DAVID'S EYES

He stood in the doorway, leaning his head against the door jamb. I watched him in the reflection of the mirror as I swept mascara over my eyelashes. He stood there silent, for just a minute, then whispered,
"You are so beautiful."
I stopped stroking my eyelashes, turned to him and shook my head,
"And you are so blind!"
I joke about it, thinking it pretty funny, and it seems obvious to me that it should be funny to everyone else as well. I think its extra humorous that David is a judge who "lacks vision."
But the truth is, David sees more clearly than any other man I know. Not that he is living in denial or anything. He just seems to really believe some things matter more than others, and those things have less to do with outward appearance. Am I not lucky to have this kind of creature in my life?
I am lucky to have lived this long, for many reasons. It is so interesting to be able to look back and see a long line of memory. And I am lucky...blessed...to have spent more than three decades of that life with those beautiful brown eyes looking squarely into mine.

DAVID'S EYES

David's eyes are root beer brown
And if you look at them you'll see
They're just a mirror of all the things he loves
And every time they turn to me
I can only see my reflection
And I wonder to myself
Why he'd give me all his affection
When he could have anyone else

CHORUS:
They say love is blind, well that may be
'Cause he sees in me something I can't see
You know a heart will embrace what the world denies
If it sees through David's eyes

So when I'm tired, or when I'm sad
And a shadow hides the day
His eyes will sparkle bright, catch the dimmest light
And send it splashing back my way
Like a crystal cut in a prizm
Like the diamond on my hand
It multiplies somewhere within him
And comes back in a rainbow again
REPEAT CHORUS

Every woman wants to be seen through those kind of eyes. The true happiness lies, however, in being able to see through those kind of eyes. I think its what makes him have that peaceful confidence. He has taught me much, without words.

I love that I can stand before the man I love, face to face, and look deep enough into his light brown eyes to see the reflection. How dear...how incredibly dear,... that the reflection is my own.

If you'd like to hear a recording of this song scroll down to the Music Player under the BUILDER entry. Click on "DANIEL'S EYES". The CD replicator entered the wrong song title when they encrypted song info in the CD, so that's what it's called in iTunes. They must have loved someone named Daniel I guess ;).

STONE ON STONE

There was a time when I thought I wanted a career writing country songs. This was before I joined the Saltwerks writer’s circle, my group of loved and respected friends who are also songwriters. I’ll write about them later. Merlyn and I made regular trips to Nashville, to record and perform and pitch. Sometimes we went for songwriters seminars. We recorded some of the album Out of the Blue there, with Robby Matson at the soundboard and my brother John producing. Such sweet memories of Nashville: of ordering milkshakes in a drive through and singing our order opera style into the speaker; of making demo’s in Tom Pallardy’s studio and hearing first rate Nashville musicians sweetening my songs; of walking up and down Music row from one publisher’s door to another; of rubbing my brother’s feet for a full hour while we mixed recordings. Singing at the Bluebird Café and other writers nights all around town. Driving the back roads to Franklin, under the canopy of trees and beside the snakelike boundaries of rock walls lining farmland. I was a better mother when I returned from Nashville. I was a better writer, too.

Merlyn was the perfect performing partner for me. The perfect friend, and such a fabulous sounding board. I knew we were true, deep friends the first time we were working on songs in my family room and we both fell asleep. You know someone is a true friend when they see you doze off and they decide to doze off, too.

At least once a year we tried to get away to work on songs. Sometimes it was to Nashville. Sometimes it was to Park City, where we borrowed a friend’s condo for a weekend. We’d take our sound system and set the whole shebang up, just for us, so we could hear ourselves as we might sound performing. She would give me space if I wanted to write. She understood me. I ma not a public writer, and I don’t generally share what I am creating until it is pretty much where I want it to be. I think I am pretty possessive that way. That’s probably why I generally don’t co-write. This is not always a good thing.

Stone on Stone was written on one of those weekends. At least it was started. It takes me a long time to write songs. If I spent as much time organizing my house as I do organizing words and notes, we would not live in this mess! Oye, that is the truth! I was focused on the motto, Show-Don’t tell. I was remembering the lines of rock walls all around Nashville. They were all around Williamsburg, too, and my home state of Pennsylvania. I remembered that from my childhood. I imagined farmers gathering stones every spring, after they had rumbled out of the earth and interrupted their planting, and piling them at the sides of their fields. The walls grew every year, until the farmland was sold to developers, then they began to fall over or sink back into the ground. I was also remembering the images of my childhood in Pittsburgh, of working in the steel mill the summer I got married. Pittsburgh is a beautiful city, where three rivers meet. The steel mills sprawl along the rivers.

I love songwriting. And I hate it. It has such limitations with meter and rhyme and timing and prosody. But it also facilitates pondering, and imagining, and being aware of things non-poets forget to notice. Everyone, if they would let themselves be, is a poet. But you must be still for a while.

So Merlyn let me be still for hours on end. What a gift she was, and is, to me! It was probably 10 pm before I was willing to show her the song. She listened, and then listened again, then lifted her mic to her lips and gave the song its harmony.

STONE ON STONE

For thirty-seven years my grandpa labored in the mills
That sprawl along the rivers in the Pennsylvania hills
And anything he needed he would build with his own hands
And it all fit on one small plot of land

When I was only thirteen it seemed all the world had changed
And most of what I'd trusted had been somehow rearranged
My dad, he left our family, and mom she fell apart
And I was left with pieces of a heart

That's when grandpa hired me to clear a piece of ground
He armed me with a spade and with a hoe
And the more I tried to clear the soil, the bigger rocks I found
And I swore that not a thing would ever grow
Then Grandpa laid those stones down in a row

CHORUS:
And one on one, he showed me what to do
Stone on stone we built a sturdy wall
He said, step by step if what you do is true
It's gonna stand against the weather and it's never gonna fall

Eighty years of struggle finally took the old man down
And we sang Rock of Ages as they laid him in the ground
And the only stone that ever left the wall we had made
Is the one that bears his name upon his grave

Now I know a house can crumble, and the hills could tumble down
And all that I can hold will soon decay
But if the measure of a man is in his soul and not his hands
Then the ones we love will never pass away
And I can feel him standing here today

CHORUS
One on one he shows me what to do
Stone on stone we build a sturdy wall
He says step by step if what you do is true
It's gonna stand against the weather and it's never gonna fall
It's gonna stand against the weather and it's never gonna fall.

I never knew my grandfathers. They died before I was born. But I knew then that the power of a grandparent is unique and mighty. And I know now, firsthand, how precious the relationship between a child (or an adult), and his grandparent can be. I hope my grandchildren will learn that true things never fall.

If you'd like to hear this song, scroll down to the entry entitled THE BUILDER and click on Stone On Stone in the red music box.

OUT OF THE BLUE

OUT OF THE BLUE

Anybody who knows me well also knows my sister Libby. And anyone who knows Lib knows this: EVERYBODY NEEDS A LIBBY! Libby has been my pretending partner, my confidant, my fellow mischief maker, my tender-care giver for all my mortal life. All but one year. She was born 16 months after me. She is my kids’ other-mother and my husband’s fishing buddy. We spend some portion of just about every day together and if I don’t see or talk to her I go to bed feeling like something is missing.

Growing up, Libby and I, along with our older sister Ann Marie, pretended all sorts of things. We whispered our hopes and dreams between the scenes. I recall one humid night in Pittsburgh, when we were young teenagers. We each had a swing at the park by the Pleasant Hills Municipal Building. We pumped the soles of our feet up toward the stars as we pondered our futures, each of us announcing the description of our husbands-to-be and what we would name our children. Lib was going to have 12 children. Or maybe that was me. Could have been either at the time. Libby was going to name one of her sons Levi George, the middle name after the grandfather we never met (and our brother, of course). We had our futures roughly defined.

And then the future came.

I was going to be a psychologist or an advertising mogul and I was not going to get married until I was at least 26.
At 26 I was pregnant with my 4th child. I had happened, by the fates of Heaven, to marry the man of my dreams a few months after my 19th birthday and everything shifted.

Libby was going to be mother to a passel of kids. She might do something like teach History, but mostly she would snuggle those babies.
Instead, by the time she was 26 she was the youngest regional sales manager TWA had ever had and she won the Alfred E Packer award for “eating the competition alive.” (Alfred E Packer cannibalized traveling companions in a blizzard…another story). And she was still single. Being single and an un-interruptedly faithful Latter-day Saint, she also had no children. But mine. She snuggled mine like they were her own. No wonder they love her so.

Anyway, while I changed diapers, Libby climbed the corporate ladder. She ended up moving to Boston as Director of Marketing and Reservations for Sheraton International. She oversaw 17 regional offices all over the world. She had the world, quite literally, in the palm of her hand. Then they transferred her to Chicago. She had the dream job, and a free pass to anywhere in the world. What she longed for…was home.

With the help of the Lord and to the delight of her family, Libby left the clutches of the corporate world and came home. “They’ll grow up with or without me,” she determined. “I would rather them do it with me.” So she left the daily life of Dana Buchman suits and Sesto Meucci shoes; of Hors D’oeuvres and unlimited room service and came home to baseball games and chicken noodle soup. She found, again, the girl who sat in the swing next to me on a long ago summer night.

OUT OF THE BLUE was written for Libby, and for everyone who prioritizes and sacrifices for the sake of family.

Again, this song is autobiographical in principal but not in detail.

OUT OF THE BLUE
Growing up green in the hills of Kentucky
She thought she’d be lucky to leave there one day
So fresh out of school she moved on to the city
Cut from her past like the tractor cuts hay
But her roots held the ground and they’re there to this day

Life in the fast lane was driving her crazy
Caught on a fast train that fought with the wind
There’s a little old house where the sunsets are blazing
And sunflowers are growing, they’re gold and they bend
That’s where she’s going to find her again

CHORUS:
Out of the blue gray haze
That covered her nights and days
Out of the steel blue walls of Fifth Avenue
She took her spring bouquet out of that cobalt vase
Tossed to the wind
She found her again
Out of the Blue

There’s a closet of blue two-piece suits she is leaving
Deposits and blue chips she sold at a loss
Yes there are tears, but the reason she’s grieving
She just now discovered what fortune had cost
And she cannot recover the time that was lost

REPEAT CHORUS

On another summer night, under an Idaho sky, with her nieces and nephews and brothers and sisters and her beloved mother circled around her, we gave Libby a cobalt blue vase full of Idaho wildflowers. She was with us at our annual Sun Valley Bar Meetings trip. We stood at the side of a hill, where she lifted the flowers out of their vase and tossed them into the Idaho Wind. She was home.

To hear OUT OF THE BLUE Scroll down to the entry called THE BUILDER and look for OUT OF THE BLUE on the red music player.

THE BUILDER

THE BUILDER

Songwriting is just pretending, with words, and rhyme and meter, and music and hopefully some well placed counterpoint.
Some of my songs, in fact most of them I suppose, are autobiographical. At least the premise for the song is. I claim poetic license and reserve the right to alter some of the specifics. Its part of the beauty of creative writing.

The Builder is not autobiographical.
First line:
My daddy was a builder, that’s how he kept us fed….

Truth:
My dad was a mathematician. Sadly, he eventually kept his beer glass full and we resorted to things like raking leaves and cleaning peoples’ garages to get a few dollars to buy a gallon of milk. Before he left he did occasionally leave quarters under the cushion of the easy chair. There was a time when he did somewhat responsibly keep us dressed and fed, when I was very young. By the time I was a teenager he was gone and nary was a cent given to put a meal on the table. Therefore there are a number of truly autobiographical songs about our mom.

Back to the song.

The Builder was one of the few songs for which I wrote the lyric first. Usually the music will haunt me before the lyric appears. I made a conscious decision to write a song that emphasized the values of devotion and family and hard work. Maybe I wish my dad had heard such a song when he was young, and the theme behind the lyric had haunted his brain and infused such values into his heart. Maybe.

The principles behind the lyric are absolutely true to my personal beliefs. I think they are universal truths. But what I try to emphasize to my songwriting students is that the more specific you are in your writing, the more universal the feeling is. I would not want to say “We are responsible for our own happiness and we should take care of the people we love…yeah, yeah, yeah”
First of all, only the Beatles can get away with putting yeah, yeah, yeah in a song. Secondly, that’s not storytelling, that’s preaching. No one wants to be preached to. So the idea is “show - don’t tell!”

So the picture I tried to paint was of a father and his daughter, who could sit comfortably in silence as they rode out to the work site. There is a place deep in the darkest middle of me where I believe my dad and I could have had that. It’s that place where the joy and the hurt dance daily. I usually forget its there, but I instinctively keep it alive with chocolate chip cookies.

Merlyn Schofield was my best friend and singing partner. She taught me many things about music, and about life, and she was such a good person to sing a song to. She always asked to hear it again. She’d sit and listen through the second time, then ask for a third and she would hum a harmony against my melody and we soon owned the song completely. We made a demo of the Builder. It won some songwriting awards. I pitched it to a publisher at a songwriting seminar and he picked it up. This was sort of a big deal for me. So big, in fact, that my mom and Libby and Dave bought a bouquet of helium filled balloons and tied it to the lamp post in our front yard when I signed the publishing contract on it. It said something like “Way to go, Cori!” This was early in my songwriting career, before I knew that just getting a song published was not balloon bouquet worthy…unless the publisher was a good one. Lucky for me he was a good one.
His name was Dude McLean and his name fit him perfectly. I liked him. And he liked my song. He worked the song like a publisher should. A publisher in popular music (as opposed to sheet music) is basically an agent for the song. His job is to exploit the song, to get it heard by the “powers that be” and hopefully get a “cut” or recording by some fabulous artist who sells millions of records.
Dude worked the song so well that we had a hold on it from Bette Midler. She eventually released the hold and Tanya Tucker asked for a hold. I think he continued to pitch it even with the hold, because I recall distinctly the day he called and told me Linda Ronstadt also asked for a hold. He made me promise not to tell a soul because it might jinx it. Songwriting and sports have similar superstitions.
Anyway, turns out that Linda did record THE BUILDER. We waited a long, long time to hear it.
You’ll have to wait for me to explain the writing of GET BACK ON THAT PONY to hear the end of the story.

THE BUILDER
Verse I:
My daddy was a builder, that’s how he kept us fed
And my hometown knew what the man could do
With a hammer and a dream in his head
I sat right beside him in our old flatbed Ford
And we hauled a load down to Old Town Road
Daddy never said a word

Build:
It was his quiet meditation before the work began
Then when we reached our destination there was a level plot of land
When I broke the silence I’d ask him if he knew
Who we’re going to build this home for anyway
Then he’d look across the land
This is what he’d say…
CHORUS: We can build a man a house, but we cannot make his home
It’ll stand against the wind, but we can’t make it warm
It’s the spirit of a family that makes a shelter whole
And its love that gives it a soul
We can build a man a house but we cannot make his home
That’s something they’ll have to do alone
Daddy taught his children to work an honest day
If we tried real hard and we kept our word
We’d get an honest pay

Now there’s a good foundation under my entire daddy made
We could change the wood if we thought we should
But the stones stayed where they were laid

Build: Now I’ll take my little children and set them on my knee
And tell them all the stories he used to tell to me
Sometimes we’ll sit in silence and speak without a word
And my mind can drift through thoughts of yesterday
Then I repeat the words I heard my daddy say… REPEAT CHOURS

There you have it. More than you ever wanted to know.
THE BUILDER is not autobiographical. Just wishful thinking.

You can hear THe Builder by scrolling through the list of Cori's Songs in the red music box below. Click on THE BUILDER, then click the play arrow.

Go To FileFactory.com

LENT BEGINS

Ash Wednesday.
The first day of Lent.
It is the beginning of the Holy Season.
Last Tuesday for our youth activity we spent the evening around my family room fireplace with my teenage friends, my Laurel class. We discussed the events of this sacred season as it leads up to Easter, the most holy of holy days. I told the girls about my Lenten offering of last year: 40+ days of purposeful writing. Though our religion does not practice Lent per se’, we talked about sacrifices; how some are sacrifices of omission and some are of commission. I told them about my personal commitment to write every day of Lent last year, and publish it on my blog. My writing was a commitment which required me to suffer to some degree. I made myself write at 2 am when my bones were tired. I made myself focus on unexciting words because that was the pattern of commitment I had made for myself. I still feel a sense of maturity and gratitude that I actually accomplished my little writing goal last year for Lent. It was a good thing.
So today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent 2010. We live in Utah, and I was not out much today, and I saw not a single person with ashes on their forehead. Sort of made me sad, and made me yearn for the diversity of the place I grew-up, where my friends invited me to their Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s, where the other kids who had big families were from devoted Catholic homes and they wore ashes on their foreheads on such a day as this, where our Comparative Religions class was filled with people who actually practiced those various religions.
So this year I am committing to once again do a piece of writing every day for the 40+ days of Lent. I commit to publish what I write on my blog. That decision to publish it in a fairly safe place (all 13 of you might see it once in a while) keeps me feeling obliged. Obligation is not evil, just sometimes a little hard.
So this Lenten Season I would like to write every day something about songwriting. I just finished teaching a workshop on songwriting and it’s in the forefront of my mind. I’d like to create a little personal history about the writing of some of my songs, and perhaps share a thought or two about writing in general. So here goes nothin’, as they say.

RIDE A BLUE PONY

In my late 20s we lived in what is now known as “the old house” at 1788 Kensington Street. An English Tudor home that stretches up the hill in the bend of the road as it rises toward Eastborn Court, it is the place where most of our kids’ childhood memories take place. The “old, old house” is just down the street from it, at 730 Kensington. Early memories, like the time the Simmons twins tried to buy Johnny’s salamander for 3 pennies, take place there. Annie was a baby when we moved up the street. I remember how old she was because it was at 1788 that she broke three cribs from bouncing in them. We called her Boingy Annie. She was full of energy and laughter and she loved her daddy. At night, to settle her down, Dave would bounce her on his knee. Really fast at first, then he would gradually slow down until he hit a steady pace and her heart beat would try to match his rhythm and he could lay her in her bed and read a story. The blue pony in Annie’s lullabye is her daddy’s knee covered in comfy old blue jeans.
Annie’s bed sat under the window that overlooked our back yard. The early moon seemed to sit in the nest of scrub oak trees outside her window. Here in Utah the moon is silver at night. In the east it has a yellow hue, I suppose because of the humidity in the air there. But here it is silver.

RIDE A BLUE PONY

Verse I:
Big silver moon out through the window
Sits in the old willow tree
Smiling on one little girl and her daddy
Tellin’ stories at her bedside as she sits on his knee

Verse II:
Into the night when the birdies are sleeping
And all the lamps are aglow
Papa will dust off the blue jeans he’s wearing
And will take you on a ride where only princesses go

Verse III:
Ride a Blue Pony out through the meadow
Over the hill to the sea
Ride to the shore where the sandman is waiting
And the breeze will strum the willow and will sing you to sleep.

Tag:
Then he’ll lay you on your pillow and will sing you to sleep.

I still hear the sweet melodies through the walls of my memory, of a young dark haired daddy singing to his children at night…of David reading to his kids.

When Annie was a bit older and we had moved to the “new house” we live in still, he and Annie read Little Women every night. It remains a sweet memory. When Beth was about to die, and they knew it was coming because they knew the story, they didn’t read for a whole week because neither of them could bear it.

I recall when I wrote this song that I found the melody and chord progression first. I felt the song evolving into an AAA pattern song, without a chorus, and it was perfectly suited for a lullabye. It was as much a tribute to Dave as it was a song for Annie. Only thing was: I was miffed at Dave at the time. I don’t know why, but I do recall it was a multi-day miffed. A long-term irritation about something I do not recall. I remember the words coming, demanding to include Dave, and I did NOT want to write a song about Dave at the time. But the chords insisted on this melody, and this melody insisted on Dave. I actually think the song tried to convince me he wasn’t so bad after all.

True confessions in songwriting.

You can hear Ride a Blue Pony if you can find the red music player somewhere in this blog. Scroll down, I think. I am not the most techno-savvy, but I think maybe I figured out how to get it here somewhere. Hmmm.

WOTD- polished

January 25, 2010 polished
When I was a teenager, back in Pleasant Hills PA, we lived in a 10 story apartment building where the average age of the tenant was something like 77 years old. It was a nice place, not like a tenement building, with a nice lobby and a club room where we once held a YM-YW Valentines party. Because the average apartment housed two people of considerable age, I found it a solid setting in which to practice my entrepreneurial skills. About every 6 months I posted a sign in the Laundry Room offering my services.

LET ME HELP YOU….
Capable 16 year-old girl willing to do laundry, polish and vacuum, cook meals and babysit.
Prices negotiable.
Call Cori 655-4547 apt. 102

I sold Avon. I had a laundry service. My sisters and I babysat. I cooked meals. I cleaned and polished.
All those businesses had their pros and cons. The pro, most often, was the two dollars an hour I got for cleaning and polishing, and the 75 cents per hour we got for babysitting. The cons included the hours of conversation I was forced to endure with old ladies who insisted I sit in their living rooms and fold the underwear I had just laundered for them. Con, I believe, is a rather harsh word because in reality I didn’t mind. I knew they needed company and I could make good conversation and found their lives to be quite interesting. Sometimes the medicinal smells of their places got to me and I made sure to chew on a piece of spearmint gum when I worked, though more than once I was told it was unbecoming for a young lady to chew gum.
On Tuesdays, Thurdays and Saturday evenings I walked up two flights of stairs and down the carpeted hall to the Soboslay’s place. Mr. and Mrs. Soboslay were kind and gentle people. They were both so short I could look down on their snowy white heads while they were standing, though their bodies were a little bent and compressed at the shoulders and it appeared that they were bowing to me when I greeted them. Mrs. Soboslay always wore a crocheted shawl and thick hose that wrinkled around her ankles. And she always wore a dress, usually one with a dainty print, and there was always a belt cinched around her tiny waist. Their place smelled of medicine, too, until I started to cook. I cannot even recall what I cooked for their dinners. I would be so much better cooking for them now. But the aroma always improved when I was there cooking. And so did my mood. I loved the Soboslays, and they loved me. At least I perceived it that way, in the shallow teenage way of feeling things. They smiled when they saw me and it made me feel good when they opened the door, shook my hand, showed me to the kitchen then moved to their recliners and watched Wheel of Fortune while I cooked. Made me feel like…I don’t know…like they felt safe around me.

One day a woman called from one of the 7th floor apartments. She wanted me to come polish her furniture. I tapped on her door, stepping back far enough for her to see me through the peephole. She opened it to reveal large antique furniture lining the walls. Tall wooden pieces with lots of history sunk into the wood. Thick, heavy curtains covered the windows. It reminded me of the old black and white movie The Haunting, though I suspect memory intensifies the reality of it. She hardly said hello, just told me to go ahead and polish away. “Stuff’s under the sink” she said, as she made her way back to the bedroom. I scrunched down and searched under the kitchen sink, finding a stack of soft cloth and a small can of Endust. I had worked a good half hour when she came out to inspect my work. I knelt there a little nervous and she looked over the hutch I had just finished. I promptly stood erect when she shrieked “This will simply not do!” I asked if there was something I had missed.
She took the dry cloth from my hand and skimmed it over the surface of the hutch. “This…” she whined, “is dusting.” She turned to face me eye to eye. “I am paying you to polish!” She took the can of Endust and headed for the kitchen, bending over and twisting her head, the way pigeons do, as she dug into the cupboard. She mumbled something I could not understand, though I have a pretty good idea what she meant.
“This,” she said matter-of-factly, “is wax. You use this to polish wood.” She proceeded to show me how to dig the cloth into the wax and scrape it out with the fingertips. She ran the wax across the wood. “Always go with the grain, never against it. And use some muscle. The more you move the softer the wax gets. When it’s worked into the wood nice and evenly give it a rest. At least twenty minutes. When it’s cool and set go back over it with a soft cloth. Again, use some muscle, though a little less than you did with the wax. Buff it, always with the grain. Fast. Fast. Buff it till it shines, till it’s polished.”
She handed me the small tin can and a pile of the soft cloths from under the sink.
I was sweating by the time I finished.
Ms. Whatshername shocked me into training that afternoon, and I needed a tall glass of water and a ½ hour of I Dream of Jeanie re-run to recover. But I have never forgotten the lesson. I know how to care for wood. Not that I do it well. But I know how. That’s worth a whole lot more than $2 an hour.

I still have my blue-green Avon bag. I actually gave it to Kate last year to use as a temple bag. It’s now rather hip and vintage. For years, when Kate was just a baby, I used that bag as my own temple bag. You could tell, walking through the temple parking lot as people made their way to and from the temple doors, who had once-upon-a-time succumbed to the entrepreneurial echoes of “AVON CALLING”. I think of the Soboslays when I flip on the TV to cook dinner and Wheel of Fortune is on. And I think of the wax woman when I rub wax into my granite counter top…let the wax cool and dry for a handful of minutes, then buff it for all I’m worth. Granite looks great polished.
Good thing I wanted a pair of ski’s when I was 16. Good thing my mom could not afford them. I found a way to buy them myself, and in the process polished a bit of good useful experience into myself.

WOTD- Typewriter

January 19, 2010 typewriter
Before the computer became a fixture in every comfortably civilized household, the typical American home had a typewriter. Dave’s house had one. I can still hear the whack, whack, whack of thin metal arms rising up and slamming against a sheet of paper on top of a hard rubber roller. His mom, Helen, is in the small study at the front of the house, chipping away at a pile of recipes. She inserts index cards in the back of the rubber bar and rolls them toward the front, shifting and shimmying until the thin blue line at the top of the card is set directly under where the keys will hit. Her recipes are all tidy and readable and uniform in size. That was the Connors’ house.

But we were the Hansen’s. I guess our house was not typical. Anyway, after Dad left we didn’t have a house. And we never did have a typewriter that I know of. We moved to the apartment on East Bruceton Road and Mom went to work so we could have cupboards full of Campbell’s Soup. It makes me pause now, thinking about those years when canned soup filled our teenage bellies, because Mom was such a great cook. She could feed all the little hungry mouths hunkered around her table with a sack of Idaho potatoes and a block of butter. And if she had real time and real money to buy other things, she could whip up the yummiest feast my vivid imagination could ever conjure! Gingerbread, and toffee squares for treats. Crispy Fried Chicken. Tender roast beef that fell apart in strings, smothered in delicious hot gravy beside chunks of golden roasted spuds and strips of pumpkin-orange carrots with deep dark edges that had been steeped in beef juices in the oven while we were at church. Mmmm, yesss-irrr-eee. Smell it now, walking in the front door of our old house on Old Clairton Road. Run up the stairs and shimmy out of our Sunday dresses, flipping our shoes off our feet and into the closet, pulling on some pants and a tee shirt and running downstairs hoping Mom had not yet opened the oven to check on the progress. If you happened to be there when she leaned over the open oven door and lifted the lid off the old iron pot, you might get a sampling of a strand of beef and the second half of a chunk of carrot. That smell, on a Fast Sunday, was heavenly torture. Once I covered my nose with a dishtowel so I wouldn’t suffer the aroma of temptation. We changed our clothes and set the table extra fast the first Sunday of every month, Fast Sunday, and there was an unspoken agreement among us kids that whoever said the blessing prayer made it short and sweet. There had been a handful of years in my childhood when Mom was at home and we had these kinds of meals regularly. I call this the sweet spot of my youth, and I am grateful to have had it. I knew the softness of the skin of the woman who bore me, and I knew the sound of her voice after school. When she had to go to work to support us (this was in the days before they could garnish a man’s wages and make sure his children were fed) I knew who she was, and I knew she loved us, and that made Campbell’s Soup sufficient.

When it came time for us to turn in our Term Papers in high school, we had a bit of a problem at the Hansen household. There was no typewriter. Even if there had been a typewriter I would have been in trouble, because I didn’t know how to type. Libby took a typing class, and so did Ann Marie, but for some reason it slipped out of my class schedule. To this day I have to look at the keys on the computer to see what I am typing, and the backspace key is the most often used key on my keyboard. By the time I was a senior teachers required a typed term paper, at least 10 pages long. Through my whole primary schooling I had been permitted to hand write all my papers, so it was a real blow for me to have to figure out where and how to find a typewriter and then figure out how to type my paper on it. This was more of a struggle emotionally than most people will allow themselves to imagine. It slapped as a reminder that I was different. My circumstances were different, and my talents were inferior, and it sealed in my mind that I did not fit in. Seriously, how sad is that, that I should let the lack of a typewriter and typing skills lower my sense of self? And yet it was the case.

My angels must have known about this struggle, because one day, sitting at my desk in English class, I heard TeriLynn Green mention that she had already completed her paper and it went super fast because her dad had an electric typewriter in his office that had a ball head with all the keys on it that spun around as she typed. Having learned by that point that sometimes you just needed to jump in and do something scary instead of thinking about it, I asked her if maybe I could hire her to type my term paper. She suggested that if I read it to her she could just type it and she would not charge me anything. To this day I think of Teri Green as a good and kind Christian. She had no idea what a struggle this issue had been for me. No one did. Heck, I don’t even know where Libby or Ann Marie typed their papers, and I don’t know why we didn’t talk about it. But I do know that Teri Greene was a kind and gentle reminder that the world is not always meant to be a hard place. I took my stack of index cards with my quotes on it and I randomly wrote my term paper on the fly. I was in a funky place that year. They have given it a definition now days, and treat it with anti-depressants. But back then it was just my own funk.
I did not get an A on that paper. Nor a B, C, or D. Mrs. Emmerling wrote a great big red F on the top of my paper, along with a paragraph about how ill prepared I was and how it was obvious I had not read the book (she was right) and how disgraceful it was that a supposedly “good Mormon girl” lacked the integrity to do the work and be honest about it, and she had expected so much more of me blah, blah, blah. She never talked to me again. She never called on me. Her husband, who was the Student Council Advisor, and I was student council president, refused to meet with me. They were Born Again Christians. I was one of those cult Mormons.
I’ll tell you what, when I think Christian I think about that term paper. It was graded by the advisor to the Morning Prayer Group at TJ High, who hated me. But by golly, it sure looked good if you squinted your eyes. All those block letters lined up beside each other. Footnotes sitting at the bottom of the page like front door steps. God bless TeriLynn Green for her kindness.

Sunday I made one of Mom Connors’ recipes. I dug it out of the red cookbook Ann Marie made for us for Christmas years ago. I had made copies of all those note card recipes after Mom Connors had died. Jilly got the cookbook, but I have my copies. I look at the tidy list of ingredients and the instructions following it and I imagine her short Roy-daughter fingers jumping across the keyboard of that old typewriter in the study on Rolling Green Drive in Bethel Park PA. There’s a pot of beans baking in the oven, and a Pirates game on the TV in the living room. The drumming of the typewriter keys ticks away the time and we are all home and we are all safe and all is right with the world.

ONE SMALL GIRL & ONE SMALL BOY

It’s been a whirlwind kind of month. More than a month. I woke in the middle of the night with that familiar weight of overwhelmedness. Overwhelmed by all there is to do in the next 11 days before Christmas; but overcome too, by the measure of goodness overflowing in the vessels of my life and my days.

We gathered last night at John and Ashley’s house, all adorned with beauty and festivity, to wish Ruby a Happy Birthday. Our little treasure sat on her mother’s hip in her pretty holiday dress, full of smiles and kisses. I thought back to one year ago when her parents clasped hands in the hospital and welcomed her here, a rare moment when the other kids were not buzzing around them; Ashley as beautiful as a woman can ever be; baby Ruby so fresh and quivering in innocence.
I paused in a moment of introspection in the middle of the night last night, thinking about birth, trying to recall, somewhere down in the memory box behind the belly button, what that very first breath felt like, when I was still connected to my original life source, when my flesh first encountered air all chill and dry against my new wet skin. I can’t recall it in exactness, but it feels correct that it did happen, much the same way as it feels correct that I came from somewhere meaningful before I got this skin. The snowy white softness of Ruby’s cheeks when I hold them in my leathery old hands reminds me how blessed I am to have lived this long, to have been privileged to see my children grow, to embrace a new generation of my love-line. I know this is a sweet spot in life: my mother is still with us, as are all my siblings and Dave’s siblings, and our children are well and whole and faithful; our grandchildren are small and innocent and unable to make major mistakes; Dave is happy with his work and I can walk and play my instrument and sing. I recall seven years ago, when Guillain Barre Syndrome redefined my life, wondering if I would ever do any of those things again.
I run the pad of my left thumb over its sister-fingertips, recognizing the hard calluses on top of each finger earned by hours of purposeful guitar playing. For over a year, when I was ill, those fingertips were soft and supple, the calluses having peeled away after the nerve endings were stripped away beneath the skin. Thank you, Lord, for calluses on my hands and on my feet. They are evidence of use.
I have spent this past year in a deliberate creative mode: writing songs, arranging and re-arranging songs, interfacing with skilled musicians, singing and re-singing twelve little tunes that became an album called ONE SMALL BOY. I’ve been so busy doing it I have offered no acknowledgment of it in any other place than my own heart.
Few people understand what goes into making an independent recording. That’s ok, people don’t need to know. Besides, everyone does it differently. Suffice it to say it is a lot of work, thousands of hours from the inception of the songs, each one having their own birth process, clear up to the completion of the artwork for the cover. We were blessed with a beautiful and large audience for two album release concerts, one at the First Presbyterian Church in SLC and another at the Farmington Arts Center. The album has received good reviews and has sold well. I have been performing nearly every night since mid-November, and gigs continue until just before Christmas.
I am surprised and grateful that anyone still wants to hear my music. I’m grateful to my best roadie, my housemate and the winner of my heart, Dave, for making these nightly engagements more fun than work. It is a task to lug equipment into a different venue every night; to set it up and adjust it for a new space; to perform according to the group’s schedule, then break it all down and lug it back out to the van…only to repeat the same process the next night…and the next. What would I do without Dave? Or Mark Robinette, who gives me his voice and his bass and his muscle and skill for every performance where he was not previously booked to play with the Orchestra at Temple Square or Joe Muscolino Band. Music almost always tastes better when its shared.
It’s a risky thing to make a new album. Risky, too, to stand before a different audience each night and try to touch them with music they have not heard before. One day I’ll be too tired to take the risk.
But not today. The fulfillment still outweighs the work. We’ll drag our load of equipment up the canyon to Taggarts restaurant and play for yet another company party tonight. I’ll continue to celebrate each CD order I package and label and drop at the post office. I’ll open the red door on the front of my house and peer into the milk box to see who has come while I was away. What could be more wonderful for a maker of music? It’s like…well…it’s kind of like Christmas!

MY MOTHER IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN THE WORLD

When I was small and we were living in Pleasant Hills, PA in the Tudor house on Old Clairton Road, I came home from school on a Wednesday afternoon in early May. It only matters that it was Wednesday because Wednesday was Library Day at Pleasant Hills Elementary School, and I had a new book in my canvas book bag. I loved Library Day, maybe because it felt freeing to my brain to not have to stuff information in there for a half hour, and no one was going to test me on anything. More likely because a library, especially one full of children’s books, is that beautiful balance of aesthetic and information: order mixed with stories mixed with color and design.

These were the blessed days of my childhood, when our mother answered our Hello’s when as walked in the front door. When there was often something stewing on the stove top or the aroma of fresh laundry wafting up from the basement. I recognize that this was a sweet spot in my life, that I am fortunate to have had a mother who was at home for some space of my childhood. By my teenage years we had to wait up till very late at night to see her; weary from long days working for a paycheck.

The book in my bag was called My Mother is the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. It caught my eye because of the title. I had not had enough time in the Library to read it completely, so (here’s the sweetest thing of all) my memory of that book has the sound of my mother’s voice reading it to me. I love my mother’s voice. I recall falling asleep to it when I would go in to ask her something and she was on the phone. Like a lullaby, it lulled me to rest, all comforting and steady. When I was in fifth grade and my teacher, Mrs. Jackson, declared that I was a poet, it was hearing those silly little poems I wrote falling from my mother’s lips that made me believe it.

With my sisters gathered around me, and perhaps my brother, (though he may have been off inventing something,) Mom began:

Varya was a peasant girl….

The story unfolded sweetly; about a small Ukrainian girl who fell asleep in a pile of wheat during harvest and when she awoke her mother was gone. Varya searched the fields but could not find her. Crying by the side of the road she asked the workers making their way home from the fields if they had seen her mother. “What does she look like?” they asked, and she answered, “My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world!” So searchers scanned the villages all around and gathered the most beautiful women into the town center. Varya looked at the gathering of ladies and began to sob. Finally a voice called from outside the circle as a short lump of a woman with a toothless smile and a scarf wrapped tightly around her sweaty forehead made her way into the center. “Varyachka!” she called! “Mammachka!” cried Varya, and they fell into each other’s arms. In the end the mayor of the town turns to the people and reminds them that we do not love people because they are beautiful; they are beautiful to us because we love them. Most people see with their eyes. Varya has taught us the truest things are seen with the heart.

I had the book for a whole week. We read it over and over. Like scripture. Like scripture because somewhere down inside the center of me, deep behind the belly button, I knew it was true. We all did. Not that our mother was not physically beautiful, but that it did not matter whether or not she was.

These days Mom sits in the seat next to me when I drive on our “outings”. I look over at her striking profile, 86 years in the making. Her long slender nose, her snowy white hair, her well defined lip line and sparkling eyes. She is as beautiful as any woman I have ever seen, or will ever see.

At night, during the remaining years I lived at home with Mom, my sisters and I called from our beds before we turned out our lights; a response to her telling us to sleep well: “Good night Mammachka, I love you.”

How blessed we are to be able to say that still; to hear her voice comforting us; feel her hand touching us; find peace in the rhythm of her breathing as she rests.

Today is my mother’s 86th Birthday. I thank the Lord for her, today and every day. She is, and always will be, the most beautiful woman in the world.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

Well, since this is a rarely updated blog and very few people read it anyway, I feel like I am not risking a lot by throwing a question out to people I know.
I am putting the finishing touches on my new Holiday Album, called ONE SMALL BOY. It's been a labor of love and I have really enjoyed writing, playing, singing and recording with my friends, especially my engineer Mark Stephenson. We have two more full days in the studio, then we go to mix down next week, which is another intense week or two. Then to replication.
Not that you wanted to know all that.
Anyway, I am scheduled to give an ALBUM RELEASE CONCERT on Sat Nov 28th at the First Presbyterian Church in Salt Lake City. It's a wonderful old church full of charm and spirit.
So here's my dilemma:
Libby called yesterday to tell me that BYU is playing the U of U that very day, in Provo, at 3:00. I am wondering if that conflict is enough to change the concert to Friday instead of Sat? If you wanted to do both you might be very tired.
Let your voice be heard, if you don't mind. I need to make the change if possible ASAP.

ANNIE MAKES ME LAUGH

I'm thinking about Annie at the moment, while I wait for the potatoes to cook. I'm thinking about how she can make me laugh. Like when she was little and Libby was opening a Popsicle and Annie wanted some, so Libby said,"What's the magic word?" And Annie, crawling up on the counter top, paused and thought very seriously, then lifted her eyebrows with complete confidence as she chimed..."BIPPITY, BOPPITY, BOO!"

So now I'm thinking about her sitting with her little Primary kids in church, singing songs. It was someone's birthday, so they were singing one of the three Primary Birthday songs which have been in existence since before I was born...the one that goes like this (imagine the music, you Mormon-ites):

You've had a birthday shout hooray
We'd like to sing to you today
One year older and wiser too
Happy Birthday...to you!

Well right at the point where I put those three little dots, those little dots we all SO OVERUSE in our blog writing...right where those little dots are is where I taught our Primary kids to clap their hands on the downbeat...for emphasis. I think a Primary Chorister must have taught me that when I was little. So Annie is sitting there in her little Ward in Salt Lake City singing along with all the kids and grown-ups and where the singing stops...at the dots...she claps her hands. Of course no one else does.
So they all look at her like..."Hmmmm, we see you are really enthusiastic Sister Merrill!"
She looks around and turns red and smiles, then shrugs her shoulders.

Makes me laugh
Thanks for making me laugh Nanners!

OH WELL

So I ended up with something like 73 points from my cleaning quest, earning myself ZERO rewards and no residual "self esteem" which no one can give us we just have to earn. Sheesh.
Turns out that the night I created my self imposed whip thrashing duty list one of my oldest and truest friends passed away. Unexpectedly. With no warning. It's thrown me for a loop. Two nights ago I had to listen to what I have so far on the album so I could decide how to best use my studio time and I drove around till 2 am. Ended up outside Lonnie and Ardene's house, looking into the sky above their home and sobbing. My kitchen counter is still covered with stuff. The peaches are weeping in their skins inside their half-bushel basket. Stacks of papers remain untouched.
And who cares.
Not me.
At least I pretend I don't.
I think it is sort of rude of the world to keep spinning. For papers to keep coming in the mail. For the phone to keep ringing. For our own bodies to want to eat and to sleep. Everything should stop, at least for a minute, pause out of respect if nothing else. Ardene Bullard is heaven bound and we are earth bound and none of us are the same. The world should stop, for a sec, don't you think?
So I'm feeling a little melencholy and a little alone. I'm focused on this Christmas Album II because I have to be if I want it to be out before Christmas.
Saturday night I did a benefit concert with my friends Nancy Hanson and Cherie Call. Cherie is doing a new album, too. She's starting this week and plans to have it for sale in October.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I said. Mind you I've been working on mine since last December. (The very day, in fact, that our Bishop called me to be Young Womens President.) So I knew from the get go there might be a little time conflict. Cherie has a producer. Scott Wiley, in fact. I have to talk myself out of being jealous.
In my way of thinking there are two kinds of time. There's REAL TIME, and there's EMOTIONAL TIME. I may have enough real time to do all sorts of things. But my emotional time and my actual time do not match up. Some things may only take five minutes of real time, but they are hours of emotional time.
My EMOTIONAL time is gone. I keep trying to make more, trying to get a little UMPH in my head and my body. But I'm having trouble finding it.
Making an album, for me, is a rather solitary thing. I miss Merlyn. I miss having someone as interested as I am in this thing that takes so much of my creativity, my intelligence, my energy and my interest. I miss having someone want to hear what I did in the studio today, to care that there's now live bass, or to help me decide if the vocal is good enough. It's OK. It's my choice to do this. But it is a rather risky thing to do and it gets a little lonely sometimes. So next time you hear a recording of a song, even on the elevator, try to figure out how many instruments and how many people are playing on that thing and how long it took collective minds (or solitary minds, in some cases) to create that 3 minute piece of entertainment.
Or, don't.
It really doesn't matter. We do what we do because we want to , or because someone we owe allegience to compels us to do it.
I am rambling. I'll quit.
It's time to go to the YW volleyball game anyway.

WHAT I SHOULD BE DOING INSTEAD OF BLOGGING

Saturday night I sang at a fabulous party in the fabulous yard of a very hip young couple with a fabulously gorgeous house with a minimalist flair. Amazing catered meal and lovely large white lanai and white linens on the tables. I would have felt out of place except they understood and liked my music.
So then we drove home and picked up John and Ash's kids because J&A were singing at a very hip and cool wedding reception. Libby had been watching the kiddos and they were happy and bathed and tired. We drove them to their house to settle them into their own beds. So, aside from the little glitch in the story where we had to put Sophie through the kitchen window to get into their house, we laid the kids down in their own beautiful and hip and tidy home and waited for John and Ash to come home.
So then we drove home and I walked into my house, which I love and cherish and know has great potential. I have been prone to tears for the 30 hours since. I am faced with the reality of my situation...of the condition of my surroundings. the surroundings of my soul and of my body and I have been a little sad. Everywhere I look is a mess. Soph didn't even want to pick up the thumbtacks she spilled Saturday because she was afraid of the "spider webs" on the floor.

"Those aren't spider webs, Love. They're dust bunnies."

"Oh." She said, and she used the very tips of her fingers to gather the rest.

It's a little overwhelming to think of tackling what I have dug myself into. So I woke up early this morning and made this list and gave myself the possibility of earning points for doing these tasks this week. Seriously, what am I...6 years old or something????

□ Nightstand – 50
□ Trip luggage etc – 50
□ Bathroom counter – 50
□ Kitchen counters – 150
□ Locker room floor – 100
□ Locker room chairs – 50
□ Study desktop RT – 50
□ Vacuum wood floors – 50
□ Mop wood floors – 50
□ Kitchen table – 50
□ Vacuum bedroom – 50
□ Clean off stairs – 50
□ One bag DI stuff – 50
□ Pantry – 150
□ Study chairs and floor – 50
□ Dust furniture – 50
□ Clean bathrooms – 50
□ Pick paint for bathroom – 50
□ Paint bathroom – 150

You might think that cleaning off the kitchen counter should not get so many points. Alas...COME ON OVER! And I don't know what I was thinking giving clean bathrooms only 50 points...this house has 7 bathrooms! But they are so much more do-able because I know what to do with the stuff there. Ah, me.
So I am supposed to be chipping away at the chores and what am I doing instead?
You got it.

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.

2 am

Confession:
I have never read a single Harry Potter book.
There, now you know.
And I finally gave myself permission to quit reading the classic "100 Years of Solitude" by Gabrielle Garcia Marquez after wading through something like 972 pages. Just couldn't stay with it, and could not be stirred by it.
I am burdened with a serious case of literary ADD. Essays. Short David Sadaris stories. That's my level of concentration.
The nightstand on my side of the bed is going to come crashing down like an avalanche the next time I put another book/magazine/Internet article printed off at 2 am on top of the pile.
The only thing that consistently holds my interest is ice cream. I know I should learn to feast with my eyes. But very few things are as yummy as ice cream at 2 am.
Except maybe To Kill a Mockingbird.
Maybe I'll give that another read.
Sorry, Harry.

LIBBY - LIBBY - LIBBY

What are the odds?

What are the odds that when you put your penny in the gumball machine (yes, young-'uns...they used to cost a penny) you are going to get the EXACT gumball you want AND the tiny cracker jack toy that you were wishing for at the same time? What are the odds that on your first cast of the day you catch a sweet little Brookie with a nice sharp upper fin that hasn't been worn down by swimming his whole life on a fish farm; one that has perfect fight and leaps into the air in front of the rising sun? Who gets so lucky to actually be assigned to the absolute favorite fifth grade teacher? Or win that puppy in the penny auction down at the middle school?

Not that I am one to keep track of these things; but I am a pretty lucky gal. I should bet on me, really! I find money lieing in the road when three people in front of me have missed it. I found a dime right in front of my shoe just yesterday. I won the class election by something like three votes my junior year. Goodness...DAVE CONNORS married me!! Talk about LUCK! (that was 32 years ago yesterday, by the way. Happy Anniversary, Love!)

Luck in its purest form came drifting down from heaven and charmed me 50 years ago today. It remains with me still. I was just teeny, barely walking and still getting used to having a body. My Mom brought Luck home in a blanket, swaddled around her like a papoose. Her orange red hair made her swaddled body look like she was an early summer carrot. They named her Elizabeth, after our grandmothers, but I didn't know that for many years. To me she was just LIBBY.

She was the perfect playmate! And I mean PERFECT! She was always happy to play whatever I wanted to play. Pioneers and cowboys riding horses on the basement banisters. Dressing Barbies for a play on the Camelot stage in the basement. Rocking back and forth in the attic in pretend rocking chairs, our matching Madame Alexander Pussycat dolls snuggled in our arms. If I wanted to experiment with Elmer's Glue and string, she thought it was a brilliant idea. If I wanted to pretend the crab apple tree was a space ship she was co-pilot. If it was a rainy day and we couldn't play outside she spent six straight hours on top of our twin beds with me, never once setting foot on the ground because that was the ocean and our beds were boats and we were lost at sea but at least we had each other. At least we had each other.

A few years ago when Guillain Barre smacked me upside the head and knocked me over, Libby picked me up and set me in a wheel chair. Pushed me through the corridors of the hospitals, taking notes; researching on the Internet in the wee hours of the night, arming herself with questions for the doctors the next day. Even still she is sensitive to how I might feel, years after most people forgot how sick I was. Almost two years ago she and I sat side by side while the doctors told us not to expect our mother to live through some emergency surgery. We clung to each other, shaking our heads, looking into each others eyes for long long moments, unable to process the possibility. We waited for our other sisters to arrive. They drove through the night from California. Our brothers came, too. We clustered there in Mom's hospital room for two weeks, all through the night and all through the day, taking turns playing songs and telling stories. Everyone rotated going home for rest now and again. But Libby never left. She is devotion personified. She is faith and tenderness and determination. She is gentleness and sincerity. And she is laughter. Tell me if there is a finer recipe for a human being?

Libby considers herself lucky, too. She reminds me of that when I watch her bend her knees and lift our mother into her wheel chair. "I am so lucky" she will say, then she will look in our mother's eyes and whisper; "And you are so beautiful!" She will say these words to our 85 year-old mother as she kisses her on the forehead. Every time she lifts her she kisses Mom's snowy-white hair. Her back hurts. She has muscles where 50 year old women who don't work out at the gym usually don't have muscles. They are earned by daily repetitions in love.

She is a nurturer extraordinaire! When we were young and whispering our dreams to each other across the pathway between our beds, we never could have imagined that she would not bear children of her own, with a husband who was strong like the ones on Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Never ever would have imagined it. And yet.

So instead of becoming bitter; instead of withering in self pity or wondering why God doesn't seem to love her as much as other women; she throws her arms open and pulls all our children into her heart. Holds them there when their own parents can hardly stand them. Loves them and adores them and is not afraid to let them have it if they need that, too. She is the soul of goodness and virtue and I cannot believe I am so LUCKY...so gosh darn lucky to have her for my sister!

What are the odds?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIB!

FOND FAREWELL

There are a few people who do not share my blood, nor my name, but who are settled permanently and firmly in my heart. Anyone who knows me well would know that Merlyn Schofield is one of these. More than half-my-life ago Merlyn stood on the stage of the new Farmington North Stake Center and sang a song for the stake talent night. We had just moved to Utah from PA. I had been talking to someone in the hall when a door opened and I could hear her angelic and compelling voice wafting through the doorway. Like a fishing line cast across the sea of audience she caught me and drew me in. The program had indicated that she had written the song, which blew me away and I must admit made me a tad jealous, so I made it a point to hunt her down and introduce myself, telling her how beautiful I thought her song was. She laughed and said "Oh Goodness, I didn't write that," her smile emitting an aura of confidence mixed with humility.

Next time we met was in my family room on Kensington Street. I had been asked to sing one of my tunes in church and since I lacked any confidence in my own voice I invited her over to learn the song to sing for me. She sat on my hearth, pulling one knee up into her chest, her head bowed as she listened. When I was finished she said, "How about if you sing the melody and I'll sing harmony?" And that is where music as I know it took the turn in the road that led to today. Merlyn was the voice that was not my mother, who said with all sincerity that I could do it...that I could say what I wanted to say musically as well as it needed to be said. She taught me that the microphone is a friend, not to be feared, and she made the melodies I wrote seem so much prettier than they really are. For many years Merlyn and I gigged and traveled and created and dreamed as a team. I called her the vocal chameleon, because she could make anyone sound so much better. Her solo voice is stunning, and she could have easily had a solo career. But she sings like she walks, with poise and grace and beauty, not upstaging anyone but not curling in either, and she is always happier walking beside someone. I am blessed to have had her by my side for nearly fifteen years. We made...oh, how many was it... at least 5 albums together. Took numerous trips to Nashville and LA and Boise. She cheered with every award or contract I received. She wept at the lyrics that moved me, and she laughed where I wanted people to laugh. She cradled my children, and nurtured the hundreds of kids who were lucky enough to have her as their teacher. She loves my family like her own, and I love hers.

A few years back, it feels so long ago, Merlyn decided to re-focus her attention and take a break from the rigors of gigging. If you are a musician you understand. People think you don't really work, you just do the "fun". But the reality of it is that equipment is a pain to lug around, finding strange locations in the days before map quest was a challenge, and the hours are long. You leave at 5:00 for a 7:00 gig, which actually ends up starting at 7:45 because they started the dinner late. When you're done you get to disassemble the sound system and lug it back out to the car, then unload it when you finally get home at midnight. "But you only sang for 40 minutes", they say, expecting that the meager payment is plenty for the sacrifice. Our working hours conflicted with the time she spent with her husband, Kevin, and she decided some things were...well...eternal. So that's when I also stopped singing, until I couldn't stand the silence any more and I started to go solo. I still ache to hear her voice beside mine.

Saturday morning Merlyn called.

"Cori...?"

"Merlyn!" I said, "how are you? How's Kevin?" Kevin had been in the hospital for a couple months, recovering from a serious brain infection that started with, perhaps, a scrape on his hand that was left untreated.

"Cori, I just wanted you to know that Kevin passed away this morning."

What do you say then? What works, in the Things Everybody Wishes They Knew How To Say book of quotations? I didn't know, and I still don't. But I do know that saying nothing is not an option. So instead we weep together.

The other day she called and asked if I would sing Give Me Jesus at Kevin's funeral on Saturday. Of course I will, though I wonder how I will get through it. If you ever see me singing at a funeral with my eyes closed you will know that I must not look into the eyes of the people I love sitting directly in front of me. It's only science, something having to do with chemistry and the making of tears and nasal drainage and the thickening of vocal chords. It's a hard thing, wanting the emotion to be true and sincere, but knowing that if you go too far the song won't come out and people won't hear it if you can't sing it. When my young nephew Clayton died, Merlyn stood beside me to sing at his funeral. Overcome with sorrow, my voice gave out. After a measure or two, Merlyn wrapped her arm around my shoulder and jumped from the harmony up to the melody, finishing the song for me. She is grace and kindness and gentleness personified.

Today I was in my car at the airport. I was waiting for my sister Sherry to arrive. While I waited I found a CD from a recording session with the song Give Me Jesus on it. We recently recorded it for the new Christmas CD I'm working on. So I put it in the player in the car and listened. That song gets to me every time. It is so simple and so pure and the fellows who play it with me play it with such tenderness it is like we are all four testifying through the song.

Sitting there in the drivers seat I listened to the last verse...
"And when I've come to die

And when I've come to die

Oh, and when I've come to die

Give me Jesus."

As I listened to Michael Huff's lyrical piano, Dave Eskelsen's brilliant guitar, and Mark Robinette's deeply resonant bow drawing across the strings of his bass, I watched an unknown woman walking down the sidewalk toward my car. She had deep red hair and was pulling a suitcase behind her. As she looked up she obviously saw someone she loved, because a vibrant smile spread across her face and her pace hastened. As she passed my car I looked in my rear view mirror, watching her embrace what appeared to be her grown son. He threw his arms around her, and she dropped her bag, enveloping him in her kisses. Tears wove down the sides of my face, quickly running down my neck and into my blouse. In my mind I imagined Kevin and Pauline, his mom, her hands cupping his face as she found his eyes again. A mom and her only son reunited in that heaven place.

Give me Jesus,

Give me Jesus

You can have all this world

But give me Jesus.

Farewell, friend and brother. Comfort and peace, dear Merlyn.

(obituary)

Kevin Larry Schofield 1955 ~ 2009 KAYSVILLE - Kevin Larry Schofield passed away Saturday, June 13, 2009, after a long illness. He was born April 23, 1955, in Ogden, Utah, the son of Carl Robert and Pauline Burningham Schofield. He married Merlyn Smith, January 5, 1978, in the Idaho Falls LDS Temple. Kevin realized his dream of starting and operating a labor union in 1998 - Utah Alliance of Government Employees. Throughout his career Kevin assisted countless members through difficult situations with compassion and grace. Kevin enjoyed spending time in the outdoors, especially riding Harleys with his friends. Kevin was a member of the LDS church and served honorably in all his callings. He especially loved his work with the youth of the church. He is survived by his wife Merlyn; his sister Taryn; and countless nieces and nephews. He was preceded in death by his parents and his dog Micky. To celebrate the life and memory of Kevin, funeral services will be held Saturday, June 20, 2009, at 11 a.m. at the Kaysville 17th Ward Chapel, 875 E. 200 N., Kaysville. Funeral directors, Lindquist's Kaysville Mortuary, 400 North Main. Donations on behalf of Kevin may be made to the Kevin Larry Schofield Memorial Fund at Barnes Bank, 33 S. Main St., Kaysville, UT 84037. Our family invites you to express a favorite memory of Kevin by sending e-mail condolences to the family at www.lindquistmortuary.com Interment, Kaysville City Cemetery.

WOTD - PRECAUTION

The word of the day is: precaution

Parker’s little legs are three years old. Barely three years old, and full of little boy energy and reckless abandon. He runs down my driveway without the benefit of steady rhythm, the way I beat on my legs like they are drums but I’m not a drummer. Fast, but undisciplined. I fear he will not get the second little knee in front of the first in time to keep himself erect. He laughs as he does this, his arms hanging down to his side like he is throwing the wind behind him and his head bobbing as he chases after a ball or heads to the garage when he notices a hammer. Sometimes the legs don’t keep up, then we get to snuggle and hug until mommy gets home. Three years old. This is the tail end of the pre-caution days. Soon he will learn to be careful. He will remember the fall and the hurt and the blood and the tears and he will say to himself at the top of the driveway, “Remember….” And though he will still hurry, it will be a hurry without innocence.

I weep for the steady loss of naiveté I see dripping out of my grandchildren. I savor every time Sophie says she wants to make chot-lick drop cookies, knowing soon she will notice someone snickering over the translation of the word chocolate. She will crank her head to the side, purse her eyebrows and think about what they are talking about; then she’ll notice that grownups say “chocolate” and she will determine to change the way she says it and that will be the end of it. Timo will realize, if he hasn’t already that the words to the song Take Me Out to the Ballgame are “root, root, root for the home team” and not “fruit, fruit, fruit for the Pirates”.
My boy went through this, and all my girls. They all lost the “pre” and have decided to hang on to the “caution”. Some, more than others. My boy, with the child-heart of three year old Parker, hangs too heavy on the caution. I thought this might never come. I wondered if he would live through his years of reckless abandon. But he turned his head on his way up the mountain he said he would live on as a bachelor-hobo-writer and saw her. Could not turn his head back away from her. Found himself tethered to the love of his life, to taking care of her, and the three little ones who came through her. They stand in four corners, each holding a thread that keeps him attached to the ground like the ropes on a hot air balloon. Wit and whimsy are a flame, burning in the center of him. The heat keeps him aloft. The love keeps him grounded.

If anything will pop the balloon, or douse the flame, it will be his own propensity to worry, to imagine the worst of all scenario and fixate on it. He fights this. Four years of University study of world philosophy, two years of a religious flood as a missionary in England and Wales; all this gave categories for his worries, but did not take them away. Few people know his thoughts. Even he does not know all of them. They play as background to the music in his headphones. But they are always there. It is what makes him look in the rear view mirror when he backs out; what keeps his children in his peripheral vision when they are at the beach; what makes him stop to see Gram even when he’s worn out tired. They make him a poet and an artist and they make his guitar strings ring. I would take those deep thoughts away to give him rest, but the music is just so beautiful.