CLIFF TAYLOR - A TRUE GENTLE MAN

There was a blatant row of empty seats at one of my concerts last week. Since they were right up front, I could see them from the stage. Those up-close and personal seats usually go to the most faithful fans, and I wondered what family was missing. Libby told me it was the Taylor clan, Cliff and Bea and their daughter Jan and her family. 

“Jan texted and told me her dad wasn’t doing too well, so they wouldn’t make it,” Lib said.

Jan Taylor Clark is the type of person to let you know this so those seats could be used by someone else.

Seeing as I had all sorts of sentiment, because of the season we are in, and because of the reminiscent nature of my Christmas shows, my head went swirling in a dance of tenderness for Cliff and Bea. I texted Jan and told her how sorry I was to hear her dad was not well. It’s been decades of them being at this event, and I knew through my church calling that Cliff had lung cancer, so the thought pulled at my heart. I asked her if it would be helpful or harmful to have us come sing to Cliff and Bea in their home. It was Sunday, and there was no concert that night. Nurturing through song seemed a perfect thing to do on a day set aside for holy things. So our day of rest last week ended with a divine little gathering in Cliff and Bea Taylor’s living room. Hugging Bea close, she whispered in my ear, “Your mother sold us this house, you know.” 

“I know! And aren’t we all so grateful?”

My mother, twelve-years in Heaven now, was then  a very active real estate agent and found this spot in our own neighborhood for this wonderful couple thirty years ago.

Cliff tried to rise from his chair when I shifted over to him. I interceded and bent down to throw my arms around his neck.

How ya doing, Cliff?”

“Oh, I’m dyin’.”

We both giggled, that kind of giggle that comes in spite of the pit in the belly.

Dave and I spent less than an hour there, playing guitar and singing songs that they had missed the night before. I sat on the piano bench there in their elegant living room. The space spoke of the people, refined but accessible, and so full of love and good humor. Cliff and Bea sat in that circle with us. It reminded me of other holy circles. Their beautiful, devoted, faithful daughter Jan and her husband Steve right there with them, and then the next generation of Jan and Steve’s girls, and their husbands and children. There were stories, and laughter, and an abundance of reverence. Tears made their way down the grand-daughters’ tender cheeks. Little ones snuggled up to their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. I was conscious of the vast rippling circles of life as I sang.

At one point I reminded Cliff of the time he showed great love and tenderness for us by the gentle comfort her brought to our daughter Sarah when Dave’s mom died suddenly in a car accident. Helen, Dave’s mom, had dropped us at the airport in Michigan after a two week visit at her cottage on the lake. As we flew home she was in a car accident driving back to the cottage. I’ve always imagined her pausing on her way up to heaven, peeking in the airplane at her son and his kids, blowing us kisses as she passed. 

The loss to us was quick, and shocking, and tragic in the way it happened. There was serious grieving over here in the Connors house. That was on a Saturday. On Sunday evening there was a knock on our door. It was Cliff Taylor. He asked if Sarah was home.

“I just wondered,” he said to her, “if you’d like to take a little walk with me. She was thirteen years old and Cliff was her Sunday School teacher.

When Sarah got home, I asked her how their walk went. 

“He asked me to tell him about Grandma.” 

I drive through the streets of this blessedly familiar neighborhood and let my imagination recall all sorts of memories. I do this all the time. I call up old feelings when I do this, and it’s a sweet exercise. One of those images is of Cliff Taylor when he was younger than I am now, walking on a warm summer evening with a teenage girl, letting her recount the loveliness of her grandmother. Not many adults would put themselves in that risky situation to have an evening walk and conversation with a hormonally driven teenager who was in a family crisis.

Cliff, up until maybe a year ago, was our church membership clerk. He would walk the aisles of our chapel during Sacrament meeting, keeping count for church records. There was a gentle whisp of air that always brushed my cheek when he passed down the aisle, his clipboard in his hands, dressed in his well-made suit and crisp white shirt and tie. He was such a staple in my church experience that when his cancer pressed down on him and he had to stay home, church just plain felt different.

In spite of the fact that Cliff’s spirit was completely itself last Sunday night when we took some music to his little family, his body did not agree. Cliff took the mighty leap to Heaven in the early hours of Saturday morning.

I’m grateful it does not hurt for him to breathe anymore.

But I am indeed sorry for the rest of us. It feels impossible to imagine he is not here right now. And Bea will be so lost without him.

Cliff Taylor was warmth and light and intelligence and kindness in human form. He was a gift to humankind, and we who knew him have been blessed by his presence.

There are, less and less common these days, real honest to goodness gentlemen who enrich our world. And there are gentle men who touch our lives.

Cliiff Taylor was both.

Cliff's funeral services will be Thursday Dec 16, 11 am Somerset Chapel in Farmington UT. 

https://www.russonmortuary.com/obituaries/clifford-a-taylor/12548/

CORI'S THANKSGIVING CROCK POT STUFFING

This is a delicious light stuffing.

It's very late, Thanksgiving Eve-Eve (the night before the night before). I've just cut six large loaves of bread into little cubes and have left it out on my kitchen island to dry. In the morning I will stir it first thing, letting the wet under pieces air out in the Utah desert dryness. I can feel the gastronomical calculator revving up inside my head, thinking through the order of things in the next couple days as we prepare for our Thanksgiving feast.

Utah air is perfect for drying bread.

Tomorrow evening the kitchen island will be cleared of dried bread cubes and will instead be covered with rolling pins and pie dough.  There's a giddy anticipation rising up in me, thinking about all the aromas and sounds and people that will be filling this house in the next two days. I really should go to bed. But first, the recipe for Thanksgiving Stuffing that has evolved in my kitchen the last few decades. I use a crock pot because I prefer to slow roast my turkeys. giving a moist meat in the end. Low and slow is not well suited for stuffing inside a bird. Besides, it's part of the magic of the day to have the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on the TV, a blessed turkey in the oven, and delicious stuffing available for a sample at the lifting of the crockpot lid. This should be a light, delicious stuffing. If it's cooked too long, or too high, it will burn on the bottom. Keep an eye on it. Turn it off, then reheat it if it's done before the bird is.

CORI'S THANKSGIVING STUFFING in a CROCK POT

Prep Time - 25 minutes

Cook Time - 6-7 hours (on low)

INGREDIENTS:

1 c butter (salted)

1 large chopped onion (roughly 1 1/2 c)

2 c chopped celery

1/4 c chopped fresh parsley or 2 T dried

2 cans (8 oz) sliced or chopped water chestnuts

12 c dry bread cubes

1 tsp poultry seasoning

1 - 2 t dried sage (to taste)

1 - 2 t dried thyme (to taste)

1/4 t pepper

1 t salt

3 - 4 c chicken or turkey broth

2 beaten eggs

cooked turkey giblets, if desired

Either buy bread cubes already dried, or cut fresh loaves into 1- 2" cubes and let dry on countertop, over night and into the next day, stirring to let all surfaces of the bread dry out. Or bake on cookie sheets at 200 for about 20-30 minutes, stirring regularly as they dry out. You want dried bread so it can absorb all the yummy liquids you will be adding.

In a heavy skillet melt butter then add celery, onion and parsley. Stir and cook 3 - 5 minutes.

Put bread cubes into a large bowl and pour butter and vegetables over, tossing with a fork or your clean hands. Sprinkle in seasonings, including salt and pepper. 

Add water chestnuts and giblets and toss.

Mix beaten eggs into 1/2 cup broth. Pour slowly over bread mixture, tossing to incorporate evenly. Add additional broth, 1/3 cup at a time, until mixture is moist  and light. (I taste mine to see if the seasonings are right. I haven't died yet from tasting uncooked stuffing.) Mixture should not be wet, just moist.

Grease crock pot generously with butter. spoon stuffing lightly into crock pot. Cover and cook on low for around 6 or 7 hours. Add more broth, 1/3 cup at a time, if it seems too dry as its cooking. Do not overcook. 

DIXIE HILL'S BACK DOOR

I heard her before I saw her. She sat on the metal bleachers behind the home team dugout, calling out "Here we go, Casey!" Late, as usual, I took whatever space was left in the bleachers. It happened to be next to her. She sat alone. So did I. My little girls had scurried off to the playground near the ballpark. “One of these boys yours?” I asked, and she pointed to the red headed pitcher. Casey Hill. I remember thinking of the poem Casey at the Bat and how perfect that name was for a baseball player.

Her name was Dixie Hill, which suited her well. It takes an intrinsic thrust of the diaphragm to say her name. Her presence was powerful, from that first moment I met her. Kind of intimidating, to be honest. She seemed astute, confident, and friendly but not in need of friends. Both of our husbands were on the field, coaching the team of players that combined Farmington and Kaysville. The two towns‘ baseball leagues had been rivals, and this was a first attempt to combine the two. The fathers had enough forethought to consider bringing these boys together well before they would be playing in high school, so they could get to know each other, and build on each other’s strengths. The marriage of Kaysville and Farmington has been a blessing in our lives, because the families of these boys became our one familial team. After nearly a decade of hot summer days on hard metal bleachers, cheering for each other’s boys, you get to know the ins and outs of people.

Dixie was a force to be reckoned with. She was at the time on the School Board, and was well respected in the community as a leader and dependable representative. If I ever had a question about any civic matter, I could ask her and her husband Brent, and I knew I would get a straight answer. She was a liberated woman, in the purest sense of the word, and so refreshing to me in our community where “Zion” had a fairly benign white-bread connotation. I think we have progressed since then, but Dix… she was a woman before her time.

The first time I visited her home I had a rather abrupt pivot of thought. First, the place had a name. Because I am from Pennsylvania, I was familiar with old estates in the east that bore names, representing the personalities or the families of the landowners. Dixie and Brent’s place was named “Anne’s Rest”. Anne was Brent’s mom, who had previously passed away, and they named it in his mother’s honor. If I’m not mistaken, it is where Dixie nursed her until her death. The red brick house sat grandly on a corner lot on Angel Street in Kaysville UT, with enough breathing space between the outbuildings and an inviting porch in the front. Dixie Hill also had a back door that said, without words, you are welcome here. The driveway swept around the house, between the cattle barns and the fields. The lawn was immaculate, balanced with well-tended gardens and flowers. The fence held a series of American flag buntings, making the place magazine-spread worthy, and quite magical to the passing stranger and the friend alike. Red brick, against green fields bulging with rows of corn, made for an aesthetic that represented America at its finest.

Inside, there was a warmth and coziness that was stunning. I could sink into Dixie’s chairs, or couch, every day of my life and not have enough. Through the years I have spent random hours there, talking or sitting in silence, in a most unusual and peaceful way. That’s what stunned me, the first time I spent an afternoon there. How down to earth it was to be with this woman who could command respect and attention in echoing halls and meeting rooms. What some people did not know about her was how tender and delicate her heart could be, underneath that deep, commanding shell. I love her, deeply, for letting me in… to her home and her heart.

I remember when Dixie and Brent built the big red barn back behind their home. It was massive, and so lovely! It could house multiple cars, and farm machinery, and upstairs was a living space that became the hangout for our boys when they were in high school. I remember being a little jealous of that barn, because the boys had hung out in our basement before it was built, and afterwards I rarely saw them all together in our home. Those boys and their girls created many memories in that space, most of which belong to them alone. I am grateful that Dix had the foresight to build that space before our kids were grown and gone. Later, it became a place where her grown children could house their new families as they were starting out.

Dixie had impeccable taste! Once or twice movie production companies used their place for filming. I loved watching how they transformed one of the old barns into a movie set for an episode of Touched by an Angel. They used her living room and dining room as they were, because they were so authentically historic. She hired special wallpaper people from faraway places to come make their place just right. She had an ability to capture every detail and create a place that evokes certain feelings not found in most places. What made the place so evocative, however, was not the aesthetic as much as it was the spirit of the woman who created it. 

Dixie's Barn

Dixie put on a good solid front. She always looked put together, even when she hurt. And that was most of the time. She dealt with lupus, among other things, and her body, while we are grateful it was able to house her massive spirit, was often in turmoil. She didn’t see much value in complaining (like I do), so not a lot of people were aware of how taxing that had to be. She pushed through, making the people most precious to her feel loved and cherished. Her grandkids were her greatest treasures, after her own kids, and they knew it. She built a pool for them, and also for Cammie to use for her renowned swim school. The long swing hanging from the massive tree in the yard, and the trikes and rocking horses and other playthings witnessed her heart: “Come and be here, in this place, and make it feel like home.”  We once had dreams of doing a folk festival there, before life pulled our dreams out from under us and replaced them with other sweet realities.

Dixie's Treasures

Dixie almost singlehandedly nurtured her first grandchild, Emma into life. Emma had not been expected to live, and if she did survive, was not expected to live very long because of a major heart condition. Emma’s parents were thrust into serious adulthood early-on, and they are remarkable people, Casey and Kysha Hill. But Dixie’s arms held that girl and never let go. Emma is an adult now. She spent a good amount of time with her Grandma Dixie, and Grandma Dixie’s phone became the thread between Emma and me. She would text me, and we would chat with clicking fingers fairly often. Recently Emma got her own phone and began texting me. Last week she sent this text while I was shopping in Costco:

“Grandma Dixie is still in the hospital now.”

I tried texting Dixie to see what was up, but got no reply. So, I called Casey. The next week was filled with the zig-zag stitching of hope and sorrow, the kind of stitching a heart needs to hold together in trying times. Dixie’s stubborn nature worked for her, and against her. Or maybe we are giving that thought more credit than it actually deserves. Dixie believed she would die the same way her father had, from a lung disorder that was genetic in nature. 

“I won’t hang on as long as he did.” She told me.

Whether it was her stubborn determined will that made it happen, or whether it was the Lord whispering to her that it was to be, and she let the Lord prevail, I guess it doesn’t matter, because either way, Dixie Hill ended up going back to the Lord she loved. It left us stunned and reeling. How can the world spin without losing its balance, with such a loss?  I believe it may take a while for the reality to settle in.

When someone we love passes, we are compelled to pause from life as we know it. That’s a good thing. We should pause, out of reverence if nothing else. We stop and remember, pulling up images and moments that need to be recited over again so they can me imprinted on our hearts as well as our minds. In one tear-stained afternoon I am on a metal bleacher with that deep throated woman cheering for her boy, and I am in a downy soft chair in the sitting room of her house, then on a woven chair beside her pool, and in every place we are sharing each other’s hearts. We are on the phone, reconnecting after a year or two of busyness. Then I am walking beside her along the paved lane outside her home, and a cool autumn breeze is causing her to pull her sweater in around her heart. I am with her over and over again, in my memory, and God willing, I will be with her in the not-too-distant future when she opens the back door to Heaven and says, “Hello my friend, come on in.”

https://www.lindquistmortuary.com/obituary/Dixie-Hill

HIGH FIVE, MARLENE YATES

It’s a sacred irony that when an old friend dies part of you is born again. From the deep end of the brain-pool, bubbles of memory start rising; some big round  pockets of shared experience gurgle up, and others rise like tiny sparkly trails that follow each other to the surface. They are strangely pristine even in murky waters of an aging brain. Life relived.

Marlene Yates and a couple of her finest treasures.

I have been, for the last few days, jumping into the figurative pool with my old friend, Marlene. I’ll be grinding away at my daily chores when all of a sudden I am with Marlene, and we are both young with babies on our hips watching sack races at the Somerset Park. Then an hour later, when I am washing the dishes, we are mothers of missionaries having a heart-to-heart over the phone about how to reconcile our faith with our doubts. I look at the red milk box on my front porch and remember the four pounds of fudge she ordered for my grandson’s fundraiser. Marlene and I have been reconnecting for three days now.

Sunday morning, I was standing at my kitchen sink when I noticed flashing lights through the window. Down the road, in front of the Yates’ house, police cars and an ambulance clustered in the street. I could see the kid who used to be Trey walking back and forth. He’s a full-grown man now, with a Yates kid of his own. I called Marlene to see what was up.

No answer.

I texted another neighbor, who is president of our church women’s group. Minutes later the bishop called me back. 

“Cori, it’s Dave Cowley. I’m with Susan at the Yates’. Marlene passed this morning.”

Condensing such a monumental thing into one simple sentence: “Marlene passed this morning” feels… I don’t know… kind of irreverent. Kind of sterile. And completely accurate. I mean, what else do you say? The boiled down, condensed truth is that Marlene passed this morning.

The wholeness of it, though, starts opening up, like the Chinese birthday candle I bought once. It came in what looked like a closed rose bud with a firecracker wick poking out the top. When we lit it, the thing opened up like a flower, each petal holding a candle that burst one by one into flame. Underneath all of it Happy Birthday to You played endlessly from an electronic chip. I am recognizing the depth and brilliance of a long-lived friendship.

The Marlene and Kevin
we first met.

I’ve known Marlene since before she had kids, and before my last two were born. We’ve both cursed our blasted weight, and celebrated our semi-rebellious spirits. We served together for 5 years in our church’s Stake Young Women’s presidency. She taught Primary kids and I led them in music time. I know her laughter. I would know she was in the gym, among a crowd of people, because I could recognize her laughter. Real friends know each other this way.

Marlene was a seeker of light. She understood the power of light, as well as the power of darkness. She sought light. Because of some things that had happened in her past, she needed light, the kind that Jesus gives, to make her feel safe. In the last number of years she immersed herself in scripture, even engaging a group of people on social media specifically gathered to discuss scripture, especially the Book of Mormon.  She was a true disciple in her heart and her actions. She was not necessarily typical, and that in itself is refreshing to me. And so beautifully honest.

Marlene's prized posession- her great-grandmother's scriptures. 

I told Marlene once about my friend Sarah, who came in late to church one day. As she squeezed past the people already seated in the pew, they each raised their hand in front of her. She slapped each hand, thinking they were giving her a friendly high-five. When she sat down, the man at the pulpit asked “Any opposed?” It seems Sarah had perceived the hands raised in support of people being called to specific jobs in our church were an invitation for a high-five slap. Truth is, I think that’s exactly how we should sustain each other. “You’re willing to teach the three-year old’s every Sunday? High five to you! I will totally support you in that!” Marlene loved that thought. We told each other we would always support each other in our discipleship with Christ. From then on, every time Marlene and I saw each other, we gave each other a big high-five. If one of us drove past the other, we raised the palm of our hand to the other. In comments on social media we left the high-five emoji. I knew 100% that she supported me. She supported my kids, and my sisters, and Dave. And I did the same for her. I adore her boys, and love Kevin. I raise my hand to Kevin’s amazing artwork, and his friendly and sometimes quiet demeanor, and his stellar sense of humor. I recognize that we all get to pick the road we are taking Home. So did Marlene. And no doubt she still does. She allows people to be who they are.

We are not sure, at this point, what it was that took her from us so unexpectedly.She had had a cough, but had tested negative for Covid twice and was fully vaccinated.But the danged cough persisted, until Sunday morning when she told Kevin she really was not feeling well and maybe they should call 911. Minutes later she collapsed.Trey did chest compressions. Riley tried to breathe life back into her.In the end, she died in the arms of her son. A hundred years from now, when we are all dead and this stuff doesn't do us in like it does now, we will smile and remark how lovely it was that Marlene died in her beloved child's arms, with her firstborn's lips against hers.

Right now, though, this still stings. Our mortality still owns us. We've nurtured fight or flight for so long that the thought of surrender is hard to process.But I am fairly confident that, because she studied her God with such intent, Marlene is pretty content with how it rolled out for her. And, frankly, we should be, too.

You did it, Marlene! You did the thing that scares all of us. You jumped off the highest diving board and took the eternal plunge.

High-five, old friend

Funeral services will be held Friday, September 24, 2021, at 2:00 p.m. at Lindquist Layton Mortuary, 1867 No. Fairfield Rd., Layton Utah. Friends may visit with family Thursday from 6:00 to 8:00 p.m. and Friday 12:30 to 1:30 p.m. at the mortuary.

View her obituary HERE.

FEED THE 5,000 PASTA SALAD

	A favorite for showers and large gatherings. FEED THE 5000 PASTA SALAD   3 - 8 oz. pkgs. of large "sea shell" pasta OR about 24 oz. of large "shel-roni" pasta 1/4 c. chopped green onion 1 small can water chestnuts, drained 6 c. cooked and cubed chicken breast 2 c. chopped celery 2 large cans crushed pineapple, drain juice and reserve in a separate bowl 2 c. diced red apples (soak apples in reserved pineapple juice for a few minutes, then drain - to help avoid browning) 2 c. red grapes, halved 1/2 c. cashews salt and pepper to taste
Directions:	Cook pasta in a large pot of boiling water until slightly tender. Drain water and cool pasta. Put in large mixing bowl and add remaining ingredients. Dressing: 1 c. mayonnaise 1 - 8 oz. bottle of Kraft coleslaw dressing   (OR make this recipe: 2 c mayo, ¼ c cider vinegar, ¼ c sugar. Add ½ t celery seed if you have it. Mix well) Mix together and serve. After a day or so, add more dressing to moisten it up a bit.

 

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING!

Yesterday we held our first in-person Relief Society meeting since the Covid 19 Pandemic shut down our church gatherings 14 months ago. Last Spring, when David began holding court in our home instead of the state courthouse where he sits as a District Court judge, I spent most days in the garage making a pile of sawdust with my pandemic project: wooden Sacrament sets. I estimate I drilled thousands of 1” holes into small plaques of wood, sanding and staining and lacquering and painting. Because the people of our religious faith could no longer meet to partake of the holy Sacrament each week, we were encouraged to perform this ordinance in our own homes. The first time David knelt in our family room and blessed the Sacrament we used paper cups and a salad plate. It’s a whole other story how our simple little wooden Sacrament sets came to be, but the process of making them became a divine diversion for me as I reeled from the effects of this pandemic.

One day, a year ago this month, our friend Paul came down the street for a visit. This was unusual, because, you know, we weren’t interacting with other humans very much at that point. Paul is Dave’s golf buddy, so I didn’t think much about the fact that he is also the bishop of our congregation. Bishop Paul had come to ask if I would be willing to serve as Relief Society president in our ward. Thus began my journey into intimate, creative service during a crazy historic period in the modern history of our world. It has taken deep diving into murky waters to figure out how to serve well when we cannot meet. I have left dinners on doorsteps more times than I can count, and held heart-to-hearts through text and over the phone. The word Zoom has taken on a whole new meaning. My first week as president we had a death in the ward. Instead of providing lunch for the grieving family, we made 80 boxed lunches. The birthday gifts we left on the porches of our church sisters consisted of a fabric mask and a bottle of sanitizer. What a ridiculously unprecedented year it’s been.

So yesterday we met in the Relief Society room at church. My counselors and I sanitized before the meeting, and my secretary Bonnie set up the computer technology so we could broadcast the lesson to sisters who could not attend. 

I stood in the front to conduct the meeting, wishing all the women a blessed Mother’s Day, sharing a few announcements, and introducing our presidency (who had been serving for a year, mind you) and our new teacher. I told the sisters I had really no idea what I was doing, and I hoped they would tolerate as I learn. “The last time I was RS president was in the jail,” I told them. And that was perfect for me, because I was drastically limited in what I could do for and with my sisters. Really, I felt sort of like a fish flopping about on dry land.

Linda Bailey taught a great lesson on spiritual unity. It was super sweet to interact without raising our virtual Zoom hands. Nola Freeman told a story about her grandson at one point, and the image has been replaying in my head ever since. She said she and Dal sat on the sidelines of a soccer field with their grandson’s parents, cheering on their five-year-old boy. They watched as every kid on the field shifted to wherever the ball went, like those little metal shavings in the Wooly Willy magnetic board I used to play with as a child. At one point Nola’s grandson ran over to the sidelines in front of his grandparents, threw out his arms and yelled “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING!”

Don’t you just love that image? Seriously, if that’s not you these days, then you’re living in denial. Either that, or you’re not doing anything.

As I was sitting there enjoying Linda’s lesson, I remembered I forgot to get the closing prayer. I leaned over to my first counselor Erin, who totally gets me, and she nodded. Then Linda asked what time the meeting was supposed to end. “Uh,” I said, “I have no idea. I’ll text the bishop.” I forgot all sorts of stuff yesterday. And knowing myself, I’ll do the same next time. 

Here’s the thing about deciding to participate whole-heartedly in a lay ministry. We are all hacks. We don’t go to four years of Divinity school. I figure the best way to deal with my slide down the learning curve is to run over to the sidelines, throw out my arms and proclaim: “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING.” Maybe they’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, get a good giggle, and realize the underlying force in all of it is love.

After church, I got the following message on my phone. It was from one of our sisters who lives in our ward now, but she was also one of my sisters in the jail when I served there. She and her husband were both serving time together. They have since both become clean and sober, have embraced their Lord and each other, and represent the beauty of what the Gospel of Truth can do for us mortals. She is candid about her life and openly shares her experience, which is a blessing to all of us. Her words to me were like Heavenly Mother was blowing me a kiss on Mother's Day.

MY MOM, THE LEARNER

When I was a young self-absorbed adolescent, I recall my sister Ann Marie sitting with our mom in our apartment in Pittsburgh. Dad had left for good, and we had moved from the home we rented on Old Clairton Road down to the apartment building on East Bruceton. During the day Mom worked at various jobs to pay the rent, but at night my sister, ever dutiful and selfless, sat with our mother and studied. If I ever thought about it I would have presumed Mom was helping Ann Marie, though AM was not usually one to need help with schoolwork. What was actually happening was my sister, 18 months older than me, was tutoring our mother.
Mom’s mom had died when she was young, leaving her adolescent daughter to move from place to place, living with older siblings until she dropped out of school, married at seventeen and finally had a place to call her own. Seven children later and left to fend for herself again, only this time with a brood of little chicks in tow, she set to work earning meager wages. I was oblivious to pretty much everything but my own tiny world, but when Dad and any support from him was gone, Mom decided it was time to get her high school GED. Ann Marie sat with her nightly, helping her study English and history. Our brother George pitched in as well, tutoring her in science and math. You would think that a family, wounded and inward facing, would have some sort of celebration when the mail brought the results of her test back to her, but I don’t even remember hearing about it. Mom tucked her accomplishment under her belt and went back to work, with a breath of confidence pumped into her chest. Eventually mom earned her Graduate Realtors degree and became a top selling agent in the Pittsburgh region. She provided well for all of us after our father abandoned ship, but also taught us to be responsible for ourselves.
Mom had a dream of being a lawyer. She had the intelligence and the mindset, that way of analyzing thought that I understand now as perfectly suited for interpreting law. If she were to have had the same circumstances today, where support and encouragement for the education of single mothers is available, I have no doubt she would have died with additional initials after her name.
While I did not grow up in a home where she was constantly asking if my homework was finished, there was always an underlying current that knowledge was power, and we were stewards over ourselves. She let it be known that education was the great Facilitator.
We have a blurry little polaroid photo from the day when Mom had flown from Pittsburgh to Utah for our BYU graduation events. In the photo mom is standing with her graduate kids on the lawn outside the Marriot Center at BYU. Dave had earned his Juris Doctorate from the law school, Ann Marie had earned her Masters in Audiology, George had earned his Bachelors in Chemical Engineering and I had earned my Associates in Communication. I had hand stitched a tiny black robe and hat for our new baby, John, so he could match his parents. Mom stood in the center of us all, a spark of color amid a sea of black. I think this was a button popping moment for our mom, though she didn’t make a boisterous fuss about it. Instead, it was one of those “of course” moments, where she was proud, but not surprised.
This week is National Educators Appreciation week. I appreciate these public reminders to pause and think about the effects of various influencers in our lives. I think this week about my own teachers, and those who educated and nurtured my children, and now my grandchildren. I allow myself to ponder who I might be if I had had no one besides my own family educate me. I am indebted to all my advisors and teachers who gave me a broad sweeping look at the world and beyond.
Every one of my mother’s living grandchildren has a college degree. Every one. Mom would be thrilled by that. Not that she doesn’t understand the value of the school-of-life as opposed to formal education. She would just be pleased that her descendants walk the walk of those who value education.
In my morning ponderings today I thought of my own kids and realized, probably for the first time, that all of them are not only educated, they are educators themselves. Yes, they teach and nurture and train in informal ways, but they have also made the decision to enter the system our communities have set up to nurture and train all of society.
John is an adjunct professor at the BYU Marriot School where he teaches and mentors in Event Management.
Sarah, as a Pediatrician with the University of Utah, mentors through the U of U School of Medicine, teaching residents one-on-one.
Kate, while currently earning her doctoral degree, teaches for Brock University in Ontario Canada. She began a teaching career with Teach for America. She taught and mentored underprivileged adolescents in Houston Texas for years before beginning her doctoral studies.
Annie, with her Masters in Speech Language Pathology, is masterful at teaching young children from elementary through high school how to find their words.
And my daughter- in-love, Ashley, married to John, is earning her master’s degree in youth counseling while teaching second grade at the elementary school our own children attended years ago.
There you go, Mom. Your kids value learning. These are the kids you used to pay to memorize poetry. They honor you with their lives.
Here’s to the teachers and the learners: those who emit and those who absorb. We are all both.

Last week we visited our Kate in New York, where she lives while earning her doctorate just over the border in Canada (when the borders are not closed due to a pandemic!) While unpacking when we arrived, I shook out Dave's judicial robe to hang in the closet. Because court is held virtually these days, Dave is able to work remotely. Kate's desk became Dave's courtroom while we were there. When I was hanging his robe I noticed the tag, just below where they had stitched his initials, had a label indicating "Academic Choir Apparel". Dave's still into black graduation gowns.

GERMANS CHOCOLATE CAKE

GERMANS CHOCOLATE CAKE

 

1 pkg (4 oz) Baker’s Germans Sweet Chocolate 

 

1/2 cup water

 

4 eggs, separated

 

2 cups flour

 

1 tsp. baking soda

 

1/4 tsp. salt

 

1 cup butter, softened

 

2 cups sugar

 

1 tsp. vanilla

 

1 cup buttermilk

 

1 recipe Frosting

 

1. Heat oven to 350°F.

2.Cover bottoms of 3 (9-inch) round pans with parchment; spray sides with cooking spray. Microwave chocolate and water in large microwaveable bowl on HIGH 1-1/2 to 2 min. or until chocolate is almost melted, stirring after 1 min. Stir until chocolate is completely melted.

3.Beat egg whites in small bowl with mixer on high speed until stiff peaks form; set aside. Combine flour, baking soda and salt. Beat butter and sugar in large bowl with mixer until light and fluffy. Add egg yolks, 1 at a time, beating well after each. Blend in melted chocolate and vanilla. Add flour mixture alternately with buttermilk, beating until well blended after each addition.

4. Add egg whites; stir gently until well blended. Pour into prepared pans.

5. Bake 30 min. or until toothpick inserted in centers comes out clean. Immediately run small spatula around cakes in pans. Cool cakes in pans 15 min. Remove from pans to wire racks; cool completely.

 

Frosting:

4 egg yolks

 

1 can (12 oz.) evaporated milk

 

1-1/2 cups sugar

 

3/4 cup butter, cut into small pieces

 

2-2/3 cups (about ½ 14 oz pkg) flake coconut

 

1-1/2 cups chopped pecans

 

1-1/2 tsp. vanilla

 

1.Whisk egg yolks and milk in large saucepan until blended. 

2.Add sugar and butter, cook, stirring constantly over medium heat 12 minutes until thickened and golden brown. Remove from heat.

3.Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Frost between layers and on top only.

 

REFLECTORS

“Holy Toledo, that’s an awful lot of reflectors!” I commented to Dave as we drove in the wet, dark night through a curve in the road. We were in New York, far from our Utah home, and the road was unfamiliar.

“And it’s a good thing they’re there,” Dave responded as he slowed the car, easing us through a particularly twisted thread of asphalt.  I was reminded how grateful I was that our car had headlights, and that someone had protected us by placing so many posts that reflected the light.

New York was home to us when we were young marrieds. We lived here forty years ago. Our second baby, Sarah, was born here. Dave served as a clerk for a Federal Second Circuit Court Judge. After his clerkship he took a position with a law firm in Pittsburgh, where we were both raised, and we settled into life in the city where we had grown up. We were busy and happy, raising our little kids, establishing ourselves in a new home, and serving in the church. We had moved back to the ward I had grown up in. My dearest new friends were the three sisters who served in the Primary presidency with me. Jackie, our secretary, was a recent convert. While we were gone for two weeks on summer vacation, Jackie and her husband made the sudden decision to leave the church. I came home to the shocking news, and asked her what had turned their hearts and minds. Her testimony was so young and green, barely sprouting, and the anti-Mormon literature some of their family had given them was too much for their tender faith. Hoping I could explain to her how they had to have been mistaken, I asked if she would share some of her biggest misgivings with me. I was 22 years old and probably overly-confident in my faith.

These were the olden days, before the internet, even before word processing. Jackie gave me photocopied papers. I remember sitting at my kitchen table when the kids were down for a nap, mid-afternoon in Pittsburgh. The first few paragraphs went right along with gospel truth. “Sounds right,” I thought. And I read on. But one word, one phrase, one little tiny twist took that solid truth and veered slightly off the road. I felt my heart start to pound. I continued reading, feeling a discomfort that turned into what felt like a mini-heartbreak. It read right. It sounded correct. But it felt terrible. I noticed my breathing was labored, and tears started falling from the corners of my eyes as I read. A panic rose in me, a physical panic. I picked up the phone and called Dave at work. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worried that something had happened to someone in the family. 

“I’m reading about the temple and it sounds so real and correct and I think it’s exactly what we do but ….” I paused, unable to express myself coherently.

“Cori”, Dave said calmly. (He’s good at calm.) “Put down the papers.” 

I did so, releasing the physical words from my hands. They sat on the kitchen table, looking so innocent, but blazing with heat at the same time.

Dave, there and then, testified over the phone that the Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ was living truth, and he had faith in its precepts, including the holy ordinances performed in the temple. His words comforted me, like the hands of my mother did patting my back as a child. 

When I had caught my breath I told him I felt the same. He suggested I take the papers and tear them up and dispose of them in the garbage. I did so, then knelt on the kitchen floor and prayed with my husband over the phone.

Instinctively, I made my way upstairs and kissed my sleeping babies, whispering a little prayer over both of them that the forces of evil would never find them. It was an innocent wish of an inexperienced mother.

I know now that evil is inevitably in our path. It is a given, in this mortal state. It is we who need to steer ourselves away from them. 

There have been numerous times in my decades of living where I have found myself travelling the road of doubt and uncertainty. Other times I have felt so sure of my faith that I thought nothing could possibly shake it. I want faith as firm as the mountains, but I tend to slip and slide up and down the foothills in my quest for the mountain. Thinking back on that pivotal day when I picked up a piece of literature that rocked my world in a negative way, I think I learned at that early age to keep myself off the road that leads to places I’m not sure are real. They may seem appealing, even hip, but that place in me that senses peace and tranquility needs truth…real truth, the kind that surpasses understanding. 

I am reminded that I am the one who steers , though I don’t always have control over the road. When I find myself on a road that seems dark and unfamiliar, even risky or dangerous, I must look for reflectors to keep me on the path. If I am struggling with my testimony, surrounding myself with unbelievers is not going to reflect the light I need. I need believers in my life. I need my faithful friends. I need those in my family who also believe. I need my sisters who “get me”, who know the way I think, and who will protect me not only from forces that would have me veer off course, but they will also protect me from my weakest most vulnerable self.

If you find yourself on a dark road, look for reflectors of light. 

If you are firmly planted in your faith right now, then be one who reflects the light.

We are, all of us, just trying to make our way back Home.

FARMINGTON EAST WINDS

We moved from Pittsburgh PA to Farmington Utah well over three decades ago. That first year here my mother-in-law called from Pittsburgh to make sure we had made the right decision. Unseasonably high temperatures had caused a massive early spring runoff of melted snow from the mountains that hover to the east of us. Homes in our sweet little town were completely buried in mud from saturated earth that slid down the foothills east of Farmington. It made national headlines. Our community came together to fill sandbags and line the streets, hoping to direct the water descending from the mountains through the paved roads and away from homes. State Street in Salt Lake City, just a few miles south of us, became a river. People travelled in canoes for sport. 

A few weeks before the mudslides we had our first personal experience with the famous Farmington East Wind. It came whipping over the foothills and swirled like weightless water over everything in its path. It screamed through the doorjambs and bent the plate of glass in our family room window. The sound was unrelenting and frightening. I stood a safe distance from that glass in our new home and watched a section of our neighbor’s fence fly by. We were in Oz. The power was out for three full days. We kept the fireplace aflame until it was no longer practical, and the babies were shivering in our laps as we huddled in the dark, then we drove to South Jordan and stayed with my Aunt Edna until the power returned. I remember driving back home and looking out the car window at the devastation that a little moving air and flowing water can bring to a sleepy little town. 

That next day people came out of their houses, walked the perimeter of their property, conferred with their neighbors, then went back inside. Within half an hour the whole neighborhood was abuzz with chainsaws and hatchets and hammers, neighbors coming together to chop up felled trees and retrieve scattered fences. It was quite remarkable, and truly touching to watch the united effort of many hands strategically working their way through our community. There was not one single house that was not included in this spontaneous united effort to pick up the broken pieces. 

The Farmington East Wind has become an old familiar friend to me now. The red door of our side porch should probably have its rubber weatherstrip replaced. When the east wind blows, it whistles through the crevices in that door. There is a unique harmony in the wind working its way through a crack. Listen closely. There are usually a couple notes placed in an unexpected way against each other, coming in slurred crescendo and decrescendo. The wind is a patron of the arts, making musical vibrations for our ears, and causing the grasses and three branches to dance with all sorts of passion. There is a funny little sense of gratitude and sweetness that comes to me when I hear that red door give me a song. I am reminded that my home is safe. The foundation is solid, and the bricks stand firm, forcing the wind to just move on around us. 

At 4 o’clock this morning a robotic voice came blasting from my cell phone “A high wind warning has been issued for your area,” it said. I groaned and rolled over. I realized, even in my half-awake state, that my ability to roll over was something the early settlers of Farmington never had the privilege of doing. They wet pieces of cloth and worked them into the cracks of their doors, saving themselves and their children from the snow that tried to push through. They pressed their bodies into the wind, locking down livestock and tying down machinery. They watched their crops disappear, the blossoms of their apricot trees float out to the west over the Great Salt Lake. 

A friend who has studied Farmington history told me about the Latter-day Saint pioneers that settled Farmington. They could not afford materials for an addition to their small rock chapel. They fasted and prayed as a community, hoping to be able to find work or benefactors who would help. Instead, they got a storm. A mighty East wind, and a massive mudslide. When the wind and the rumble were over, they discovered that the mudslide had brought large trees and rocks down from the mountains. They landed right behind their little church. Lumber and stone. A gift from the Divine Giver. They built the addition to their church. The very first LDS Primary would be held in that chapel. Our daughter and her family now attend church in that very chapel. And it is in that chapel that we sang our last farewell to our mother at her funeral services. We walked behind her horse drawn hearse from that rock chapel to the Farmington Cemetery.

My friend Bernice Smith told me that the hill that houses the remains of good old Farmington folk used to be known as Sage Brush Hill. In the early days, when the Latter-day settlers were first establishing communities around the Great Salt Lake, a young man and his wife and new baby were hired to keep an eye out for native Americans who travelled through between Ogden and Salt Lake City. The fellow would light a fire on Sage Brush Hill and the smoke would signal people in Salt Lake to be aware. 

The young couple harvested peaches from the trees planted along the fruit belt in Davis County. From that they made peach jam, which they sold at market in Salt Lake. The husband took off one October day for the 40-mile journey to sell their jam. It was a three-day venture. His wife and new baby stayed home in their tiny cabin at the bottom of Sage Brush Hill. While he was gone a fierce East wind came howling down the canyon, accompanied by an early snow. The wailing of the wind through the crevices in their cabin was so frightening the young mother lost her senses. She wrapped her baby in a wool blanket and left the piercing noise of the whistling cabin, trying to make her way to another home to the north. She and her baby were found frozen against a fence post. They buried them on Sage Brush Hill, which eventually became Farmington Cemetery.

I don’t know if that tale is true, or folklore, or a mixture of both. But I do know the power of a Farmington East wind. And I can only imagine the vulnerable feelings that might overpower me if I did not live in a true, solid brick house during a windstorm and a blizzard.

We sit tonight with the power out. My little laptop computer is powered by a charged battery. I realize that it will eventually die if it is not recharged, so here’s hoping it returns soon.

I’m just grateful for the reminder our Farmington East Winds give me, every time, that I am small when the wind is big. The comfort of my shelter is too often taken for granted, so I am grateful for a mighty wind now and again.

40. AN UNEXPECTED GIFT

Friday I went to the 5 Hour Store to get groceries and some Easter supplies. The store isn’t really called the 5 Hour Store, it’s actually called NPS Market Square. I dubbed it the 5 Hour Store years ago after my friend Carol first took me there. I came home and told Mom and Libby I’d discovered the perfect store. I called it the 5 Hour Store because it would take roughly 5 hours to see everything they had there. It has changed through the years, but was created originally as a place for Kelly Farmer to sell off the items he acquired in odd places; items lost in shipping, or goods  returned to the manufacturer, or slightly damaged items… just general odd lots. I like it because of the mystery (you never know what you’ll find) and the potential for finding a bargain (this was more likely in the old days, though they are still to be had if you look, which adds to the magic of mystery). One side of the store sells groceries and the other is general miscellany.

As I was checking out I moved to the end of the conveyor belt to bag my groceries. The clerk told me the amount and I reached to get my credit card when the fellow who had just checked out in the next register butted right in front of me. 

“Mind if I pay for your groceries today, young lady?” 

I looked up at him, sort of stunned, and before I could say anything or shift over to the card reader, the deed was done.
Stop!” I said. “I’m fine! Seriously, I don’t need this. You are kind to offer, but I really am fine. Oh my goodness, this is so generous but I really can afford these groceries!” He smiled, signed the screen, and put his card in his wallet. 

“Have a great day,” he said smiling, as he tucked the wallet into his back pocket and walked away. I looked at the clerk. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “He does this all the time.”

He walked toward the door, his wife following behind him. “Seriously?” I asked the wife, and she nodded her head. “It makes him happy.”

They were out the door before I could even gather my thoughts, let alone my groceries.

“Is this really paid for?” I asked the clerk. She nodded, saying he did it every time they shopped. She’d seen him do it for over $200 once. He never looks to see how much is owed. 

I was sort of at a loss for what to do. This doesn’t happen to me. Maybe I look needy. I moved by rote through the sliding doors and out to my car, looking for the couple in the parking lot. But they were gone. Whomever they are, I send a whisper of gratitude into the universe for their goodness. And for sure I sent a prayer Heavenward, for the Lord to recognize the giving of this anonymous gift. 

Yesterday our kids and their kids came over to help us in the yard. It was a loving and selfless gift they gave. The little ones tried their best to lug wagons full of bark to the beds around the yard, but eventually they gave in to the need to play in the sunshine. “We’re thirsty,” they called as they ran to the garage. I joined them at the pop shoppe by the doorway. As I was poking little stiff straws into Capi Sun drinks, I had a sudden awareness that these were purchased by someone else, and given as a gift, even when I didn’t think I needed the gift.

The fact that this quiet and generous deed, offered by a man who appeared unexpectedly, was performed on Good Friday was not lost on me. It serves as a testament of a greater deed, the foundation of all good things performed on this earth. 

A gift was given to us, whether or not we think we need it. 

We, in our relative immaturity, think we can handle our life burdens ourselves. Our own hard work will provide for our needs. And at first glance it appears to be true, we can be self-sufficient if we work hard enough. It takes stillness, reflection, forethought, and a measure of humility to understand that we cannot possibly pay what needs to be paid in the end. Then Someone steps in front of us, swiping his life and anointment through the divine card reader. His is the only account full enough to pay what is required. He steps in and covers the debt. In the process he blesses all of us, through blessing each of us individually. What he makes of me blesses those around me, like those little foil bags of drink quenched the thirst of my grandchildren. What He did not only covers the final bill for me, but His atonement makes each day in my life more full, more free, and more joyful. 

I was reminded by that simple anonymous act of a stranger that I, debtor that I am, am in need. Recognizing my need is part of my life challenge. It’s the tricky place that those who have enough must learn to navigate: Do good. Be good. But recognize that, by nature, I will make mistakes in order to grow.  

It could do me in, realizing I will never be enough. But it doesn’t. 

He’s got me covered. 

It makes him happy.

He does it all the time.

Thanks be to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

This completes my Lenten offering for 2021. A blessed Eastertide to all.

And to complete a brief collection of the works of Tissot:

Mary Magdelene and the Holy Women at the tomb

St Peter and St John run to the sepulcher

Christ on the shore of Lake Tiberius

Peter jumps into the water

Feed my lambs