ridiculous joke gets us over and over. When a little sibling does something outrageous and only my Mom and I find it comical.
I also have a different kind of memory, though with the same basic formula. Each time we had to move Mom would hold me as I cried about losing friends. When I fell on top of my arm in the backyard and we thought it was broken, or when I did a flip on the trampoline and attempted to remove my nose with my knee, Mom was there while I was curled up and gasping as I cried.
I consider my Mom to be my best friend. A true friend accepts you for yourself, and Mom has been laughing at my jokes for nineteen years. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
I've heard that American teenage girls are supposed to fight with their mothers. They are supposed to lean on friends for support because that woman at home is totally ruining their lives. They are also supposed to rebel and become their own person, far removed from the backwards values of their mothers. Apparently, I am a failed American teenager. I listen to my Mom's CDs. I watch the same movies. I gained the love of reading I have from her. My Mom helped me to hone the skill of working hard to get something just right, but after a while being satisfied with something in its imperfections. I inherited my clumsiness, and my correspondingly abysmal driving skills. Both Mom and I hate to spend money if we can avoid it. Both Mom and I are addicted to chocolate (no matter how hard we try not to be).
There are a few things I have yet to learn from my Mom. These include the ability to be punctual (I had planned to post this on Mother's day...), the ability to wow little kids and still help them learn, the ability to cook without causing a natural disaster, and--most importantly--the ability to bring the Spirit into a home by a few simple gestures or words.
Someday I'm going to be a Mom (oy, don't remind me) and I am grateful that I have one shining example. My Mom has provided me with countless role models from Ruth (in the Bible) to Charly (by Jack Weyland) to Anne of Green Gables. But, I hope that she realizes that she has always been the person I most want to be. I love you, Mom.
Some of my most vivid memories of my mother involve being bent double and gasping for air. When we are playing ping pong and it is clear that both of us has missed our callings--truly, we could have been table tennis champions (that is, if it's better to have the ball off the table more often than on it). When we spent a Sunday afternoon at my grandparents playing games and the same ridiculous joke gets us over and over. When a little sibling does something outrageous and only my Mom and I find it comical.
I also have a different kind of memory, though with the same basic formula. Each time we had to move Mom would hold me as I cried about losing friends. When I fell on top of my arm in the backyard and we thought it was broken, or when I did a flip on the trampoline and attempted to remove my nose with my knee, Mom was there while I was curled up and gasping as I cried.
I consider my Mom to be my best friend. A true friend accepts you for yourself, and Mom has been laughing at my jokes for nineteen years. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
I've heard that American teenage girls are supposed to fight with their mothers. They are supposed to lean on friends for support because that woman at home is totally ruining their lives. They are also supposed to rebel and become their own person, far removed from the backwards values of their mothers. Apparently, I am a failed American teenager. I listen to my Mom's CDs. I watch the same movies. I gained the love of reading I have from her. My Mom helped me to hone the skill of working hard to get something just right, but after a while being satisfied with something in its imperfections. I inherited my clumsiness, and my correspondingly abysmal driving skills. Both Mom and I hate to spend money if we can avoid it. Both Mom and I are addicted to chocolate (no matter how hard we try not to be).
There are a few things I have yet to learn from my Mom. These include the ability to be punctual (I had planned to post this on Mother's day...), the ability to wow little kids and still help them learn, the ability to cook without causing a natural disaster, and--most importantly--the ability to bring the Spirit into a home by a few simple gestures or words.
Someday I'm going to be a Mom (oy, don't remind me) and I am grateful that I have one shining example. My Mom has provided me with countless role models from Ruth (in the Bible) to Charly (by Jack Weyland) to Anne of Green Gables. But, I hope that she realizes that she has always been the person I most want to be. I love you, Mom.
Towards Perfection
I wouldn’t be aware of it for a few more minutes, but my tongue was sticking out. As I carefully crafted letter after letter I was determined to write just as well as Mom had. For a four-year-old, learning to read and write usually isn’t a priority, but I had always been interested in books and had already been reading for a year. I had convinced Mom that it was time for me to learn to write too, and because I was the only child at that point, I got my wish. Now I was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging my legs and intently focusing on creating the perfect “m.” With my brow furrowed and my tongue still on display for the entire world to see, I continued to move my pencil across the page.
“Good. Now do a whole row just like that.” Mom got up from the table and returned to cleaning the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my paper. This was a make or break moment; I had to be able to write the perfect letter without Mom’s help. The graphite tip of my number two pencil brushed the paper as I drew in a deep breath. Carefully I pulled my arm towards my body, creating the first line of the “m.” Good, just like the last one. My entire body shifted back and forth as I completed each line of what I knew would be the perfect letter. Finally, confident in my abilities as the best writer I had ever known, I blazed through the entire line, feeling that each “m” was more grandiose and excellent than the one before. Triumphant at the end of the row, I tossed my pencil to the side and rushed to bring Mom back to the table, eager to show off the fruits of her fine teaching and my exquisite talent.
I clambered back onto the chair, shoving my paper into her hands. As Mom sat down, I looked on at first with excitement, than with dismay; suddenly I could only see imperfection. Looking along the row, each “m” catalogued further deteriorations in my writing technique. Suddenly my disappointment became worry; what would Mom say? I had just explained how well I had done and then handed her a paper full of nothing but mistakes. This was it. I would never learn to write now. Mom placed her finger on the first “m” I had painstakingly created.
“This one is very good Emily. I like your nice straight lines.” I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Sure, that one had been a labor of love, but what about the rest. My sloppy work was painfully obvious below the careful letters Mom had provided as examples. “But, with the rest of these I’m sure you could do better. Make them look more like the first one.” I scrunched up my face, submissively receiving her words along with the paper, which she handed to me as she rose to return to the kitchen. I was about to release slow, steady streams of tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I knew better. I concentrated on carefully erasing every mark I had scratched across the paper, working backwards across the line. The methodical work of removing my scrawled attempts at the letter “m” helped me to regain control of my breathing and I stopped feeling the need to cry.
It was time to begin again. This time each letter had concentration and effort behind it. At long last, the row was done. Instead of bustling immediately into the kitchen, I took the time to look back over my work. Occasionally I would discover a crooked line or an arch too large for the rest of the letter and work to correct it. After another few minutes of careful work and observation, I deemed my efforts worthy of display to Mom. Calmly I walked into the kitchen and explained that I was prepared to show what I felt to be quality work.
Sitting and watching her eyes quietly scan my writing, I again felt a sinking feeling. From this angle, even more mistakes were presenting themselves. Would I never write as well as her? Mom returned the paper to the empty stretch of table in front of me, between my pencil and eraser. I looked down, feeling as downcast as I ever had, knowing that I was about to be instructed to try again.
“I like how much better you did this time, Emily. You showed some real improvement. Someday you’ll be able to write very well.” Giving me a quick hug, Mom returned to the kitchen. I just sat there in shock. Convinced that on her most recent trip into the dining room Mom had lost a good portion of her sanity, I looked again at the paper.
The longer I looked, the more I came to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed to be. Certainly I had a long way to go before I achieved the lyrical handwriting I wished for, but in a matter of minutes I had improved. As I moved to the next row, I still carefully formed each segment of the “m” as if it were a work of art. But, now each letter appeared to become a work of art and not just the imitation of one. Shining through the imperfections was a love of writing. The energetic frenzy of a few minutes ago had been replaced by a love for accurately creating letters, rather than mass-producing them.
Even now there are times when I get caught up in what I am doing and carry myself over the edge so that I crash down into defeat, realizing that I have overstepped my bounds and fallen short of my expectations at the same time. There are times when I believe I have created works of art from how I craft the written word, only to find that as I read back through my work, I have greatly deceived myself. However, with each successive draft my clarity and imagery slowly improves. My first writings have grown into papers I am proud to call my own, and while there is always room for improvement, I can recognize my growth and continue to strive for improvements I know I am capable of.
“Good. Now do a whole row just like that.” Mom got up from the table and returned to cleaning the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my paper. This was a make or break moment; I had to be able to write the perfect letter without Mom’s help. The graphite tip of my number two pencil brushed the paper as I drew in a deep breath. Carefully I pulled my arm towards my body, creating the first line of the “m.” Good, just like the last one. My entire body shifted back and forth as I completed each line of what I knew would be the perfect letter. Finally, confident in my abilities as the best writer I had ever known, I blazed through the entire line, feeling that each “m” was more grandiose and excellent than the one before. Triumphant at the end of the row, I tossed my pencil to the side and rushed to bring Mom back to the table, eager to show off the fruits of her fine teaching and my exquisite talent.
I clambered back onto the chair, shoving my paper into her hands. As Mom sat down, I looked on at first with excitement, than with dismay; suddenly I could only see imperfection. Looking along the row, each “m” catalogued further deteriorations in my writing technique. Suddenly my disappointment became worry; what would Mom say? I had just explained how well I had done and then handed her a paper full of nothing but mistakes. This was it. I would never learn to write now. Mom placed her finger on the first “m” I had painstakingly created.
“This one is very good Emily. I like your nice straight lines.” I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Sure, that one had been a labor of love, but what about the rest. My sloppy work was painfully obvious below the careful letters Mom had provided as examples. “But, with the rest of these I’m sure you could do better. Make them look more like the first one.” I scrunched up my face, submissively receiving her words along with the paper, which she handed to me as she rose to return to the kitchen. I was about to release slow, steady streams of tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I knew better. I concentrated on carefully erasing every mark I had scratched across the paper, working backwards across the line. The methodical work of removing my scrawled attempts at the letter “m” helped me to regain control of my breathing and I stopped feeling the need to cry.
It was time to begin again. This time each letter had concentration and effort behind it. At long last, the row was done. Instead of bustling immediately into the kitchen, I took the time to look back over my work. Occasionally I would discover a crooked line or an arch too large for the rest of the letter and work to correct it. After another few minutes of careful work and observation, I deemed my efforts worthy of display to Mom. Calmly I walked into the kitchen and explained that I was prepared to show what I felt to be quality work.
Sitting and watching her eyes quietly scan my writing, I again felt a sinking feeling. From this angle, even more mistakes were presenting themselves. Would I never write as well as her? Mom returned the paper to the empty stretch of table in front of me, between my pencil and eraser. I looked down, feeling as downcast as I ever had, knowing that I was about to be instructed to try again.
“I like how much better you did this time, Emily. You showed some real improvement. Someday you’ll be able to write very well.” Giving me a quick hug, Mom returned to the kitchen. I just sat there in shock. Convinced that on her most recent trip into the dining room Mom had lost a good portion of her sanity, I looked again at the paper.
The longer I looked, the more I came to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed to be. Certainly I had a long way to go before I achieved the lyrical handwriting I wished for, but in a matter of minutes I had improved. As I moved to the next row, I still carefully formed each segment of the “m” as if it were a work of art. But, now each letter appeared to become a work of art and not just the imitation of one. Shining through the imperfections was a love of writing. The energetic frenzy of a few minutes ago had been replaced by a love for accurately creating letters, rather than mass-producing them.
Even now there are times when I get caught up in what I am doing and carry myself over the edge so that I crash down into defeat, realizing that I have overstepped my bounds and fallen short of my expectations at the same time. There are times when I believe I have created works of art from how I craft the written word, only to find that as I read back through my work, I have greatly deceived myself. However, with each successive draft my clarity and imagery slowly improves. My first writings have grown into papers I am proud to call my own, and while there is always room for improvement, I can recognize my growth and continue to strive for improvements I know I am capable of.
Making Glue
My dad is a man of few words. No, it's not that he rarely speaks; he opens his mouth quite a lot. However, when he does open his mouth it is to say one of a very few key phrases. He repeats himself like there is no tomorrow.
Not that he thinks people aren't hearing him or that his point is not getting across. He simply has found a few words that he believes cover whatever needs to be said, in any situation. And he uses them as such.
"It might have been, I don't know!" "I've eaten a river of liver and an ocean of fish." "Skybird, this is Dropkick with a Red dash Alpha message in two parts." The observant reader will notice that while these are some of dad's favorite sayings, they are not even original material. His sayings are pulled from movies, tv shows, songs, even commercials. And these quotes and quips are a regular occurrence around the house. Dad, that horse is dead. Put the stick down.
However, I am just as guilty. I beat the dead horse so much I should open a glue factory. I listen to the same song over and over, watch the same movie over and over, and say the same thing over in over. In fact a good deal of what I say comes from my dad. What is this? My supposed wit is a knock off of a knock off.
I'm not trying to demean myself or my dad. Rather, I want to look at the similarity. Just like no matter how many times Mom and I roll our eyes, Dad will continue to say the same thing, and chuckle to himself every time. No matter how many times my friends have heard me say the same one-liner, I will continue to bust it out and then admire my own wit.
There are times when people here in Provo don't get what I say. They do not have a word for word script of over a dozen movies on file in their heads. When Dad says something, I can trace the source almost one hundred percent of the time and visa versa. However, none of my roommates have memorized Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or Silverado or Persuasion or War Games or What's Up Doc. While dad and I may be taking turns for the rest of our lives beating that poor horse until there is nothing left, at least the pile of glue that will be left will keep us together.
I am a lot like my dad. And I am proud. It's not just having the same hair color or being short (thanks for that Dad), it's things like being called Scotina when I was little or hearing him call me Meems or listening to album Upstairs at Eric's by Yaz (over and over and over again). No matter how many times Don't Go blasts from the kitchen radio, that will not prevent my dad from singing along as he does the dishes. So, when I sing out loud to the same song over and over I may not have the best voice, but it is sincere. When I say the same comeback to the same person at the same time every day, I will still appreciate the humor as if it was fresh and original. When I quote the same movie incessantly, that will not prevent me from doing it all over again the next day.
Being on your own is sort of a tough thing sometimes. But, as long as I have my hair color, my eye color (are they brown? are they yellow? who knows...), and my intimate knowledge of the script of Roman Holiday I will have Dad with me. And that will never get old.
Not that he thinks people aren't hearing him or that his point is not getting across. He simply has found a few words that he believes cover whatever needs to be said, in any situation. And he uses them as such.
"It might have been, I don't know!" "I've eaten a river of liver and an ocean of fish." "Skybird, this is Dropkick with a Red dash Alpha message in two parts." The observant reader will notice that while these are some of dad's favorite sayings, they are not even original material. His sayings are pulled from movies, tv shows, songs, even commercials. And these quotes and quips are a regular occurrence around the house. Dad, that horse is dead. Put the stick down.
However, I am just as guilty. I beat the dead horse so much I should open a glue factory. I listen to the same song over and over, watch the same movie over and over, and say the same thing over in over. In fact a good deal of what I say comes from my dad. What is this? My supposed wit is a knock off of a knock off.
I'm not trying to demean myself or my dad. Rather, I want to look at the similarity. Just like no matter how many times Mom and I roll our eyes, Dad will continue to say the same thing, and chuckle to himself every time. No matter how many times my friends have heard me say the same one-liner, I will continue to bust it out and then admire my own wit.
There are times when people here in Provo don't get what I say. They do not have a word for word script of over a dozen movies on file in their heads. When Dad says something, I can trace the source almost one hundred percent of the time and visa versa. However, none of my roommates have memorized Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or Silverado or Persuasion or War Games or What's Up Doc. While dad and I may be taking turns for the rest of our lives beating that poor horse until there is nothing left, at least the pile of glue that will be left will keep us together.
I am a lot like my dad. And I am proud. It's not just having the same hair color or being short (thanks for that Dad), it's things like being called Scotina when I was little or hearing him call me Meems or listening to album Upstairs at Eric's by Yaz (over and over and over again). No matter how many times Don't Go blasts from the kitchen radio, that will not prevent my dad from singing along as he does the dishes. So, when I sing out loud to the same song over and over I may not have the best voice, but it is sincere. When I say the same comeback to the same person at the same time every day, I will still appreciate the humor as if it was fresh and original. When I quote the same movie incessantly, that will not prevent me from doing it all over again the next day.
Being on your own is sort of a tough thing sometimes. But, as long as I have my hair color, my eye color (are they brown? are they yellow? who knows...), and my intimate knowledge of the script of Roman Holiday I will have Dad with me. And that will never get old.
Baptised in Dirty Water
The football game was over and I was exhausted. As I slumped in the front seat of my Dad's car, a couple college students walked in front of the car and Dad slammed on the brakes. So much for falling asleep.
"That was stupid. Emily, promise my you'll never a stupid college student."
"Okay. I don't want to be like that."
Whoops. Perhaps it is a good thing that my Dad is living far away from me, so that he doesn't have to see the crazy person that I have become. Let's review. Since being in Utah I have done the following:
Well, Dad, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for being exactly what you told me not to be. But, I have to say that I have thoroughly enjoyed feeling invincible. And I will continue in a similar vein. When else will I have the drive or the energy to act like an idiot?
Now all I need to do is find a boy with a motorcycle...
"That was stupid. Emily, promise my you'll never a stupid college student."
"Okay. I don't want to be like that."
Whoops. Perhaps it is a good thing that my Dad is living far away from me, so that he doesn't have to see the crazy person that I have become. Let's review. Since being in Utah I have done the following:
- Laid down in the middle of Timpview Drive.
- Been kicked out of a park by a policeman
- Stared down multiple cars while walking down the middle of multiple streets
- Ran through sprinklers at midnight
- E-mailed Steven Crowder, requesting a cardboard cutout
- Had loud dance parties in the kitchen of my apartment
- Yelled out the window at random people
- Run screaming across campus
- Called Joe Jonas
- Dyed my hair red
- Jay-walked with great abandon
- Seen Psycho TWICE in one week!!!
Well, Dad, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for being exactly what you told me not to be. But, I have to say that I have thoroughly enjoyed feeling invincible. And I will continue in a similar vein. When else will I have the drive or the energy to act like an idiot?
Now all I need to do is find a boy with a motorcycle...
Tumbling Into Foxholes
“I don’t care how poor a man is; if he has family, he’s rich.”—Colonel Potter
“A device has yet to be invented that will measure my indifference to this remark.”—Hawkeye
“I’m doing alright. Everyone misses you here.”
“Tell them that I miss them too. How is everybody doing?”
“Liam’s still growing, and Grant and Holli are really enjoying school. You won’t believe how well Hyrum is doing.”
Suddenly, my perfunctory weekly conversation with my mom had become interesting. Hyrum was doing well. What could that possibly mean?
“Your picture’s in my wallet and I’m sitting on it. And if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”—
Frank Burns
“Hello? Oh, hello! Oh, how wonderful. Yes, she’s right here; just a minute. Emily, it’s your mom.” She handed me the phone and I pressed the receiver firmly against my ear, ensuring that I would miss nothing. This was crucial. I only stayed at Jamie’s house for very special occasions and my parents being at the hospital certainly qualified as a special occasion.
“Hi, honey. You have a baby brother.”
Thinking back on what had been a pleasant memory of my baby brother being born as I sat wedged between two car seats, I couldn’t help but feel bitter. Even though I am the oldest child I had to sit in between the twins in the car because Hyrum can’t handle their rowdy behavior. What about all the times that he got on my nerves when he was little and I just had to deal with it? What about all the times that he still got on my nerves? I don’t care if he can’t handle the stress of sitting in between them. That innocent little baby that I had been so excited for was now a growing teenage boy who could certainly deal with two seven-year-olds. It was high time that he grew up.
“I haven’t volunteered since the day my draft board tied me up and sent me here.”—B. J. Hunnicutt
“Get away from me before I get physically emotional.”—Radar O’Reilly
Why couldn’t my parents understand that we couldn’t let him continue in this incorrect line of thinking? I should have been allowed to present my arguments; after all, they were excellent. Even if screaming across the room wasn’t the most professional way to get a point across, it was effective. Mom and Dad were always cutting him slack.
“He’s different from you, Emily. I know that you know better.” Thanks, Dad. I feel much better now. Yes, I did know how to act properly around Hyrum. But sometimes the pressure to always say and do the right thing was too much and I would release all my feelings in a relentless tirade. Through careful observation, I knew exactly how to push his buttons.
“Don’t play dumb with me; you’re not as good at it as I am.”—Colonel Flagg
My brother was going against everything that I thought I knew about him. It was almost as if he was doing it out of spite, to confuse me.
“You’ll have to excuse these two, they are themselves today.”—Colonel Potter
Finally, we collected ourselves and I crawled back onto the couch. I crunched on a handful of popcorn, drowning out the dialogue and thinking about how much I would miss him. For fourteen years I had bounced ideas off him and we had discussed practically everything. Now I was going off to college and it would be months before I would see him again.
Not only would I miss the opportunity of having someone to talk to who understands me so well, I also feared for him. He is so good and wholesome that the real world would tear him apart. As he begins his freshman year at a high school where he is the only Mormon, how will he fend for himself? How will he know when to stop talking and move away from awkward subject matter? I can’t always be there to help him, and that terrifies me.
“Anyone who needs psychiatry is sick in the head.”—Frank Burns
I had no idea how to react to the good news. He was supposed to struggle without me but improve enough by the time I came home for Christmas that I wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving him. Then, I would use his inspiring story in a Sunday School lesson. I had it all planned out, and he was ruining it all.
“Never let it be said I didn’t do the least I could do.”—Hawkeye Pierce
It was time for elder sister hero mode. When we lived in Utah, our ward was made up of boys and girls who lived in the same ward, some even in the same houses, their whole lives. Therefore, when a couple of new pre-teens waltzed in, they weren’t exactly thrilled to see us. They were simply not used to having new people in their midst. Hyrum’s quirkiness seemed an oddity, and they regarded him from afar with extreme caution. I acted as a go-between, attempting to connect him to them.
Now, in Ohio with our new ward, I believed that similar defensive tactics would be needed. These good young brothers and sisters, however, completely embraced Hyrum for who he is. And he was blooming. I had never seen him so open or social. He went to mutual willingly for the first time in his life. He attended scout camp. He made friends with the young men and the young women alike. He was even friendly towards the youth from the other ward that shared our building.
These people, our new friends, were not laughing at him. They were genuinely laughing with him, buying whole heartedly into his unique brand of humor. He was accepted. He belonged. It was time for me to find a new role. Thank goodness I would be busy at college in the fall.
“For your condition, you’re in great condition.”—Hawkeye Pierce
“Hey buddy, how are you?”
“I’m good. I’m watching an episode of M*A*S*H. Don’t you think it’s funny that I can watch them whenever I want and you can’t because you didn’t take any of the DVDs with you?”
“No, actually, I don’t. How has school been and everything?”
“Everything is fine. We went ice blocking for mutual on Tuesday. It was the best.”
“Yeah, Mom sent me the pictures.”
To the untrained ear this may not have seemed to be the most important thing to discuss with someone on the opposite side of the continental divide. But, in that supposedly trivial discussion, we were bonding in a way that only we know how. The lack of communication that often exists when I talk to Hyrum on the phone has seemed to melt away in recent talks. He tells me things that have been happening in his life, and is even invested in the conversation enough to tease me. The words flow between us so easily, and as we discuss the events of recent days, I see how much his skills of conversation have improved. I’m sure his exchanges with people at school are just as relaxed and effortless.
But, at the same time, I can still hear the pauses and hesitations in his speech as he attempts to organize his thoughts. At times what he says is so obscure that I have to take a minute to sort through all the phrases that have just passed through the phone. Even as Hyrum gets better at fitting into the real world, there will still always be a part of him that is my geeky, awkward younger brother. After a while I may be the only one who notices his bizarre statements and actions, but at least they are there. I take comfort in the idea that he has not changed too much, that he is still learning.
“I love you, Hyrum.”
“I love you too.”
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