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 University. Show all posts
Showing posts with label University. Show all posts
Friday, February 3, 2012
Monday, August 29, 2011
Mr. Postman
In the grand scheme of things I did not have a lot going on this summer.
I wait until the first day of school to retake the blogging world by storm. Logical thinking right there.
I am a HUGE nerd and therefore LOVE school so I had to share that fact with the entire internet (which you've probably realized if you're reading this)
But, the main event today is this:
One of my books came from Surrey. Par avion. Homesick. (in a happy way?)
Yet
I wait until the first day of school to retake the blogging world by storm. Logical thinking right there.
I am a HUGE nerd and therefore LOVE school so I had to share that fact with the entire internet (which you've probably realized if you're reading this)
But, the main event today is this:
One of my books came from Surrey. Par avion. Homesick. (in a happy way?)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
It Feels Good To Be Free!
Dear Harold,
I think we should take some time. Things just aren't really working out. I feel trapped by you and, frankly, you breed stress. Thanks for understanding. Maybe we'll talk again at the end of August. For now, I will be spending the next two and a half months outside.
Love, Emily
I think we should take some time. Things just aren't really working out. I feel trapped by you and, frankly, you breed stress. Thanks for understanding. Maybe we'll talk again at the end of August. For now, I will be spending the next two and a half months outside.
Love, Emily
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Major Findings
“I can’t believe this! Who would have thought that I would be an Art History major? I didn’t even know that major existed. And now I am one. I’m so excited! You know, Art History majors don’t just have to know the art, they learn about the history and the culture too, and I love that stuff.” Mom just sat there nodding her head as I continued to ramble. I had thought the most difficult decision I would make would be which college to attend. But, once I had settled on BYU, I had no idea that it would be even more difficult to pick a major. Part of me thought a teacher, another part of me thought something history related, the crazy part of me wanted to go into music. I finally had landed on Art History. I liked history and I had really enjoyed my art history class in high school. It all seemed to be working out.
“That is not art!” I looked up from my reading to see my roommate looking over at the picture I was studying. I glanced back down; it was an image of Improvisation 28 by Wassily Kandinsky, a key painting from the German Expressionist movement known as the Blue Riders. This movement helped pave the way towards abstract expressionism. I love this painting.
“Sure it is. He’s demonstrating his feelings through paint. It doesn’t have to look like anything; it’s just supposed to evoke emotions.”
“That is not art. And nothing that you say will convince me that it is art.” I can’t find the words to articulate what I am feeling. Of course it’s art. Kandinsky was revolutionary in his use of oil paint on a canvas. His ideas were incredibly innovative and influential for years to come. These are great ideas, and I could write a fantastic essay on them, but I cannot express the words currently in my head verbally to my roommate. I actually start to wonder if it is art, or if I just say that it is because that is what I am supposed to do as an Art History major.
“What’s your major?”
“Art History.”
“Wow! What do you want to do?”
“I don’t really know actually.” The conversation is always the same. People are impressed by my major, at least they seem to be, and then they ask what I plan on doing with that degree. I could work in a museum, or teach at a university. I like teaching so that would probably be my first choice.
Even as I try to rationalize my chosen field of study, I have a sinking feeling in my gut every time I think about it. Is this really the direction I want to take the rest of my life in? I like my art history classes, but I’m not overjoyed with them like I was this summer. This major doesn’t seem to be taking me anywhere and I don’t feel like I am enjoying myself as much as I should. I let the conversation around me continue without my input, not sure what to think anymore.
“Hey Mom, I love fourth graders.”
“Really? Well, that’s good to hear. So, I take it that you like it?”
“Yes! Volunteering at Wasatch is the best. I love watching when their understanding kicks in and they know how to solve the problem. It’s the best feeling.” This semester I decided to participate in a tutoring program where BYU students work at the local public schools, helping teachers and students. Every Friday morning I work with fourth graders during their math hour. I have never been so happy or comfortable.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to change my major.”
“Alright, you came to the right place. If you’ll just fill out this form for me, we can get started.” My arms feel almost weightless as I reach for the paper and pen the student advisor at the McKay Education Building is handing to me. Hesitantly, I record my personal information, sign my name, and hand back the paper. A few clicks on a computer and I am no longer an Art History major. My focus of study is now Elementary Education.
Walking back across campus I feel no relief about changing my major. In fact, I feel the same gut wrenching sensation I used to have when I thought about Art History being my major. Shouldn’t I feel different? Mom told me that all I talked about when I was little was teaching elementary school. If this was what I was meant to do, why did I feel so unsure? No matter how much I prayed, the unsettling feeling would not go away.
Walking out of class, I turned to the last page of my bluebook and read what the TA had written about my test: “97% Great job! You should be an Art History major!” Smiling at the irony, I began to head back to my dorm. As I walked away, it occurred to me that I had felt no hesitation in brushing off the TA’s comment. Yes, I did truly enjoy art history; but, at the same time, I had no problem reminding myself that it was no longer my major.
It may have not come in a flash of lightning, but I had an epiphany: I was in the right major. Switching late in the semester means that I may not get into all the right classes for winter semester, but I know now that I am on the right path. All that praying and worrying over what I should study has finally been replaced by the assurance that I am in the right place, working towards the right goal. That is the best kind of realization, one that is the result of much pondering and prayer; it’s the best kind of epiphany.
Side Note: Since writing the above I have had another epiphany. Yes, education is the answer, but of the high school variety. Current major: History Education. Stay tuned for further updates. This decision is too important to make only once.
••••
“Sure it is. He’s demonstrating his feelings through paint. It doesn’t have to look like anything; it’s just supposed to evoke emotions.”
“That is not art. And nothing that you say will convince me that it is art.” I can’t find the words to articulate what I am feeling. Of course it’s art. Kandinsky was revolutionary in his use of oil paint on a canvas. His ideas were incredibly innovative and influential for years to come. These are great ideas, and I could write a fantastic essay on them, but I cannot express the words currently in my head verbally to my roommate. I actually start to wonder if it is art, or if I just say that it is because that is what I am supposed to do as an Art History major.
••••
“Art History.”
“Wow! What do you want to do?”
“I don’t really know actually.” The conversation is always the same. People are impressed by my major, at least they seem to be, and then they ask what I plan on doing with that degree. I could work in a museum, or teach at a university. I like teaching so that would probably be my first choice.
Even as I try to rationalize my chosen field of study, I have a sinking feeling in my gut every time I think about it. Is this really the direction I want to take the rest of my life in? I like my art history classes, but I’m not overjoyed with them like I was this summer. This major doesn’t seem to be taking me anywhere and I don’t feel like I am enjoying myself as much as I should. I let the conversation around me continue without my input, not sure what to think anymore.
••••
“Really? Well, that’s good to hear. So, I take it that you like it?”
“Yes! Volunteering at Wasatch is the best. I love watching when their understanding kicks in and they know how to solve the problem. It’s the best feeling.” This semester I decided to participate in a tutoring program where BYU students work at the local public schools, helping teachers and students. Every Friday morning I work with fourth graders during their math hour. I have never been so happy or comfortable.
••••
“I want to change my major.”
“Alright, you came to the right place. If you’ll just fill out this form for me, we can get started.” My arms feel almost weightless as I reach for the paper and pen the student advisor at the McKay Education Building is handing to me. Hesitantly, I record my personal information, sign my name, and hand back the paper. A few clicks on a computer and I am no longer an Art History major. My focus of study is now Elementary Education.
Walking back across campus I feel no relief about changing my major. In fact, I feel the same gut wrenching sensation I used to have when I thought about Art History being my major. Shouldn’t I feel different? Mom told me that all I talked about when I was little was teaching elementary school. If this was what I was meant to do, why did I feel so unsure? No matter how much I prayed, the unsettling feeling would not go away.
••••
It may have not come in a flash of lightning, but I had an epiphany: I was in the right major. Switching late in the semester means that I may not get into all the right classes for winter semester, but I know now that I am on the right path. All that praying and worrying over what I should study has finally been replaced by the assurance that I am in the right place, working towards the right goal. That is the best kind of realization, one that is the result of much pondering and prayer; it’s the best kind of epiphany.
Side Note: Since writing the above I have had another epiphany. Yes, education is the answer, but of the high school variety. Current major: History Education. Stay tuned for further updates. This decision is too important to make only once.
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.
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.”
Words of Wisdom
Clearly I haven't posted in a while. If you're wondering why, I'll tell you (if you're not wondering, than stop reading--who asked you anyway?). College is hard. I have a bazillion (yes, it's a real word) things to do. Not only am I responsible for my schoolwork and my job, I am also doing the shopping, cooking, and banking for my very big family of one.
It is utterly ridiculous that one person could generate so much dirty laundry.
One shining beacon of hope at the end of the tunnel: I don't have a calling yet. To all of you out there who do... haha! I'm enjoying all the (nonexistent) freedom that not having a calling provides me with. And you actually have to attend meetings on Sunday morning. That is hilarious to me! Of course, I have to be careful not to blow my own horn too loudly, the bishop is not yet done handing out death sentences. Actually, it's not that bad. But hey, why complain about a good thing?
I have to cook meals for myself whenever I get hungry. No mother here to take care of that.
Yesterday, I sat myself down and determined that I would do homework all day. So, I read. And read. And READ. Methodically, I marked of assignment after assignment. But, at the end of the day, I felt like I got nothing accomplished. I had in fact actually done quite a bit, but I still have so much to do. Welcome to the overwhelming life of a college student.
Out of quarters? How can I be out of quarters? Well, I just go to the Central Building and--DRAT! that was my dryer she just stole. I hope her clothes bleed.
Minimum payment: $25.00. I pay my credit card bill online on time, every time. I have it down to a science. Then one day, I get an e-mail saying that I have a payment due on September 15th. No big deal. I log on, and there I am told that my account is current. What? I spent the next few weeks pulling my hair out trying to figure out what was wrong. Turns out, I am more responsible than the institution that I bank at. I had already made the payment due on the 15th, the bank just hadn't bothered to prevent the reminder e-mail from being sent out to me. How can I trust these people if I am better at managing my finances than they are.
Little known fact: if one does not buy any food, one will have nothing to eat.
It is utterly ridiculous that one person could generate so much dirty laundry.
One shining beacon of hope at the end of the tunnel: I don't have a calling yet. To all of you out there who do... haha! I'm enjoying all the (nonexistent) freedom that not having a calling provides me with. And you actually have to attend meetings on Sunday morning. That is hilarious to me! Of course, I have to be careful not to blow my own horn too loudly, the bishop is not yet done handing out death sentences. Actually, it's not that bad. But hey, why complain about a good thing?
I have to cook meals for myself whenever I get hungry. No mother here to take care of that.
Yesterday, I sat myself down and determined that I would do homework all day. So, I read. And read. And READ. Methodically, I marked of assignment after assignment. But, at the end of the day, I felt like I got nothing accomplished. I had in fact actually done quite a bit, but I still have so much to do. Welcome to the overwhelming life of a college student.
Out of quarters? How can I be out of quarters? Well, I just go to the Central Building and--DRAT! that was my dryer she just stole. I hope her clothes bleed.
Minimum payment: $25.00. I pay my credit card bill online on time, every time. I have it down to a science. Then one day, I get an e-mail saying that I have a payment due on September 15th. No big deal. I log on, and there I am told that my account is current. What? I spent the next few weeks pulling my hair out trying to figure out what was wrong. Turns out, I am more responsible than the institution that I bank at. I had already made the payment due on the 15th, the bank just hadn't bothered to prevent the reminder e-mail from being sent out to me. How can I trust these people if I am better at managing my finances than they are.
Little known fact: if one does not buy any food, one will have nothing to eat.
Thursday Night
It's late at night. I really should be in bed. But, I'm sitting on the windowsill in my kitchen with some roommates, just talking. Suddenly there is a huge thump on the window. At first, we ignore it. There are crabapples all over Heritage and the boys in my ward love to throw them at our windows--real mature, I know. But, the thumping gets louder and more persistent. Finally, I stand up and pull up the blinds.
And there it is: a severed head.
There is a severed head outside my window. How am I supposed to process this? It's not exactly a normal occurrence. Someone has taken the head of a mannequin, painted the base of its neck with stage blood, and stuck it on a pole. And now it is moving across the outer ledge of my kitchen window.
Julie and Sarah jump back in alarm. Katy steps into the kitchen, and immediately runs out: "Oh! My! Gosh! AHHHHH!" She is just a little freaked out. While Katy is under her bed trying to prevent herself from hyperventilating, I open the window.
"Nice job guys. That was really clever. You scared one of us. Wow. I'm impressed." The guy standing at the base of the window walks away looking like the sheepish idiot that he is. About two hundred people (okay, maybe less) are hiding behind the dumpster and recycling bins, and they all look just as disappointed as the kid who actually had the nerve to hold up the head. That'll teach them to act stupid when they should be asleep or doing homework.
And there it is: a severed head.
There is a severed head outside my window. How am I supposed to process this? It's not exactly a normal occurrence. Someone has taken the head of a mannequin, painted the base of its neck with stage blood, and stuck it on a pole. And now it is moving across the outer ledge of my kitchen window.
Julie and Sarah jump back in alarm. Katy steps into the kitchen, and immediately runs out: "Oh! My! Gosh! AHHHHH!" She is just a little freaked out. While Katy is under her bed trying to prevent herself from hyperventilating, I open the window.
"Nice job guys. That was really clever. You scared one of us. Wow. I'm impressed." The guy standing at the base of the window walks away looking like the sheepish idiot that he is. About two hundred people (okay, maybe less) are hiding behind the dumpster and recycling bins, and they all look just as disappointed as the kid who actually had the nerve to hold up the head. That'll teach them to act stupid when they should be asleep or doing homework.
"What's the Sense in Being Young if You Can't Be Impulsive?"
Late Summer Honors is over, and now "the real work begins." People have moved into my building and guys (many of them quite good looking) have moved into the buildings across the way. My meal plan has taken affect, I am completely moved in, and I am counting the seconds until Sunday (you figure out why).
This whole week has been a lesson in time management. They had booked us down to the minute and I felt like I had no time that was truly my own. So, now that I am free to do as I please...I will develop my own schedule. Why is it that I hate structure when it is thrust upon me, but I create my own structure when left to my own devices? Similarly, I will ensure that I have many social activities, designated times to eat, and a good amount of study time--just as they forced me to have previously. In case you can't tell, there is some bitterness. After all, we came early--clearly showing an interest in education--we want to be honors students, we have exemplary grades. We can handle ourselves.
It is interesting that I should talk about myself as if I am a completely mature college student. Ha! As a matter of fact, I have noticed that at times I am more of a teenager than I ever was in high school. Since arriving in Utah I have been impulsive and childish. I have unabashedly run through sprinklers while screaming at the top of my lungs, awoken my friends' neighbors, lain down in the middle of the street (yes a real street--very The Notebook), giggled uncontrollably on numerous occasions, shamelessly flirted, boy watched from my apartment window, and--yes--even sit next to cute boys at lunch just so I can talk to them.
In one episode of 21 Jump Street Johnny Depp's character, who is usually very mature and responsible, becomes just as crazy and impulsive as the teenagers that he associates with. I seem to be channeling this same inner crazy person. I am not like this. Wasn't I supposed to get this out of my system before starting college and being a responsible adult?
Well, whatever the circumstances, my cousin and I have pledged that we will embrace our inner teenager and be the wild teenagers now that we never were in high school.
This whole week has been a lesson in time management. They had booked us down to the minute and I felt like I had no time that was truly my own. So, now that I am free to do as I please...I will develop my own schedule. Why is it that I hate structure when it is thrust upon me, but I create my own structure when left to my own devices? Similarly, I will ensure that I have many social activities, designated times to eat, and a good amount of study time--just as they forced me to have previously. In case you can't tell, there is some bitterness. After all, we came early--clearly showing an interest in education--we want to be honors students, we have exemplary grades. We can handle ourselves.
It is interesting that I should talk about myself as if I am a completely mature college student. Ha! As a matter of fact, I have noticed that at times I am more of a teenager than I ever was in high school. Since arriving in Utah I have been impulsive and childish. I have unabashedly run through sprinklers while screaming at the top of my lungs, awoken my friends' neighbors, lain down in the middle of the street (yes a real street--very The Notebook), giggled uncontrollably on numerous occasions, shamelessly flirted, boy watched from my apartment window, and--yes--even sit next to cute boys at lunch just so I can talk to them.
In one episode of 21 Jump Street Johnny Depp's character, who is usually very mature and responsible, becomes just as crazy and impulsive as the teenagers that he associates with. I seem to be channeling this same inner crazy person. I am not like this. Wasn't I supposed to get this out of my system before starting college and being a responsible adult?
Well, whatever the circumstances, my cousin and I have pledged that we will embrace our inner teenager and be the wild teenagers now that we never were in high school.
"So It Begins"
Today I received a communication from my professor. An actual college professor! My Late Summer Honors class begins this Thursday and he has asked me to begin to prepare. I am going to prepare for an actual college class for which I will get actual college credit. Now, college credit is nothing new because of all my AP classes, but this is exciting on an entirely new level.
This class will take place for only one week, but it promises to be exciting. We will be examining the role of the American Journalist, particularly in film, as a muckraker, a villain, and a hero. I like journalism and I love film. It doesn't get much better.
But, if you'll excuse me I have to hear a discussion of the movie Citizen Kane (by the way: great movie. rent it immediately.) in preparation for my class. Wow. What an exciting sentence. I love being a college girl!
This class will take place for only one week, but it promises to be exciting. We will be examining the role of the American Journalist, particularly in film, as a muckraker, a villain, and a hero. I like journalism and I love film. It doesn't get much better.
But, if you'll excuse me I have to hear a discussion of the movie Citizen Kane (by the way: great movie. rent it immediately.) in preparation for my class. Wow. What an exciting sentence. I love being a college girl!
Maybe Trace Adkins Has It Right?
College is expensive. This is a well-known and undisputed fact. However, that knowledge does not make the spending of my hard earned money any easier. Today I bought some supplies for the kitchen in my apartment. Over $170! I didn't buy that many things I thought, and two thirds of them are under $10. I know that what I bought today are items that I will use for the rest of my life, like a salad spinner... but still!
Side note, when I was checking out at Bed, Bath, and Beyond the cashier asked if I had registered with them. I almost died. Was she implying that I was buying stuff for my first apartment after my marriage?!? I thought I was 18, not 28!
Every purchase I make now involves serious deliberation and thought. Even a gum purchase must be carefully mulled over: "Will I chew this flavor? How long will this pack last? Why do I even chew gum? Two bucks, what am I, made of money?" Clearly, I am well trained in how to make an educated purchase from a store. Further demonstrating my stinginess, I was genuinely excited to see that I received an income tax refund of two dollars! Yes! Score! This is sad. However, perhaps this severe frugality will eventually mellow and ensure that I live within my means.
To complicate matters, my entire income right now comes from 4.5 hours of work a week. Yeah, a week. Not a day. If there is a positive side to this fact, it has convinced me that whatever the sacrifice involved, college is worth it. I am not cut out for blue-collar work making minimum wage.
You know, when it comes to money issues I do have a back-up plan. "I'm gonna marry for money!" I have already been told where to hang out on campus if I want to get a date with a future lawyer, doctor, or business executive. I guess Trace Adkins did know what he was talking about when he wrote that song.
Side note, when I was checking out at Bed, Bath, and Beyond the cashier asked if I had registered with them. I almost died. Was she implying that I was buying stuff for my first apartment after my marriage?!? I thought I was 18, not 28!
Every purchase I make now involves serious deliberation and thought. Even a gum purchase must be carefully mulled over: "Will I chew this flavor? How long will this pack last? Why do I even chew gum? Two bucks, what am I, made of money?" Clearly, I am well trained in how to make an educated purchase from a store. Further demonstrating my stinginess, I was genuinely excited to see that I received an income tax refund of two dollars! Yes! Score! This is sad. However, perhaps this severe frugality will eventually mellow and ensure that I live within my means.
To complicate matters, my entire income right now comes from 4.5 hours of work a week. Yeah, a week. Not a day. If there is a positive side to this fact, it has convinced me that whatever the sacrifice involved, college is worth it. I am not cut out for blue-collar work making minimum wage.
You know, when it comes to money issues I do have a back-up plan. "I'm gonna marry for money!" I have already been told where to hang out on campus if I want to get a date with a future lawyer, doctor, or business executive. I guess Trace Adkins did know what he was talking about when he wrote that song.
The Beginning of the Next Four Years
One week. My college experience will start in seven days. This is both nerve-wracking and terribly exciting. It will all begin with my Late Summer Honors class and I will temporarily move into dorms before checking into the apartment-style on-campus housing I will be in for the semester.
There are a few things that will take getting used to. First of all, the word semester. It is not as if this is a new word, I have used it for years. But, never in quite the college context. Here it refers to a time period that classes will take place; it no longer marks the halfway point for the school year or for the duration of a particular class. Second, the purchasing of textbooks. I bought one of my textbooks while in high school, for an Advanced Placement class, but it was unheard of to shell out $215 at one time! Third, a flexible schedule. Rather than show up to a single school building in the morning and move through the halls and classes for several hours I will be moving between many buildings on a large campus, at many different points during the day. I will be working while people are in class; I will be in class while people are working. This is a drastically different situation from anything else I have experienced. Finally, living away from home. My school and my house are on opposite sides of the Continental Divide. For someone who is the dictionary definition of a home body, this will certainly take getting used to. Thank goodness this is a technological age where I have an e-mail address and a cell phone to remain in constant contact with my distant family.
As this summer draws to a close I make the final preparations for a new stage in life. My room is almost completely packed, I have scanned through the textbooks I will be using, my class schedule has been passed around to see if I will know anyone in my classes (the odds are slim on that), and I have started this blog to hopefully keep in contact with people who want to know how "that whole college thing" is going.
There are a few things that will take getting used to. First of all, the word semester. It is not as if this is a new word, I have used it for years. But, never in quite the college context. Here it refers to a time period that classes will take place; it no longer marks the halfway point for the school year or for the duration of a particular class. Second, the purchasing of textbooks. I bought one of my textbooks while in high school, for an Advanced Placement class, but it was unheard of to shell out $215 at one time! Third, a flexible schedule. Rather than show up to a single school building in the morning and move through the halls and classes for several hours I will be moving between many buildings on a large campus, at many different points during the day. I will be working while people are in class; I will be in class while people are working. This is a drastically different situation from anything else I have experienced. Finally, living away from home. My school and my house are on opposite sides of the Continental Divide. For someone who is the dictionary definition of a home body, this will certainly take getting used to. Thank goodness this is a technological age where I have an e-mail address and a cell phone to remain in constant contact with my distant family.
As this summer draws to a close I make the final preparations for a new stage in life. My room is almost completely packed, I have scanned through the textbooks I will be using, my class schedule has been passed around to see if I will know anyone in my classes (the odds are slim on that), and I have started this blog to hopefully keep in contact with people who want to know how "that whole college thing" is going.
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