The Good Wife

I received an email from a good friend. It was supposedly an article from Good Housekeeping Magazine from 1955 entitled "The Good Wife's Guide." While of questionable origin, it is interesting to reflect on. It was comprised of 18 bullet points, the main gist of each one being how to treat your man to keep him happy. We've come a long way since 1955. Some of those changes have been good, but in my opinion, not all.

GOOD CHANGES I almost have to laugh reading bullet #18, "A good wife always knows her place." Are we pack animals? I come in right after Larry? I could make some semi-nasty comments on "position," but I'll refrain here. My grandma used to say that the man is the head of the household, but his wife is the neck, and the neck turns the head. It's by no means an original, but leads me to believe that even in 1955, women had different ideas about their place.

Bullet #17: "Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him." Hello? I guess I'd be raving mad at this one also were I not busting a seam from laughter. When Larry was going back and forth with the grad school question, he always wanted my opinion. I never felt it was my place to give one because I was not the one having to attend school and do the work, and it was determining his profession, not mine. From Larry's point of view, although he is the one working, he's doing it on behalf of us as a couple and a family, and therefore didn't feel right about making that major a decision with out my input and mutual agreement. We have indeed come a long way.

UNFORTUNATE CHANGES If this were slightly altered, the same article could be called "The Good Spouse," and the information would be invaluable. I suppose it could be argued that it is precisely because if the one-sidedness of the suggestions that the article is shameful. I could see that point. I think as a society however, many of us try to drop the expectation on wives rather than extend it to husbands.

The end of bullet #6 reads, "After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction." Someone (not, I believe, my friend) had incredulously underlined this statement. But it is true. And unless you have married a total jerk, catering to his needs with be rewarded by his catering to yours. That, my friends, is the basis of a good marriage. If I do all I can to take good care of Larry and he does all he can to take good care of me, both of our needs are then met in a very unselfish, giving way.

Bullet #3 reads, "Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him, His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it." Guess what, my day needs a lift, too. If I am fun and interesting, Larry will be, too. I've heard it said that people who are bored are people who are boring. There is a lot of truth to that. I married my best friend for, among other reasons, companionship. If I am a lousy companion, what was the point?

Bullet #12: "Your goal: try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit." Wow. That should be the goal for the benefit of us all! Easy to manage? Uh--no. But a good goal none the less.

Bullet #8: "Be happy to see him." Do I even need to say "duh?"

I am sad that our world becomes increasingly unconcerned with manners and respect, with kindness and selflessness. I think of an extreme case of a miserable person I know who feels that he is never shown enough love. But it's because he doesn't know how to show love himself. He only looks at what he thinks he's not getting, never at what he's not giving. It's a pitiful situation. Many of us, I'm sure all of us at times, could do wonders to increase our happiness by looking outside of ourselves and giving more. The Savior said that those who lose themselves for his sake would find themselves. I think that general sentiment applies to Christians and non-Christians alike. There is great satisfaction to be had in being a good wife, husband, mother, father, friend, child, citizen of the world.

The Studio

I love art. I am relatively artistic. I have some talent. However, I lack discipline and focus. So I think it highly unlikely that I'll ever elevate myself to the category of "artist," a title I covet. And now that I live in a community brimming with true professional artists, my dream seems less attainable than ever. I would quickly be identified as a fraud.

When we moved to the mountains, I was fortunate enough to have a room assigned just to my junk and me. In our previous home, my "sewing room" was housed in half of our gargantuan master closet. Better than nothing, but it often spilled out into the master bath, much to the chagrin of my better half. In this home we have a whole extra bedroom, and since Larry has the office/recording studio downstairs, my sewing machine and fabrics, crafting and art supplies have been housed there for two years in varying stages of semi-organization and chaos.

With the bigger room, I inherited storage possession of our family photo albums and other memorabilia. This also became a waiting station--a place to put trash before I was really ready to part with it, give-away items on their way to the Help Center, and storage items which had as of yet no assigned location. There were empty boxes, half-finished projects, mending, Halloween costumes, plastic hangers, fabric scraps, pattern pieces, manzanita branches, wrapping paper, raffia, Christmas cards, school work, and as of last November, a beautiful sewing machine in a cabinet that had belonged to my great-grandmother sitting hidden by junk in the corner. "It's somewhere in the sewing room," became a common response in our home to the infamous "Where's the ______?" question.

Four events spurred me on to a cleaning and decorating spree. First, we visited my brother- and sister-in-law in Idaho. Not only is Kim more minimalist than I in her beautiful decorating, but she has been on an organizational binge herself lately. Their closets were gorgeous and I was inspired. Second, we came home and Larry went to work on his studio-office. It's not perfect, but it's looking pretty darn good and I was envious. Third, I made some note cards to sell in my mom's Holiday Shoppe here in town, and then I had vision. Because of the lack of any clear surface area at the moment in my sewing room, I'd made the art for the cards on my kitchen counter. At that moment my sewing room changed form in my mind, it was now an art studio.

Finally, Larry allocated a certain dollar amount to "home improvements," put me in charge, and I had funds. Larry requested only that I use some of the money to get window treatments for the solarium. This is important because during the winter the sun beats in and is fading our furniture. The most cost effective way to do this is for me to make custom roman shades, virtually impossible to accomplish without an accessible sewing space. So along with an order of 17 yards of home dec fabric for the shades, shelves and baskets and a table were purchased. Periwinkle paint I'd acquired over a year ago for this purpose was rolled onto the walls. Several trips were made to the dump. Et voila: functional studio, complete with two sewing machines and a serger.

Whenever I redo a room, even a bathroom, I want to spend all of my time there. This is no exception. I am ready to tackle all of my unfinished projects and start on new ones. It's exciting. Like Paul McCartney's girl and her driver, I have a studio, and that's a start.

I Love Lucy!

One of our neighbors has a license plate frame that reads, "A True Lucy Fan is Driving." This has taken on new meaning for me this past week. I get a smile on my face every time I pass that car on my morning walk with our newly acquired Golden Retriever, Lucy. Truly, I am a fan.

Lucy lived next door to Larry's parents up until August 1st, when she became a mountain dog. She's about 8 months old, so she still acts a little like a puppy, although she looks more like an adult. Lucy, however, is one of the calmer puppies I've met, at least now that she is getting used to lots of attention. She loves people, and every visitor to our home is a new friend. She is smart and eager to please, a great combination for behavior training.

Anyone who's owned a dog knows what an ego booster one can be. Lucy loves me. She loves the whole family, but it's been clear from day one that I am her main care giver, and I therefore instantly earned a special place in her heart. She follows me everywhere, lays on the floor beside me while I work, and gives me lots of kisses and paws and snuggles.

The kids all love Lucy, at least now that #1 and #4 are no longer afraid of her! Larry loves Lucy and will even comment unsolicited about what a good dog she really is. And I love Lucy, too.

Happy 24th!

Pioneer Day has always been a favorite of mine. This year I am feeling a little sad because we chose not to attend our stake Pioneer Day celebration. That decision was largely mine. I am tired of traveling, and hot as it has been up here, it is even hotter down in the valley.

For my non-LDS readers, Pioneer Day commemorates the day in 1847 when Brigham Young and the first group of Mormon pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley. Utah has a State holiday filled with parades and fairs and all sorts of events that I've never been to. Local church units tend to have their own celebrations as well and the ones I grew up with in the small Amherst Ward beat any big stake production I have been to out here.

I used to dress up in my Holly Hobbie bonnet and apron. We would gather in the church parking lot and eat pioneer food and have watermelon seed spitting contests and parades, complete with "ox"-drawn "covered wagons." We sang pioneer songs accompanied with an acoustic guitar and listened to Sister Tripp tell stories of her pioneer ancestors. Maybe it was because I was young, but these events always seemed authentic.

Celebrations in Southern California that I have been to feel more like county fairs. They are somehow less personal and a tad more modern. Still, they are a lot of fun to attend together, and my kids know nothing else. Every year I think that next July I'll make myself a pioneer dress and bonnet. Similarly, after each Halloween I vow that I'll make myself an Elizabeth Bennett costume for next. I tend to let myself down frequently.

This year I at least filled my Sabbath with a bit of celebrating at church. We had a newly-returned missionary speak in Sacrament meeting, but since I pick the hymns, we sang "Come, Come, Ye Saints" and "They, the Builders of the Nation."

Luckily, this was also my month to do Sharing Time with the kids. You can do a lot more with a Primary of 6 than of 75. So I brought "provisions" in a large basket and we set up "camp" on a quilt under a tree in front of the chapel. We ate dried apples and apricots and homemade Pioneer Hardtack, sometimes known as sea biscuits, which seems to me to be the grandfather of the Wheat Thin cracker. I told two Mary Fielding Smith Stories, illustrating how Heavenly Father heard and answered the prayers of the pioneers. Abbey had the talk, so I helped her tell the story of the Crickets and the Seagulls, which has also long been a favorite of mine. We sang "Whenever I Think about Pioneers."

It is always amazing to me to reflect on all of the sacrifice and tribulations that the early Saints endured voluntarily. I am thankful for men and women who "met the test" in a way that I am not convinced I could have done. I face adversity much better in a climate controlled environment. Because of their faithfulness and fortitude I can live the gospel in relative comfort. I certainly have many trials of my own, but my own desire to press on is strengthened by those who have pressed on before me. We are united through the generations by common faith and hope--by a common goal of salvation. Through their stories and examples they tell us all to take courage and face the world with a strong heart.



"Whenever I think about pioneers,
I think of brave women and men.
I like to remember that children came, too;
I would like to have been a child then.

"I would like to have sung with all the pioneers,
With their voices loud and strong.
'Hosanna, Hosanna, we've found our new home,'
Joy and thankfulness filling their song."

"Whenever I Think about Pioneers"
words by Della Dalby Provost
CS, p. 222

Back Home

Aren't vacations fun? I've always loved vacation. Traveling to different places, smelling different smells, seeing different landscapes. When I was little and living in Massachusetts, I just loved going to San Diego. There's nothing like getting off of the plane to palm trees and balmy sea air. My grandma's house smelled fresher to me, somehow, than anywhere else in the world. I miss that smell, and can never quite find its match anywhere else in the city.

We traveled up to Idaho this past week. We took the Suburban loaded with an atlas, duffel bags, DVD player, games, snacks, water, apple juice, coloring books and an iPod. We had dinner with friends in St. George, bought tee-shirts at BYU in Provo, and toured the Conference Center and Temple Square in Salt Lake. We saw the new Joseph Smith movie in the Legacy Theatre. We attended Sacrament Meeting with the Prophet and President Faust, and although we never saw them and didn't even realize it was their ward until after the fact, we stood and waited for them to exit the building before leaving the chapel.

We continued on to a small suburb of Boise where we stayed with Larry's brother Eric, his wife Kim and their 5 kids. The 13 of us then went up to McCall, in the nearby mountains, for a couple of days. The kids had a blast, and we grown-ups had a pretty good time ourselves. Back in Boise, #4 went shooting for the first time with Larry, Eric and Eric's #3. The girl cousins stayed home and made Buckeye Balls. Finally we stopped in Carson City on our way, but otherwise drove straight home.

On our trip we saw license plates from every state but West Virginia, Delaware, Rhode Island, and North and South Carolina, from 2 Canadian Provinces and the Federal Government. We passed by 11 LDS Temples, only unable to see 1 from the freeway and stopped at the St George and Salt Lake Temples. We saw 3 State Capitols. All this, and more, we did in just 8 days. Whew!

But now we're home. Laundry is almost done, and only Larry's bag is left unpacked. I'll likely tackle that while he's at work tomorrow. I've gotten groceries to last us until I do a big trip on Tuesday.

I often return home from a trip to a new place wishing I could move there. It's not that I hate where I live, but the grass is always greener where there are no responsibilities or routines. I'd love to be able to move to Idaho. That's not really an option, with the business. And it's nice to be here. We returned to heat and fires, but we also returned to the lady at the Post Office who overheard me ask for my mail and came over to see how the trip went. We came home to my mom and our hamster and my brother. We came home to a branch that drives me a little crazy, but is full of people I have come to love. We came home to messages from friends, a birthday party invitation for #3, and a plea to coach another team for AYSO. This hill provides a full, if not so green, life.

Yes, I always love a vacation. But it's always nice to be back home.

The Scent of a Campsite

Some of my memories from childhood seem to have a taste or smell associated with them that is entirely unrelated to anything I ate or sniffed at the time. There was a Golden Book I had that I can still "taste," that taste having to do with the texture of the illustrations and the mood it created in me. It would be impossible to define the flavor, but it's there in my mind very clearly.

One such set of memories involves Laurel Lake. This spring my dad showed me some pictures he'd taken there and I seemed to smell something besides trees and campfire smoke and water and sand. Every summer from the time I was about 8 years old I went camping there with my Dad for around two nights. We even had a favorite site that we managed to get most years. When we first started this tradition it was by design a very primitive experience. We slept in a small two-man tent and carefully selected perfect logs to serve as camp chairs. The sites came with a picnic table and fire pit.

As years passed (and perhaps as his body aged) my dad decided that the optimal circumstances for communing with nature were more luxurious. Comfy folding chairs started making appearances as well as pads for the sleeping bags, and toward the end we'd gotten a nice roomy dome tent that I could stand upright in and probably could have slept 4. This tent was particularly nice one year when it rained. Dad and I spent the day playing gin rummy inside, which took on a strangely sunny effect from the light colors of the fabrics. Dad always brought nice quality meats to fry and one year we found blueberries on a hike that we picked and put in our pancakes the next morning.

My dad also took my brother camping--separately though. Mostly I'd go first and help set up camp. But I think there were years that Dan had his turn and then I'd take down camp with my dad. These trips always involved finding fire wood, hiking around, and many walks and talks. We would go to the lake, as I remember, only in the evenings as part of a walk. (Many Saturdays during each summer were spent at the lake, swimming, and sunning, and trying to keep sand out of our tuna sandwiches.) I love walking and talking with my dad and have since I was very little. And I think this was my favorite part about these trips--a lot of time for talking.

One year though, in high school, I was NOT up for camping. I spent a bit of time as a teenager coming up with reasons to be angry at my dad. I can't recall if that was the reason I didn't want to go or if it was truly the camping itself. I didn't have the guts to say no, so I acted grumpy in protest. I also can't remember if I had helped to set up camp that year, but I think I had. We'd only been there a couple of hours when my dad turned to me and asked if I'd rather go shopping. I couldn't believe he was serious--but he was. We packed the car back up and went home. I think we did shop a little at the mall, but mostly we just spent the time together at his house. Even at the time I realized what a considerate and loving gesture this was and felt very thankful. Looking back, it means even more. It seems like the next year we didn't even try camping--we did something more urban for fun instead.

College makes you a little nostalgic sometimes, and coming home my freshman year we did the camping trip again. I knew it was probably going to be my last and I think it was the best because of that. There was nothing exciting or out of the ordinary. Just a lot of talking.

That kind of time with my dad just doesn't happen now. Not really because we don't go camping together anymore, but because we're rarely alone anymore for more than a few minutes here and there. I'd not change that--I want my kids to get to know their grandpa as well as possible--but sometime it would be nice to have a day for walks and talks. Living in the mountains, I've got a perfect setting for that. But maybe my dad would prefer I take him to the mall.

"Oh what do you do in the summertime. . ."

". . . when all the world is green? Do you march in parades, or drink lemonades, or count all the starts in the sky? Is that what you do? So do I."
CS, p. 245


Confession: I am more excited for summer break than my kids. As I type, they are finishing up their 10th to the last day of school. With 18 days to go, I made one of those paper chains that the kids often bring home in December to count down to Christmas. But instead of red and green construction paper, I used pink and yellow and orange, with red numbers. I enlisted the help of #2 and #3. #1 was not interested. I cut and they stapled and labeled numbers. It was quite fun, and this afternoon the chain will be half as long!

Second confession: I will be sadder for school to start back up at the end of August than my kids--even #2. The other three will likely be excited to get back! The last two weeks of summer break I will be trying my hardest to ignore the dreadful growing pit in my stomach and instead fully enjoy what's left of my vacation. I will try to balance doing lots of fun things with doing nothing at all, which is also fun.

Why do I love school breaks? Part of it is entirely about me. I tend to resist structure and routine. I prefer events and projects. I'm sure structure is good for me. But so is wheat bread, and most of the time I'd clearly rather have a donut. (Um, not that I do, but that would be my preference.) Summer is right up my alley. I get to have the chocolate glazed Krispy Kreme in my whole-grain filled life.

The other part of my love of summer is my kids. I love to have them home. I love to have that time to interact and learn together. We can have more moments like yesterday. #3 brought home some sunflower and corn seedlings that she'd grown at school. We planted them after lunch, which was fun in and of itself. Then I noticed a ladybug in the pine tree above our head. It's ladybug season and they are everywhere. I pointed it out to the kids then saw another. I counted 5. Then I counted 10. And suddenly they began to pop out all over. Little red bugs on green needles--hundreds of them, all the way up the tree. It felt like we'd entered a fairy land.

Maybe they'd been in the pines before, but I'd never noticed them. They are small and easy to miss. And yesterday, we saw magic in our front yard. So much of life is like that. So much of raising kids is like that. When I'm in a hurry and life is busy, I miss more of the magic and fun and beauty that is always there. But when there is time, when I'm relaxed, I see it. And my kids and I together have the opportunity to see it in the world around us.

This summer we will swim and hike. We will tie dye and knit and make ribbon barrettes. We'll play monster trucks and we'll read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We'll see sights along the road and we'll make ice cream on the back deck. And I'll try not to worry about what's getting done and what's not.

My little ladybugs will fly away before I know it. I want to enjoy them as much as I can.

Officially Over the Hill

Late last year the camera that I got as a High School graduation gift finally died. Instead of opening the battery compartment, I opened the film compartment and then the camera thought it was out of film, which sent it into a mechanical panic. I got the film out, but it will no longer accept new film, and makes lots of atrocious noises at me when I try.

So right now "our" camera is in reality #1's camera. It's a not-too-expensive digital number which is perfect for her and her photography penchant. It does the job, and she has no problem letting us use it whenever we want or need. On Saturday, Larry was looking for agreement from me on how convenient it's been to have use of it. First off, I'm not totally sold on digital. I guess I'm not used to it, or maybe I just need a better camera, but I did just fine with film, thanks. But that is really a whole other topic. The big complaint that I submitted to Larry (for I MUST have a complaint!) is that the camera doesn't zoom, and so to get a good close up picture, I need to be right on top of the subject. Besides this being a little uncomfortable and sometimes impossible, it throws off the center of the photo significantly, the lens being below the view finder.

As I was saying this, nine year old #2 picked up the camera and within seconds was showing me how to zoom. I'm quite sure she had not tried it before. I laughed an incredulous, slightly embarrassed laugh. Larry reassured me that it was just a sign of being old (a very reassuring fact, indeed). He said that when he was a kid he could easily and intuitively set up any electronics that his parents brought into the house, and knew exactly how to work every aspect of it. Now, at 35, he has to read the manuals. Technology, he claims, is only instinctive for a relatively short segment of life for most of the population. And this, coming from my computer nerd husband.

I suppose I am in good company, at least. I must admit, though, that I was never very good at figuring out technology. I did have an easier time learning it when I was younger. Currently I am proud of the fact that I can usually remember with out being shown how to turn off the auto flash on #1's camera. It's helpful that there is a little lightening bolt by the button and I only occasionally don't notice it. However I AM going to have to have #2 train me on the zoom feature again.

My Walker

You often hear stories about little kids who are surprised to see a school teacher out in public for the first time. Their whole idea of how life works is suddenly shattered. They'd only thought of teacher as being at school, teaching--not living an actual real life in the outside world that didn't include them. I had a similar experience today at the dump.

There is a little elderly man who we see walking up and down our street almost daily. Sometimes we see him several times daily. He has a dwarf-ish, squat face. He has a grey beard and shoulder length hair that hangs out of a tan ball cap in fair weather and a stocking cap when it's cold. He uses a hiking stick that almost comes to his shoulder. It's not purchased, I imagine he found it years ago when he first started this routine. We have seen him out walking at various times of day, and heading in either direction in many different locations on our 1.5 mile street. Though I'm not sure where he lives, I'd guess it's here. This is a nice street to hike--many people from the surrounding neighborhood use the route--but I've never seen this man on anywhere else.

We wave to him, and sometimes he'll wave back at Larry. At me he gives what I hope is a blank stare that only looks like a scowl because of his squat features. Whether I'm in a hurry and going 30 miles per hour, or taking it easy at under 20, he is startled the minute he is aware that a vehicle is approaching and jumps off the street onto either a curb or roadside dirt. He generally doesn't continue walking until our car has passed.

Today I saw him at the dump. He had his hat, but no walking stick, and without it, it took me several seconds to decide it was really him. He was putting recyclables into the bin, taking them out of a white Subaru wagon, which I must assume he can drive, along with an elderly lady with long grey hair, which I must assume is his wife. As I approached the bin with my bag of papers and cans, the woman made eye-contact and said hello. After that, her husband followed suit. I smiled and muttered hi. I have no idea if I was familiar to him out from behind my steering wheel. It was a surreal moment, if ever I've had one.

I realized that in my mind this man had become something a little non-human, like a small animal or a cartoon character. I'd come to think of him as having no other life than walking up and down my street, starting at passing cars. I thought of him as lonely, having no family or friends--or at least none who cares. I also imagined that he couldn't speak, and had no other capabilities or interests or responsibilities. He was just "the walker."

I feel a little silly. I'm certainly old enough to know that people have lives outside of our experiences with them. I also feel a little sad. I'd taken a small amount of possession of him, as if he were MY walker, mine to see and enjoy along with the lilacs and manzanita, along with the blue skies and snow-covered peaks. I fear when I see him next I'll be aware of his real life, aware that he is no more mine, perhaps a little less mine, than those lovely lilacs and beautiful skies.

But maybe if he knew, if he knew how much I love to see him walking, maybe he wouldn't mind the attachment. And maybe he'd consent to be, even just a little bit, mine.

Jagger on Gratitude

A mauve formica dinette with four velvety mauve chairs has become for me the symbol of all that I hate about my house. Paired with two green padded folding chairs, this constitutes our dining table. It was a much appreciated hand-me-down when we were newlyweds. Twelve plus years and four kids later, I no longer appreciate it, except for the fact that it is a flat surface on which to eat. There have been times when we have considered getting a new table and chairs, but something else always seemed more urgent. For example: "We have a place to eat, but we don't have a piano." Or: "We have a place to eat, but we don't have beds for the girls;" or ". . . living room furniture;" or ". . . a drum set."

The last house we lived in was a new construction. We bought it in the "stick" stage, and watched it develop into a beautiful home. New carpet, new appliances, bull-nosed corners, non-popcorn ceilings, new bathroom fixtures. Enormous master closet, Corian kitchen countertops, birch cabinetry, walk-in pantry. We had the interior professionally painted and custom wood blinds and plantation shutters installed before we moved in. We landscaped our back yard within a couple of months. Within two years I'd added my personal touches to about every room and the outcome was beautiful. I LOVED that house.

Then we decided it was time for a move. I don't regret that decision. We love it up here. Great school, great preschool, great community, great people, great Branch. The kids are thriving. It's beautiful. It's not crowded. It is where our family needs to be.

We now have a beautiful mountain home. Great views, great pool, great layout, great square footage, great wood ceilings. Most people visit for the first time and adore it. Most people from up here consider the home to be quite new, being built in the early 80's and added on to in the early 90's.

But often I just can't get past all of the flaws and the work that needs to be done. No baseboards, ugly old kitchen with drawer bottoms falling out, old dishwasher, brass fixtures and knobs, thrashed carpets, broken pool vacuum, broken spa heater, very weathered exterior wood, carpenter ants, outdated light fixtures and fans, breaking window blinds, broken fence gate, leaking windows, concrete work needs to be fixed, more fire abatement needed. Plus, #4 needs a big-boy bed, we need a computer desk, outdoor furniture, food storage freezer, better storage for my sewing and craft materials, roman shades for the solarium, and a bigger bike for #1. Neither list is entirely comprehensive. It's overwhelming and depressing.

Much as I love the Stones, "profound" is not generally how I would chose to describe them. There is one song, however, which will sometimes come to mind and truly change my outlook. I hope it's not sacrilegious to say that it effects me nearly as much as some scriptures that I hold dear. A prophet Mick is not, but for me these lyrics hit the mark: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime you might find you get what you need."

We do have a roof over our heads, food on our table, books on our shelves, and clothes in our closets. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ and the priesthood in our home. We have a husband and father who takes very seriously his roll as provider, and who is persistent and intelligent and honest enough to be successful. We have two working vehicles which can get us around these mountain roads, even when snow-covered. We have breathtaking nature all around us. We have family near-by. We have good friends who love us and help us out more than they even realize. We don't all have great health, but we function reasonably well most of the time and we are all 6 alive this morning.

I don't always get what I want. But I always have not only what I need, but more than I need. I am blessed. I need more often to be very thankful for all of those blessings.