The other Larry

I felt instantly at home during my second job interview at LDS Family Services that included one of our supervisors, Larry Lewis. He has a passion for his work, loves to engage and teach people, and has a very scintillating, colorful past which he remembers in amazingly vivid detail. Occasionally he will wander into the office and tell us stories about what he calls his "hippie days" of hitchhiking and asking existential questions about the meaning of life with friends and co-workers over the years. He was in one of these moods when he heard "Bridge Over Troubled Water" playing in the waiting room. After praising that song, he began to tell me what a prolific poet Paul Simon is, and how meaningful his songs have been to him over the years, especially "The Boxer"--which is one his favorites. Then he began to softly sing the song, word for word to me, sprinkling in little explanations after each stanza as I sat at my desk:

"I am just a poor boy 
Though my story's seldom told 
I have squandered my resistance 
For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises 
All lies and jests 
Still a man hears what he wants to hear 
And disregards the rest 

When I left my home and my family 
I was no more than a boy 
In the company of strangers 
In the quiet of the railway station running scared 
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters 
Where the ragged people go 
Looking for the places only they would know . . . 

His voice broke a bit, and tears came to his eyes. I was touched the sweetness and trust that he had to share this with me. It was a very intimate moment and the words stayed with me until I could listen to the song on the bus ride home. I have the feeling that there is a lot more to learn from Larry. In fact, that day I had a glimpse of the many ways that Larry Lewis reminds me of my own Dad--maybe enough that I could elaborate on in a future post. Although Dad is physically inaccessible to me now, he is ever present in my thoughts and throughout my day, thanks to Larry. 

Why Good Wife is so Good (In my opinion)

Intelligent, up-to-date legal cases like Facebook, Mt. Everest, Muslims, and pharmaceuticals.

Pulling away from a scene right before you think the characters might say one more thing.

Plots that involve past characters and clients, like Lemond Bishop, the divorce lawyer (what's up with all the candy bowls?), mommy lawyer, the gruff Mr. Stern, and the charming Mr. Canning played by Michael J. Fox.

Peter Florrick's "madame alexander doll" pouty mouth. And yet he still strikes me as a totally believable politician and husband.

Kalinda! Need I say more--we keep pulling the layers off of her personality. In a word: restraint.

Quirky music on occasion that makes you wonder where the plot is headed.

Writing that focuses on the issues the characters face, not the minutia. Often this has to be symbolic in the interest of time, but the execution works.

One of the most passionate, succinct love scenes on a T.V. drama fully clothed. Now that's a rare find. I haven't seen that kind of tension since Ethan Frome.

Here's to season three--good doesn't even begin to describe it!

Planting for Mom

All week I've been thinking about what I could do to celebrate my late Mom's birthday. She would have turned 69 today. And then it came to me: I decided to plant my fall bulbs with my daughter on Saturday. We had experienced a quick shift in the weather the two days before--about 35 degrees colder to be exact, accompanied by mountain snow and valley rain. So when the early afternoon skies looked stable, but cool, I called her out to help. We pushed aside the bark, seedum ground cover, and even a first few fall leaves to find the popsicle sticks that I'd used to mark the spots in May where I wanted to fill in some spots with pink and white daffodils, persian blue alliums, and vanilla cream tulips. There's something about tucking a dormant bulb deep into the ground that seems to nicely compliment our other autumnal activities and preparations for winter. I was probably nine or ten when Mom showed me how to drop them in on top of a spoonful of bone meal. Just as she did then, I'm sure I reaped more from the experience this weekend than my 14-year old, who seemed anxious to head back inside to sit in front of the fire. I can't wait to see them bloom next spring, and many more after that. Mom would be so pleased.

John Grubb

About six years ago, while airing my remodeling woes for the basement with a gym member, she suggested I call her father-in-law. He had the knack for construction work and did side jobs for friends and family. When he came over to see what we had in mind for updating the kitchen, we were surprised to find out that he was one of the three original builders who had constructed all of the homes in our late 1970's subdivision. He has been our go-to handyman for not only the kitchen remodel, but also sheetrock repair, pantry shelves, basement cabinet installation, living room fireplace/mantle including tile and hearth. Today he finished one more project to add to that list. Whenever we have him work on something for us, it's like having "Grandpa" here. He not only cares about the project, but he's wonderful and utilizing every last scrap of material. A week ago he proudly told me how the five or six small ends from the two by fours were the only waste. When we talk through the ideas we have about what might work, he never looks down his nose or makes me feel like I'm skimping--no project is too small or insignificant. As I look at all of the improvements that have made our home more livable and beautiful, I know that it wouldn't have happened without John Grubb.

Canning Season

We've been blessed this fall in two ways: first, with beautiful sunny days that barely touch 75 degrees in the early afternoon for the last two weeks, and secondly, with two trees brimming with Elberta peaches. Standing over the sink yesterday as I gently pulled the skins off of one immersed in an icy bath, I thought about how many years I have been "putting up peaches" (as they say here in Utah). My sisters will attest to the indelible memory we have of standing in the kitchen, the oscillating fan moving the unusually warm air for Rexburg, and each of us "manning" a station of the production line that my Mom had so skillfully contrived for us. She instructed us at every turn, including the careful placement of the rosy halves into the jar so the end result would be pleasing to the eye. My husband and I canned peaches at Wymount Terrace our first year of marriage--I was so eager to carry on this tradition. I know there were years after that when I had a baby in a  backpack or holding onto my legs as I finished filling the final quart jar to complete a batch. Is it worth it you ask? Who knows. This year, the satisfaction of preserving the fruit grown and picked from our very own trees is rewarding. The sweet smell of the syrup and steam from the canner will always remind me of Mom's home canning crusade.

No, I'm not smarter than a fifth-grader

This is the year that "homework help" shifts to "homework hell." Now that my youngest child is in fifth grade, the weekly creative writing prompts, scientific method, endless spelling exercises, order of operation, and interpretation of the constitution has me in way over my head. Was I conjecturing John Locke's writings in the fifth grade with Mrs. Bond? I highly doubt it. My memories include Mrs. Lewis's (our beloved a.m. teacher) "noun song" and the hepatitis scare, wherein I religiously washed my hands at the classroom sink while making up my own new ditty. I believe we--more aptly-- he, confronts a new juncture. This year I'm not determined to prove how much I know.