2024/5 COUSINS

The night we all went to Johnny's LOVE LETTERS pop up museum in SLC.

Most of us store insta-memories on our cell phones. They are most easily found in the Photos app. I have an over-abundance of memories there. But I also have them in my Voice Memos. Way back ones. Hundreds of them. Bits of songs, song ideas, talks and stories and weird chords I don’t know how to name but can recognize by their sound. I can retrieve the sound of people I love who are gone now. I can even tell how my own voice is changing through the years. Technology can be awesome! Once I recorded common sounds around our house, like cupboard doors closing, water running at the kitchen sink, the doorbell ringing, the garage door shutting. I did this for Kate who lives in New York and was missing home. There’s also a grand recording of our large clan humming Christmas carols on kazoos after Thanksgiving dinner.

I have a snippet of what our house sounds like during Sunday family dinner. We gather here every other Sunday to feast on and with each other. It can get pretty chaotic. Our family circle stretches beyond bloodlines. Sometimes someone will come who is not used to a big family that is comfortable with each other and also comfortable with chaos. I find the cacophony beautiful, to the point that I pressed record on my phone so I could keep it.

The source of most of that noise, besides multiple conversations at one of at least three dinner tables (we usually have between 25 and 35 people) is the enthusiasm of young cousins when they see each other. Frankly I cook, clean, set tables, do dishes and laundry for these dinners mostly because I want those cousins to have, somewhere deep in their memory banks, a place where they felt the warmth, candor and creative safety of each other. 

Cousins opening pjs and Nerf guns the Sunday before Christmas

My own cousins were pivotal in my life. My mom was the tenth of eleven children (Fred, Parks, Ruth, Ruby, Edna, Mary, Mae, Afton, Becky - (and Daniel and Marion who both passed away in childhood). I was next-to-the-youngest of the next-to-the-youngest and there were no cousins my age, but my Aunt Becky had a whole passel of kids close to my age and they became my safe place. Our trips to Idaho in the summer ended up most happily at their little house in Ucon. Their family already filled that house to bulging, but My Aunt Becky and Uncle Richard shifted everyone over to make room for us. I’ve never slept so happily on the floor or a couch. It was the sleep of home, the kind of home that was a feeling rather than a place.

I’ve noticed that time does interesting things in blood relationships. Cousins go through the funk of teenage compartmentalization. Some cousins stop their intimate conversations. The same kids who played pretend wholeheartedly together as littles end up eating dinner rather silently beside each other. Its kind of heartbreaking for a grandma. But then I’ve seen the beautiful unfolding of age, when the social blinds are lifted, the muscle memory kicks in and the heart returns home. My own kids find delight and comfort in their cousins who are also adults now. It makes my heart so happy.

Annie and her cousin Lauren reunite as adults.

Last summer Dave’s cousins, whom we see during our cottage visits in Michigan, told about the time the boy cousins were playing on the third floor of the Mackinac Island cottage. The girls were playing on the second story balcony (this was a magnificently large Victorian cottage on the west bluff of Mackinac Island).  Apparently the boys, in their eternal quest to tease the girls, stuffed some of cousin Roy’s clothing and threw the dummy over the balcony. The girls, terrorized at the thought of their cousin falling to his death, ran screaming down the staircase, stunning Grandma and Grandpa. The boys had a good old laugh about it, and in the process sealed both their relationships with each other, and frankly sealed the girls' relationships together as well. Shared shenanigans will do that.

Grandma & Grandpa Roy
at the Mackinac Island cottage.
that top balcony to the left is 
where the boys threw "Roy" over.

This fall my cousin Gail had some of us up to her cabin near the Teton mountains. It was beautiful in every way; fishing, mountain air, guitars ringing into the night, games and meals and old photos and stories retold. It felt like our moms were pulling threads from Heaven and cinching us together repeatedly. Goodness, I love my cousins.

A collection of Miskin and Hansen cousins.

As tired as I am Sunday night, after cooking dinner for the masses, setting and serving, running the dishwasher twice and rearranging the furniture back into a family room, I love our Sunday gatherings. I would gladly run myself ragged just to know I might one day peek over the edge of Heaven and see my posterity retelling family stories or playing kazoos in unison after an autumnal feast.

Connors cousins with their Auntie Kate.
(At John's Love Letters museum)

WOTD 30 - WARP

In order to weave any kind of textile, the weaver needs to start with the warp threads. Warp threads tend to be stronger and more coarse, because they must be able to withstand tight stretching. They also provide a core of support for the finished piece, giving the textile body and form. The warp is stretched onto a loom before weaving begins, and it may be coiled onto a spool for very long or large projects. This spool is unwound as needed, while the finished weaving on the other side is rolled up to get it out of the way.

You know how you know some things, but you’re not sure how you know them, and you’re pretty sure that what you know is probably a little off base but still it makes you sound like you know what you’re talking about (unless you’re talking to somebody who really knows what you’re talking about)? MmmHmmmm.

I don’t know much about weaving. I do own a rather dandy antique spinning wheel. Two in fact. One of them won the blue ribbon for antique furniture in the Idaho State Fair one year. It was displayed in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building one summer, right in the middle of that big round table in the center of the massive marble lobby. It has a nice skein of flax on it, with a little leader twisted onto the spindle and bobbin. I’ve used the wheel once or twice, just to remind myself that I know how it works. I probably couldn’t work it right now without really thinking about it, and probably Googling it. But if we had to we could spin wool and flax at our house, I guess.

My cousin was a weaver, if I recall correctly. She had a large loom right in the middle of her living room. She showed us one day how she did it; stretching strands of tightly spun wool across the loom, left to right, creating the warp. Once the warp was set she used a variety of colored threads to weave in and out of the warp, pressing a pedal with her foot, raking a comb with her hands in a rhythmic pattern that involved multiple pulls toward her chest. The loom clicked and groaned as she worked the fibers in and out of the warp. Her work was meticulous and beautiful. Mom bought some place mats from her, and I purchased a nice neutral colored shawl made of linen and silk.

Anyone who really knows about weaving will think me silly to write about weaving; but I have this image of my family that involves a loom and even though I’m probably off base in what it represents in symbolic terms, I’ve had this picture in my mind for a long time; and since the word for today was “warp” I decided to go with it.

The thing about a warp that means something to me is that someone sets it, with their own hands. Someone selects a particularly strong fiber, tightly spun to give it additional strength. Someone uses their muscle to stretch the threads across the loom tightly. A loose warp makes for weak fabric. The character of the warp fibers are usually pretty universal. It’s the waft, the more delicate fibers woven through the warp, that provide variety and color and pattern. Waft is interesting, and gets a lot of credit in the Ooo and Ahhh department. But it’s the warp that does the labor, that takes the beating - flipping up and down as the waft is woven in and out of it. It’s the warp that bears the tension, and it’s the tension that facilitates strong fabric.

Tonight we shared dinner at a restaurant here in Puerto Penasco, Mexico; a fine Italian restaurant overlooking the ocean, situated on a bend in the beach where the sunset can be seen through the west wall of windows. Our friend Neal introduced us to the owner, a man named Julio, who is the District President in the Mormon Church here in this area. He was gracious and friendly, shaking our hands and looking into our eyes with that familiar warmth of one who loves God and his fellow man. David paused as they met, then asked if they had met before. “Were you at Jared Parker’s house in Salt lake City, grilling shrimp last year…during General Conference?”

“Yes. Yes, yes! Were you there?” The pitch in his voice raised slightly with the excitement of recognition.

“Our son John is married to Jared’s daughter, Ashley! We met you at the Parker’s.”

Julio took David’s hand with both of his, shaking it in that warm and meaningful way, like when you have a deeper respect for someone.

“Ah, you are the parents of John? Oh, that John is a hard worker. A fine hard worker. Very good man, John Connors. I knew when Neal said Connors there was something strong in that.”

Julio nodded his head, as if to add an exclamation point to his words.

John and Ashley come with the Parkers and dozens of other people, sometimes a couple times a year, to help build houses for underprivileged Mexican families. Their non-profit organization, Families Helping Families, facilitates those who want to work for a better life, not by handing them what they want, but by working alongside them. They give up their vacations, even pay their way to come, pay for materials, and sweat their hearts out for two weeks, leaving grateful families with solid walls and doors and windows around them.

When John was 16 he helped our neighbor Ron lay sod. A volunteer service project. Ron came over to tell us how much he respected our son for the hard work he did, without complaint, and longer than most other teenagers were willing to work. This only represents one aspect of who he is, but it represents the same dependable selfless intensity evident in the whole of his life.

John is warp in my weave.

Libby spent yesterday driving our mom and sister to Provo to be with our brother and his family. Our sister in law Cyndy was diagnosed with lung cancer, though she has never in her life inhaled anything but the residual smoke of a campfire. Libby understands there are times we just need to be by each other, not to fix things, just to “be.” Our mom is wheelchair bound. Libby lifts her, dresses her, takes care of her personal needs, showers her. She makes her food, and cleans up afterwards; manages her medicines and makes sure her feet are covered when she finally settles in her easy chair. All this while she takes care of the rest of us; making sure we are all ok, making us feel important and loved. Today she spent the time between caring for Mom reading to a neighbor rendered speechless from brain cancer. She listened and talked to our friend’s husband, who is struggling to accept the inevitable. I have six siblings and she talks to every one of us at least once a day. No one understands me like Libby does; and she loves me in a way no one else can love me.

Libby is warp in my weave.

My ever faithful mother, pilot of the Pontiac Rocket and keeper of the tenderest places in the yearning heart of my youth; she is warp.

And David; and Sherry and all my sisters. My tender, strong and brilliant brothers. Each one of my capable, loving, inventive and intelligent daughters, their spouses, their children. These are the strands that are stretched over the loom, steady and strong and dependable. All of them strong enough to handle the tension necessary for a good weave. I lay myself beside them, allowing myself to be stretched as well, hoping I am strong enough to bear the tension, too.

The daily grind, the talents and trials and trips and treasures all color the delicate fabric that weaves through the warp; the waft. This trip to Mexico. Our time in Michigan. Our Sunday dinners around Gram’s table. Our Saturday afternoons in ball fields. Our moments on stage and in front of the stage. Dull and repetitive hours spent at the kitchen sink.  Irritating tense moments trying to figure out how to make our kids , ourselves, do things we don't want to do. These make the story of our lives colorful and interesting. But they are all held together by the warp. And as warp, we understand the need for tension. Not that we love it. But we understand the need for it. Without tension our guitars would not sing; our vocal cords would not give us pitch, and the fabric of our lives would give way with the slightest tug.

Great Weaver of all things good, use us well. Spin us into good sturdy thread, strong enough for the most meaningful looms. Stretch us tightly beside each other; then weave.

HURON CALLING

27 Years ago we moved our little family from Pittsburgh PA to Farmington UT, taking with us the only grandchildren of David's parents. I ache with guilt at having done that, not that it was the wrong thing to do, but because we removed from our children the daily impact of good grandparents. Since I am now Gummy to five little ones I also ache knowing that this decision kept the joy of little arms around the knees from Dave's parents. We knew when we moved to SLC that we would be spending every vacation back east, either in Pittsburgh or on the lake in Michigan. Two generations back Dave's Grandpa Roy gave each of his five daughters beautiful lots down the beach from their cottage on Lake Huron. Dave's Mom, Helen, finally built her own wonderful cottage on the Lake in 1992. It is a most delightful and beautiful place, full of her charm and personality. Two years after she built it we spent a great week here, playing on the beach and toasting marshmallows around a fire at night while the waves lapped against the shore and the Huron breezes swept through the trees. At the end of the week Helen drove us to the airport early in the morning. We flew home to our new house in Farmington. As we walked in, the phone was ringing. When I picked it up it was Dave's Dad. He asked for Dave. I handed Dave the phone and watched him back up against the door of the fridge with the phone to his ear. He called his father's name and groaned, then slid down the fridge door until he landed with his head in his hands repeating "No, No, No". Helen had been in a car accident somewhere between the Saginaw Airport and the cottage in Tawas. Her spirit rose up to heaven before we got home. I imagine she paused to peek in the window of an airplane on her way up, checking one last time on her four young grandchildren and her son. It remains among the deepest of life's sorrows for us.
This week we are at her cottage. All of our children and grandchildren, along with Dave's two sisters , Brother-In-Law Joe and nephew Ned. Seventeen of us. It's cozy. And it is wonderful! At this moment it is well after Midnight. Chelle has just arrived with her 9 year old puppy, Jessie. The kids are all laughing about an ice hotel in Sweden, where they are planning to take a vacation. This conversation evolved from their sand castle conversation, which led to a Google slide show of world class sand castles, which led to ice castles, which led to the ice hotel where they are planning a family reunion. Someone has re-discovered the pot of chicken noodle soup and the Mooney's ice cream in the freezer. The fans are spinning and spoons are clanking and a slap of laughter just rose up when Sarah announced that the ice hotel is only $2100 a night. The little ones are sleeping soundly in their sun tinged skin, all worn out from a long day at the beach.
Gramma Connors, too, is here. In the colorful dishes she placed behind the glass doors of the kitchen cupboards; in the red checkered couches where I snuggled with her great-grandchildren and read storybooks this evening. She is in the aroma of baked beans heating up in the oven. We're cooking them through the night tonight so the kitchen won't be so hot tomorrow. She has put marshmallow chocolate puffy cookies in the cookie jar, though our hands. We can taste her.

This morning I awoke to the sound of Helen. There was a light rain in the trees and I could hear her voice in the living room. When my waking state pulled me completely to reality I understood it to be Jill talking. She has music in her voice, like her mother. And she is the best of who her mother was, in all respects.
So here we are, Mom. We're here in your place and missing you and thinking how lucky we are to be together; to like each other besides loving each other. Thank you for building this home; for building this family. Huron keeps calling us back, and you are always here.