MY BAROMETER

“Oh yes, I’m the great pretender.” 

I can sing you the tune to that whole Platters/Orbison/Mercury song, but the only lyric I know is that first line. I still hum it when I play with my grandkids. I really am a pretty unfettered pretender. I can easily let go of reality and imagine I’m Rainbow Dash, or any other Pretty Pony. Or I can happily forget I’m an old lady when I’m serving invisible ice cream cones at the playground in Liberty Park, offering playground bark French fries for four-year-old Gracie’s pretend order. 

I think that’s why Historic Plymouth Plantation near Boston is one of my favorite places to visit. The whole community of docents who play Pilgrim roles make me feel like I am right there, way back in time when the hillsides all around were lush with deep woody untouched undergrowth, with layer on layer of natural flora under hovering natural arbors. The salty sea air mixes with the scent of wood smoke, and the sounds of my daily life are individual and distinct: I can hear my feet padding along the pathway between our spare thatch roofed houses, the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer and the belching of his bellows. My linen skirt swishes around my ankles. There are no cars, no televisions, no electricity humming constantly in the background. Just the whisper of the wind and an occasional call of seabirds. Plymouth is made for great pretenders.

When our kids were all in elementary school together, and they were on the year-round school schedule, we took a trip to Boston to visit my sister, Libby in late October. That’s when I found this wonderful replica of a glass barometer in the Plymouth Plantation gift shop. It has a hammered iron hook and drip bowl, and a lovely blown glass bulb. 

I mix red food dye with water in a bowl by my kitchen sink, maybe a cup or two. Then, dipping the tip of a platic medical syringe in the water, I suck a few ml. at a time up into the syringe, then gently set the tip of it into the slender spout of the barometer. Slowly the bulb fills with the colored water. When it is an inch or two above the elbow where the spout meets the belly, I stop. I gently wipe the glass dry, then hang it from the hook. It sits here on the wall of our family room, beside my leather easy chair. It speaks to me daily, without words, telling me when the day is destined to be calm, or if a storm is coming, giving justification to my aching bones. It has become as much a part of our daily routine as the tick tock of the swinging pendulum on the grandfather clock in our entry hall, or the melody of the Winchester chime on the clock hanging on the family room wall. Sometimes I get so focused on my indoor tasks I forget to notice what is happening outside. But my barometer knows. I’ll be sitting here peacefully, clicking away on my laptop computer, and I’ll glance up to see the red water clean up to the tippy top of the arm on that glass contraption, and when the storm is imminent, it will sometimes drip right on out and drop down the curve and down into the drip bowl. Then I will get myself up and go to the window, pull up the blind, and sure enough, the sky will be darkening and storm clouds will be rolling in.

I do not know how a barometer works. I will likely Google it in a minute here. I know it has to do with air pressure, and vacuum spaces, but I couldn’t, at this point explain it you anyone. But my not understanding how it works does not keep me from trusting it. 

There are many beautiful mysteries in my daily life: my heater almost instinctively knows when to turn itself on and off, I just push a little plastic button when the sun sets and there’s plenty of light in our house. I am daily reminded how blessed we are to have flushing toilets, right in our homes and other buildings. I haven’t studied how it works, but boy am I glad it does.

I also do not know what happens in the human body when cells divide for good or for bad, or how a broken bone heals, or how something that will take the life of one person will pass on through another. 

And I do not know the great mysteries of the universe. I have a good guess about where we come from, and where we go after we die, but it’s not something I can scientifically prove to you. All I know is I have a sort of confidence in it, like I have in my barometer. And even though I don’t know how it works, or why it works, it works nonetheless. And I’m glad that Someone, even if it’s not me, has it figured out.

LENT 2020 - THE HAND OF GOD

The sun had sunk into the meadow, and that dry Idaho air turned, almost in an instant, to a goose-bumpy chill, as if some unseen angel opened the massive door to heaven’s ice box. The token Priesthood that accompanied us at our Girls Camp had prepared a fire while the sun still shone, in that blazing heat, knowing it should be trusty and radiant by dark. God bless devoted men.

I was serving as president of the Young Women’s group in our church, overseeing a few dozen girls between 12 and 18 years old, and we had spent four memorable days at Sheri Brown’s family cabin near Preston. We rode horses through the sagebrush, shot rifles at tin cans, floated lazily down the river on inflated tire inner tubes. We had gobbled up Suzi Ferg’s delicious culinary delights, had strummed tiny ukuleles, made unimportant crafts, and pondered important scripture together. We prayed daily, and sang nightly, and now, at the end of our adventure, we gathered around that well-tended fire and cinched our hearts to each other as we bound them to the Lord. Testimony meeting. It’s a long-honored tradition in church camps. I have participated in such circles since my youth.

There’s a safety in nature, and a freedom. When you have a group of gals around a campfire, and they’re tired - not sleepy, just tired - their defenses are down and their hearts are soft, it seems to allow shields to fall and tenderness to rise. This is the time we invite each other to share our faith, and to witness what we believe. But I knew there were girls among us who had within them unsprouted seeds of faith, and putting them on the spot about their testimonies was not what we wanted. So, after we played a couple songs on our ukuleles, singing slower than usual in order for everyone to switch their fingers between chords, I stood and spoke.

“We’ve had a great time up here. It’s been awesome…even getting up a couple hours after we went to bed in order to hike that mountain and watch the sun rise. Watching that light peek over the mountain, one tiny little ray, then a pink glow, then a full-on face-warming brilliance – I saw the hand of God in that. And I saw His hand in the way I watched you help each other climb, and how you linked arms on the water to keep from going down the wrong fork in the river. And I saw His hand in the bravery of one of you when your horse took off unexpectedly and you held on like crazy. And I saw His hand in the homesick tears of some of our Beehives and how some of you Laurels used humor to ease the ache of your sisters. I’ve seen His hand so much these past four days. The thing is, many people see such things and don’t recognize it as God’s hand. So, tonight I’m inviting each of you to tell us when you have seen God’s hand in your lives, in these last few days, or other times throughout your lives.”

One by one the girls stood, tucked their hands into the pockets of their sweatshirts, curled their shoulders in toward their hearts, and witnessed to each other and to their Lord that they had noticed Him. Even those who could not testify to their knowledge of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ could say they had seen God’s hand in their lives. It united all of us, and we left that circle enriched and enlightened. I carry that evening in the memory box I keep tucked under my heart.

When I pause to notice it, I see the hand of God pretty much everywhere. The trick is in making myself look for it. Whether massively life changing moments, or in tiny seemingly inconsequential snips of daily existence, the exercise of noticing His hand changes the way I approach each day. Like pretty much everything else,it begins with "desire". The desire is the lifting of the veil, the shifting of the blinds. From where I sit, I close my eyes and ponder my day, each little moment, and if I see clearly, I always see the hand of God.

______________________

Because I am incapable of disposing anything of sentimental value, I happen to have saved some photos of that Girls Camp. See below.

 

Our motley crew of Young Women (some of us not-so-young)

Dry. 

Wet.

Our littlest YW, Stephanie.

Mounting our trusty steeds.

Unimportant, but fun, crafts 

Outside the Logan temple. 

They'll go inside sometday.
(most of them already have now) 

Taking aim.

We be jammin'.

Rocking their ukuleles.

Who ever wants to actually sleep at "camp"?

Are they not just so beautiful?
This seems a lifetime ago.
 Each of these girls has become a
brilliant, radiant, accomplished woman now.

The Harris sisters. 

Cassie leaves a love note.

I love them still.

You may or may not know that, like in days of old, God has appointed a prophet to keep us on the path back home. It’s awesome to live in these times, when such a thing has been restored. Our prophet today is Russell M Nelson. He is world renowned as a pioneering heart surgeon.

But we of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, revere him as one who knows the non-physical workings of the heart as well. Here’s what he said today:

In this special year, as we commemorate the 200th anniversary of the First Vision (of Joseph Smith, Google it if you don’t know),I invite you to think deeply and often about this key question: How do you hear Him? I also invite you to take steps to hear Him better and more often.

President Russell M Nelson

FIRST DAY

This week we sent our littles out into the open sea, two of them for the first time, into the rolling waters of public school. I joined our daughter Annie when she took little Beth to Kindergarten, under the ruse of keeping an eye on baby Tess. For sure, I kept a virtual leash on Tessa, who was infatuated with all things Kindergarten. But my eyes were on Beth, and on her mama. I recall vividly that day I took Annie to her first day of kindergarten. That’s a story for another day.

The last week or so Bethy Boo has been on edge, strangely emotional about the most unlikely things. She hid in the closet at her first ballet class, too nervous to dance. She refused to eat her favorite foods. Experience told me it was rising bubbles of nerves at the prospect of going into that big brick building away from her mama and little sister, every day. The great unknown was frightening to her. We tried to be all chipper and excited that first day, but she wasn’t buying it. Nonetheless, she’s her mama’s daughter, and she doesn’t like the feeling of sad, so on the actual first day she chose happy, even with the anxiety that came with it.

As I watched her walk across the playground into the kindergarten door, I was struck at how massive that  brand new backpack looked on her little shoulders. It was actually quite comical to watch the whole stream of kiddos with their giant backpacks and new first-day outfits. After she traced her hand and cut it out, filled out a questionnaire about her favorite things (Q: food- A: clam chowder), met her teachers and listened to a storybook, Beth was a happy camper. It was Annie who was in tears.

It’s a heart thing.

Mama’s hearts have all sorts of scars. Sometimes they rip in the same places, over and over. But they are resilient and they heal and they keep on pumping, even when they hurt.

The first week of school is a heart-wrecker. It feels to me like life in a micro-span. Excitement, worry, tension, work, play, anxiety, exhaustion, triggered memories and concerned anticipation… it’s all there. 

I watch Beth and Walter head off to that big old brick building with those giant backpacks and I whisper a literal prayer as they walk. Bless them with courage, and a willingness to make mistakes in the process of learning, and if possible send them one true friend.

It seems to me fitting that this week we also celebrate my mom’s walk across the heavenly playground on her way to her higher education.

Seven years ago today she drew her last human breath and headed off, leaving her children as weepy as Annie on Beth’s first day of school. That whole first year we shed the kind of tears that trickle unbeckoned from the corners of the eye, even in the most joyful moments. Especially in the most joyful moments. They still come, but we are familiar with them now. They are the fluid sap that works its way through the bark of the tree of love. 

I picture our mom with a giant brand new backpack slung over her shoulder. She dances across the playground, her slender fingers flipping to the beat as she twirls. She sees us as she spins, and calls to us to follow, but she never breaks her stride. She knows where she is going. Her mom is there, and all her sisters and brothers, and her papa and her Jesus.

She is alive and well, I have no doubt. I have a lot of doubt about all sorts of stuff, but not this. She is alive and well. 

It’s just that she feels so far away.

GET GOOD AT GUITAR (or UKE)

September 5th we will be starting up six new guitar/ukulele groups. If you'd like to join one of them, read on:

GIRLS with GUITARS (women, actually)

Thursdays for 5 weeks, Sept 5 - Oct 3

at my house in Farmington

9:15 - 10 am - Beginner 1 (totally new to the instrument)

10:15 - 11 am - Beginner 2 ( you know basic chords)

11:15 - 12 noon - Intermediate/Advanced (we will work on fingerpicking)

$45 (materials included) BYOI (bring your own instrument)

REGISTER through Venmo @Cori-Connors-1. Put your class time and phone number in Venmo comments. I will text you confirmation and my address.

Class size is limited.

email if you have any questions: cori@coriconnors.com

FARMINGTON CITY CLASSES

Thursday evenings, Sept 5 - Sept 26 (4 weeks)

at Farmington Arts Center lower level

Beginner UKULELE -  4:45- 5:15 (ages 9 and older)

Beginner Guitar - 5:30 - 6:00 (ages 11 and older)

Intermediate/Advanced Guitar - 6:15-6:45

REGISTER through Farmington Parks and Recreation
$40 Residents/ $50 non-residents
801-451-0953 or online HERE

Both groups are half hour lessons, we just allow an extra 15 minutes to our ladies groups because we like to gab.
If we have less than five people register, the class is cancelled. I'll let you know if this is the case, and you'll be refunded. Maximum 15 per class. I teach accompaniment style, which is basically chords, strumming and fingerpicking. I do not teach how to read sheet music or classical style guitar.

LOVE LETTERS

In four decades of living with Dave Connors I can only recall two times when I heard him passionately and forcefully raise his voice. Once was as a coach on the ball field, defending one of his teenage softball players. The other was in the cafeteria of the Junior High, defending his son. I had arrived late for parent/teacher conference and when I entered the room I thought I heard my husband’s voice, but it didn’t register because it was so out of character for him to be at that pitch and that volume. I must have a husband-homing device, because it didn’t look like anyone else noticed it, except the teacher, of course. I found David in a heated discussion with our son John’s English teacher. I don’t even recall his name, but he had a particularly elementary attitude about the importance of spelling in creative writing. What started out as an amenable interchange turned into a little philosophical brawl, the teacher defending the value of correct spelling, and David defending the importance of safely expressing creative thought without the hovering stick of an editor restraining the writer. I slipped over to their table and listened, proud of what I heard my husband saying. “If you insist that this talented thinker worry about being punished for misspelling, he will train himself to use safe words rather than accurate ones. We are not willing to let you do that. He is a gifted writer, and a true thinker, and we will not let you squelch that creative brilliance over something like spelling.” It’s not that we don’t appreciate the value of correct spelling in a finished piece, but when one is in the process of creating, spelling must not play a role. The editor gets to come play after the creator is done. I don’t recall how the whole thing resolved itself. I do know, however, that this boy ended up being a lover of words, and a fine wordsmith. He has the heart of a poet, with a large diverse play list perpetually spinning in his brain, and he’s one of the most creatively gifted humans I know.

Everyone has a story.

The thing about creative people, at least the ones I’ve encountered, is that in the process of owning that piece of genius bestowed on them at birth, they tend to grow a little off center, like unpruned trees that have a split trunk where one side takes over and throws things off balance. John appears pretty balanced, at least on the outside. Not that he doesn’t have his quirks, like the rest of us. He has exceptional social skills, and unlike many introverted creatives, he has real interest in other people and how they think and work. He has this way of leaning into you in a conversation, especially if you are new to him. Like a magnet, he draws people’s gifts out, as if they were little shreds of metal shavings. He is able to see their gifts, and appreciate them. So, it is no surprise that he has made a career of assembling talents and making something of the collection. His latest venture seems the perfect marriage of his talents. He has gathered together the raw materials of human communication: Letters - and wrapped them in their finest most creative dress: Art. 

Larger than life.

For months I have watched, from my distant maternal perch, this boy-turned-man rotate on the axis of the English alphabet. All through the winter and spring I made weekly stops at thrift stores, purchasing 100 pounds of books at a time, buying them by weight from the Goodwill store, and storing them on our back porch in stacks and stacks of boxes. Each time we stopped at John and Ashley’s house there was some new creation in process: a scene from Alice in Wonderland sculpted from pages of the book; a large literary arch of books reinforced with metal rebar; wood carved letter blocks. Their home was a wonderland of creative process always in the works. Kudos to Ashley for understanding the messiness of creativity. Blessings on their children for getting to swirl in that space.

John in the rainbow library.

This week we took our family to the finished product, the culmination of this creative assemblage: LOVE LETTERS. At the Gateway Mall, where Coldwater Creek and The Gap used to be, the space has been transformed into an artful intimate look at our relationship with letters. He and his friend, renowned letter artist Becca Clason, have orchestrated a symphony of letter artists from around the world, shining a spotlight on each of their particular talents, and at the same time introducing we plain old humans to the magic that is around us every day. I am reminded how magical it is for us, in this juncture of time, to have access to beauty without hardly trying. The Love Letters Museum is an aesthetically moving reminder that we are blessed with 26 pieces of raw material with which we create unlimited things of beauty, or pain, or tragedy, or grace. Like the collection of our limited number of music notes creates unlimited magic in all its forms, so do Letters. We use them daily, on paper and audibly, stringing them together in our own way, with our own distinct patterns. I came out of LOVE LETTERS with a quiet reverence for them, for the role they play in my personal life, grateful for the tool they are in my relationships. 

Gracie learns to stamp her name.

I am reminded that we are all wordsmiths, and understanding that makes me a more conscientious steward over the tools of my trade. Even more, I am moved by the brilliance and beauty of a world of artists I had not known before, whose work stirs me. I am in awe of their gifts, as they work with the holy trinity of a visual artist: the heart, the mind and the hands. Its apparent they mold their letters with love.

Click HERE to see more about Love Letters Museum: An interactive art exhibit encouraging guests of all ages to use letters, words and art to tell their story. It's only in SLC until mid-September.

My favorite people on
giant letter blocks that move.

Goofy kiddos

You can visit wonderful exotic places and never leave your couch.

Write a letter to someone you love and they will mail it for you

John and his buddy Sophie, a partner in creative crime!

Ruby slides down the pages of Alice in Wonderland.

There is a magical art gallery where artists
were invited to paint from one of their favorite
children's books. You can open some of the paintings
and peek into a tiny spaces, one of them a
replica of the room you're in.
(or, as Anna has done here, you can enter that space!)

Tiny kids in a tiny room.

In the end, there is a large paper shredder
inviting us to let go of our mistakes

Calvin makes his own button,

My brother, George,
constructs with letters.

this wonderful exhibit lets you
walk through words, literally.

Before we can construct some things,
we must first deconstruct the norm.

Watch how this changes as you walk past it.

Thank you, Uncle John.

SUZY FERG'S LICORICE CARAMELS

My pal Suzy Q has magical hands. You would seriously consider becoming deathly ill just to get a meal from her. Or a cake. Or pie. Or these sweet little black treasures that we have taken to hiding from visiting friends and family.
I post this for my own use, because when I am in Michigan or New York, and I need my recipes, I just turn to this blog. But if you happen upon it, well, just consider yourself lucky.

Licorice Caramels (oh, yeah)
1 C butter
2 c sugar
1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk (1 1/4 c)
1 c light corn syrup
1/8 t salt
1 t. anise extract
1/2 t black or red food coloring paste

Line 9x9x2" pan with foil, extending foil over the edges. Butter the foil.

In a heavy 3 qt saucepan melt butter over low heat. Add sugar, sweetened condensed milk, corn syrup and salt. Mix well. Carefully clip candy thermometer to side of pan.

Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly till it reaches 220 degrees or thread stage. dip a spoon in mixture and trickle it into cold water. if it maintains a thread-like state, it's ready. A little more firm than soft ball, but not as hard as hard-ball. Mixture should boil at a steady rate over entire surface. It will scorch easily, so continuously scrape bottom of pan. Remove from heat, remove candy thermometer, and stir in anise and food coloring.

Quickly pour candy, without scraping sides, into buttered-foil-lined pan. Cool for several hours or till firm. Use foil to lift candy out of pan onto cutting board.  Peel foil away. With a buttered sharp knife cut immediately into 1 inch squares. Wrap each piece individually in waxed paper.

WRAPPER: cut six inch strip of paper, then trim to 4 inch pieces. so each piece is 6x4 inches. Wrap around caramels and twist ends like taffy wrap.