CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD REC HALL

The Old Rec Hall in Sandy holds many fonds memories for me. Each year, friends and neighbors would gather there for a special Christmas celebration. I remember the long walk to the Old Rec Hall with my sister and I thought we would never get there. It seemed that hundreds of people attended. There must have been some sort or program--although I don't remember any of it. I remember the squeaky floors and the long line of people waiting to see Santa up on the stage. The stage had maroon drapes but it seemed that blankets were hung to section off the room for I remember walking down the make-shift isles to the stage where Santa sat.

I felt afraid of him and timidly approached him to get my sack of goodies. It had an orange, peanuts, and hard-tack ripple candy. I remember the fibers of the peanut shells sticking to the sticky hard-tack candy. So, in order to eat the candy, the fibers had to be licked off. I was secretly disappointed with the bag of treats but eagerly received it anyway.

The hard-tack ripple candy was a favorite of my mother's and it seemed to find its way into our home every Christmas. I believe my mother was the only one who ate it however. It reminded her of her childhood and her years as a young girl on the farm when a single piece of colorful candy would be sucked on for hours and made to last the whole day. Mother's candy specialities were dollar mints and chocolate-peanut clusters. She always had a stash of her favorites in the bedroom and every time she went shopping, she would buy another bag. She was always generous with her candy and would surprise us with a little treat when least expected.

Today I am grateful for the memory of such a simple bag of goodies. Things were different then. Children did not expect the sun and the moon and the stars under the tree. I think it was better then. People seemed more focused on the simple joy of celebrating Christmas. I love returning to the Old Rec Hall every year. It brings back such fond memories for me.

A few weeks before Christmas, we would go as a family to buy a fresh tree. Dad would drive us there and let us pick out the tree we desired. But the truth is that I always picked the one that I thought he would like best. He brought twine and would tie the tree to the roof or the trunk of the car. He always had to build the tree for it was never perfect and seemed to always have a gaping whole in it. So he would saw off a branch elsewhere and somehow attach it where it was need.

One year when Loraine and I were young, the family had decorated the tree the night before and it was magnificent. I had never seen such a splendid sight. Why it was the most beautiful tree in the entire world. It had bubble lights and icicles and all sorts of colored bulbs. Loraine and I loved it so much that the next morning we got up early to view it with the lights on and noticed that the windows were steamy. So we got some rags to wipe off the front window. Unfortunately, as we were eagerly cleaning the window so that everyone could see it, we knocked the tree over, water and all. We then had the task of going into Mother and Dad's bedroom to tell them that we had just knocked the tree over and water was everywhere. They must have understood how excited we were, for they simply got out of bed, cleaned up the water, and put the tree in its upright position. It is a delicious memory for me--even with the ripple candy and peanut fibers. Yum!

HIGH FLIGHT

(The poem I wish I had written. My heart fairly soars as I read these beautiful, insightful words.)

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
you have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
high in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
my eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
where never lark, or ever eagle flew--
and, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
the high untresspassed sanctity of space,
put out my hand and touched the face of God.

(Written by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee. He died a few months after writing this beautiful poem on a scrap of paper and sent it to his parents. He wrote the entire poem on flight as his heart with filled with inspiration. He died at the age of 19. It makes me appreciate even more the magesty of creation. He was truly inspired.)

BLIGHTFULLY UTAH

I took the opportunity to drive past my parent's home last week and I was amazed how it had changed over the years. It is an older neighborhood but had a certain charm. As a matter of fact, the bottom of Pioneer Avenue is littered with once lovely mansions. Today, however, it has become a street with blight and decay. I am very sad. The street that was once nicknamed "Blossom" now looks like the faded bloom of a withered rose.

I remember when Lady Bird Johnson campaigned for us to clean up our yards and to beautify the land. As the First Lady of the Country, her strong voice was heard as she encouraged us to take stewardship of our property and to care for our yards. I believe she was able to make a difference in the attractiveness of the neighborhoods across America as she admonished us to clean up, put away, and even get rid of those things that did not add to the beauty of our country. She taught us to have pride in our yards by taking care of them and then by being an example to others.

Under her tutelage, private and city properties were groomed and tended and beautiful beds of flowers were planted for the enjoyment of the entire community. But that was many years ago; and it is time, once again, to remember her admonition to "beautify the land."

The cooler temperatures, the shorter days, and the occasional rain may give us cause to think that it is time to curl up in front of the fireplace and to drink hot chocolate. This, of course, is true. However, there will be plenty of warm, golden days ahead where we can work in our yards to pull weeds, to groom the lawn, to sweep the gutters, to clean up our porches, to pick up debris which have blown in, to put away tools and toys, and to get the garden "ready to be put to bed." Then when winter finally arrives, our neighborhood will be so much more beautiful with yards which have been cared for in the fall.

We are truly fortunate--for living in our neighborhood is an awesome blessing. Where else on earth will we find such wonderful people than our own little corner of the world? Let's join together, each one of us taking responsibility for our own property, to groom and beautify our yards, so that we may visually enjoy the neighborhood during the season ahead.

SCHOOL NERVES

The first day of school has always made me feel so nervous. I remember my stomach churned and I fretted about who my new teacher would be. But mother said I would be just fine and not to worry--but I did anyway. I have always been so nervous.

Last year, I stood in line at the second grade door and now I have to stand in line at the third grade door, and I am afraid that I will get mixed up like I did last year. So, I stood outside the school's door like a tin soldier with my arms straight down by my side and my head straight ahead so that the teachers would see what a nice girl I would be. But they did not seem to notice.

The teachers finally came to call roll and I secretly wanted the pretty teacher with the Ipana smile to call my name. She never did. The old teacher with the frowning face did. She did not look like she was going to be a bit of fun--so now I really felt nervous.

Then one day she said, "My, look how round your 'O' is." "Oh, your 'P' is perfect." "Wow, I like the way you color inside the lines." Then I noticed something sort of strange. Her frown turned upside down and I was surprised to see that she had an Ipana smile too. So now school does not make me nervous any more.

The first day of school has always made me feel so nervous. I remember the first day I taught school. I was so nervous that my head ached and I fretted about who my students would be. But my husband said I would be just fine and not to worry--but I did anyway. I have always been so nervous.

Last year, I taught third grade and now I will teach fourth and I am afraid that I might get mixed up like I did last year. I opened the school's door nervously and stood with the other teachers like a tin soldier with my arms at my side and my head straight ahead so that the children would see what a nice teacher I would be. But they did not seem to notice.

School was to begin and I secretly wanted to call the names of the students who were bright and shiny and had Ipana smiles, but they weren't on my list so I called on the students with frowning faces. They did not look like they were going to be a bit of fun--so now I felt nervous for sure.

Then one day, one of the students said, "My, look how nice your writing is." "Oh, I like the way you draw." "Wow, you really know how to read a good story!" So, now school does not make me nervous any more.

CRACKS IN THE SIDEWALK

Old habits are very hard to change. I remember as young girl walking with my sister along Main Street in Historic Sandy to go to the store for my mother. The stride of my walk was very irregular. Some steps were short, and some were extra long because I was cautious not to step on a crack for I did not want to "break my mother's back." It must have been very odd watching me walk for I kept this up the entire length of the cement sidewalk. I wonder where on earth that old sage advice came from and what made people think that stepping on a crack in the sidewalk would cause bodily injury to someone else. I am sure its origin must be unique. I can only say that because of my cautious nature, my mother never had a broken back. The conclusion is that the old saying was justifiably true.

Even today, I find myself being cautious not to step on a crack--wouldn't want my mother, who now residing in Heaven, to break her heavenly back. Sometimes I say to myself, "This is complete nonsense to think that I am hurting my mother by stepping on the crack!" Not wanting to keep up this craziness, one day I intentionally stepped on a crack just to prove the old saying to be wrong; and wouldn't you know it, as I deliberately stepped my foot down on the crack, which also had weeds growing out of it, I twisted my ankle. From that time forward, I have become a believer. I am now convinced that a crack in the sidewalk must have some kind of secret powers and, if you are not careful, it will indeed break your back! Craziness or not, I now have a healthy respect for all sidewalk cracks. I don't try to second guess them for they lay in wait for their next unsuspecting victim. I am convinced they can see you coming!

ENCHANTING

I've noticed the two of them on several occasions in the same cloth store which I frequent. They obviously enjoy their friendship with each other and even their lunch as they spread out their sandwiches, potato chips, and carrots on the cloth-cutting table--apparently oblivious to those around them who have come to the table to have their cloth measured and cut. I've wondered why someone has not say something to them about getting mustard on the yardage. But I figured that if it does not bother those getting their cloth cut, then it does not bother me.

As I've observed the two, I've discovered two very delightful and intelligent women whose friendship is rare. One woman is in a wheelchair. Her body is ravaged by some dreaded disease which has caused her to be twisted and slumped over. The other woman is in better health, or at least she is walking around, but seems to have challenges of her own. It is obvious that they go to the store for the same reason that I go to the store which is to be visually and mentally stimulated.

One sunny afternoon, as I was in the cloth shop for my weekly jaunt, I saw them as they strolled up and down the isles--one walking and one in the wheelchair--and they stopped at each display to study each treasure. After sometime had passed, and to my delight, I over heard one woman calling to the other (for they had separated and were on different isles) and she wondered where her friend was. The woman in the wheelchair sweetly called back that she had become "enchanted" with some decoration and that she had been studying it for some time.

"Enchanted." What a lovely word. I had visions of a beautiful piece of art work which had been creatively, exquisitely designed and crafted and was now on sale. I thought that I must surely go see what the item was that was so "enchanting." So after the woman in the wheelchair left, I looked and looked around the display case but could not see what had been so "enchanting" that it caused her to hold it, feel it, study it, and enjoy it.

I had a slight pang of envy for I, too, wanted to be "enchanted" by something rare and beautiful. It was then that I realized that "enchantment" is in the eyes of the beholder.

VIGNETTING

The technique of vignetting, a term used in oil painting, which means to shade off gradually into the background, blends the oils and mixes the colors nicely. The artist loads an ample amount of paint to the tip of each brush and then strokes the brush in a crisscross fashion across the canvas. Although the colors blend beautifully, as the light hits the canvas at different angles, to my way of thinking, the technique sometimes looks rather artificial.

Tonight, however, as I was admiring the beautiful sunset and thinking how wonderful it would be to have such a large canvas on which to express myself, I noticed bold strokes of color which crisscrossed and remarkably resembled the technique of vignetting. Splashes of color--Alizarin Red, Cadmium Orange and Yellow, Moss Green, and hints of Sepia--dotted the horizon. I imagined a gigantic sable paint brush dabbing and stroking against the canvas of the sky. What Technicolor! What technique! What splendor! But with each passing minute, the hues and texture of the sky morphed and gradually the sun lowered behind the mountain leaving only a hint of color and the faded memory of Chinese White, Payne's Grey, and a dab of Thalo Blue. The Technicolor sky was almost gone but the Great Artist's impression of vignetting left a lasting memory of beauty. What a marvelous sight!