Yep, That's Idaho

Here's the sign I saw in front of a shop as I drove home from Nampa.

ALPHA OMEGA

GUN SHOP

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The Cheese Stands Alone, I Think

I bought some Cache Valley cheese the other day. I cannot even look at the Cache Valley label, whether I buy it or not, without thinking of my mother. She said Cache Valley Cheese was the best. I believed her. She was my mother. Besides, the proof of the truth was in the eating. It's good cheese.

I suppose my mother was partial to it, partly, because Logan, Utah, is where she first saw my dad. She was a student (briefly) at Utah State, and he was secretary to that school's president. Anyway, Cache Valley is the cheese our family preferred, not that cheese was our entire diet. And, yes, eating the cheese is proof of its goodness and, by the way, its marked superiority over Kraft cheeses.

Then we--my mother, father, probably my little sister, and I--took a trip to Tillamook, Oregon, and toured the cheese factory there. This is long ago, when I was young. Like in the 1950s. Shocking.

Something about watching the making of the cheese, hearing the explanations that accompany the tour and the production of their cheese--something about that makes you feel like this is good cheese, and it is yours, your cheese.

That's how I felt, even as a very young person.

So now, except for the other day, I only buy Tillamook cheese, preferring their medium cheddar. Once, several years ago, I bought a brick of Bandon cheddar. It was cheaper. But I heard about it from my children, particularly Richard.

He explained something I already knew. "You can taste the difference, Mom."

But hmmm, Bandon is also a town in Oregon, a cheese producing town. But again, hmmm, In 2000 Bandon closed its factory. Then Tillamook Cheese bought the Bandon factory.

Here's the thing: you can look online and get the whole sordid story, and it is kind of sordid, since Tillamook claims all of its cheese is Oregon Coast cheese, while the truth is that some cheeses are made in Wisconsin and shipped to Tillamook. People who live in Tillamook and nearby towns are angry about this deceptive behavior on the part of Tillamook Cheese. These people claim the Wisconsin cheese is inferior because the cows are inferior, which makes their milk inferior.

And so on. Google it.

What shall Richard and I think? I'm not sure, but I do know what cheese I prefer. It's Tillamook.

Something or Other

Last week I heard someone say, "The days go slowly but the years go fast."

I thought if you said that to a young mother with kids at home, she would likely believe only the first part, especially on those hard, long days.

An older woman, whose children are gone, would know the truth of the second part, might remember only partially the first part, maybe even wish to have those slow long days back.

I remember my mother telling me to enjoy these days while my kids are young and at home. I was always busy, working hard, trying to keep up with everything and everyone--seven kids, remember, not to mention a husband. I thought she must have forgotten a lot. Some days, not all of them, mind you, just some days were hard.

The truth? I did not want her to say that to me. It just felt like criticism, disapproval, and I believed I was doing my best. Did I learn from that? What not to say to my children? I'd like to say, Of Course I did. But I likely didn't. Now I know the message was a true one--I should enjoy my children while I had them near.

Well, I did. But I still had a lot to do. All the time.

Whatever, as we say.

*     *     *

The Gordman's near my home is going out of business. I didn't shop there much but once bought a lamp for a decent price--yes, a cheap lamp. So yesterday I went, bought another cheap lamp, brought it home, put in a bulb, and guess what. It didn't work. I moved the lamp around through the air (as if that would help), fiddled with the cord, and got a flash of light. I turned it off then on again. Nothing. Again on and off, again the flicker. I checked the switch, the cord at the bottom, where it attaches to the lamp. No light.

I took it back, even though I had been told and had read All Sales Final. I thought surely they would take back a faulty (no good, not working) lamp. 

You guessed it. NO. Manager told me four times there was nothing he could do. I'm mad.

Just Thinking

90 is the new 70.

For many of you, that has no appeal. And, really, it's kind of a joke.

But that is what I thought as John Reed was telling me he'll soon be 90 and his tenor voice is not quite what it used to be. (Duh!) He wanted to sing in the choir, but didn't come to practice, so he called to tell me why and see if I would excuse him from singing. I surely will.

I assured him, we have four tenors now, so he's off any hook he had put himself on. He was relieved. So was I, if you want to know the truth.

This age thing. I have written about it more than a couple of times. And recently I wrote that contrary to what you might have heard all your life, age it is not entirely relative. Not entirely, but a little bit, because some days I'm not nearly as old as my numbers tell me. Others days, oh yeah, I'm old.

John is still physically able, still driving. Yes, I know. You're thinking you don't want to be on the same road he's driving. Whatever.

Here's what I'm thinking. Old people are getting younger. I know quite a few people in their 80s, three of my siblings among them. Still going strong. And one woman in my ward is 92. You can see her every Sunday at church.

I say good.

Just Another Question

I am standing on the front lawn across the walkway from the palm tree, holding my dog, Sweetiepie. I love her, and she knows it. She is gone now, long dead. It happened on a regular California beautiful day. We were playing with our dog in the backyard, my brother Sterling and I. One of us threw the ball across the street to the vacant lot so Sweetiepie would run and get it. No one had to tell her. She knew what to do. 

On her way back across the street, running to us with the ball in her mouth, she was hit by a car, and the man who drove it did not stop. He killed our dog, and didn't stop. I hated him as much as I loved her. We gathered her up watched her die in the backyard while we wept in sorrow and disbelief. And I am crying now as I read what I have written here.

This is not what I was going to write about but I couldn't help myself. I had to tell this part, maybe to show how much we loved her, how much I loved her. After 60 years I think of her and wonder what happened to that love. There was so much of it, and I still feel it. But Sweetiepie cannot feel it now. Can she? So what happens to it? Does it float in the air, waiting to be put onto or into something or someone else?

I am thinking not only about my dog, of course. She came to mind because Sterling told me again that he has that photograph of me holding her, and so I thought about all the love I have felt for those who are no longer here on earth. My mother, small bundle of energy and large intelligence, and about how much I loved her.  And my father, whom I loved more after he died than before, or I should say I recognized  the love I felt then, after he died.

And my husband, Wayne, who died much too soon. He was 63 and we were finally learning how to be married, because for us, we had to start getting old before we knew much. I'll speak for myself. I thought I knew a lot, but now I see more clearly--I didn't know much, not much at all. That is not what this is about either. It is about all that love, and I wonder where that love is now, my love for him. And what about his love for me?

And my friend Joyce. I loved her. Still do, I suppose, but she died and so I put the word in the past tense, loved. That's because I can't go visit her, which would show her that I love her.

I want to ask the same question. What has become of the all the love I felt and gave to them when they lived? Where is it now? Stuck inside me?

Does anyone know? Really know?

A Story, True Story Part 2

People write about these large events. I do not know if I wrote anything, so consumed I was with the event itself. And its very long aftermath. So I write from memory, and some things I have surely not remembered.

For instance, I don't remember what time of day it was when I went over to St Al's, following the ambulance as best I could, because I didn't know where the place was.  It was no longer early morning, and I am only assuming I took Alyce with me that first day. That first day . . . the first of many I would spend in the waiting room of the Critical Care Unit, waiting, yes, hoping I would be let in to see Wayne. There would be many other days, and for those I called upon a friend who had sung in the Women's Ensemble I directed for several years and who had moved to Boise, LaRae Hemenway. What a gift she gave me.

She had a life, you know, and we were not close friends, but she was a good friend. She kept Alyce while I was at the hospital. I would go to her house every few hours to feed my baby girl, then hurry back to St Al's. I probably asked how my baby behaved for LaRae. Pretty sure I always got a glowing report. Members of my ward, Caldwell 2nd, took Richard as the days went on, so that Grandma and Grandpa Schiess could also come to the hospital. People in the Ward also took meals to my family at home, hauled my children to the places they had to be, and just took care of things back in Caldwell so I could be in Boise every day. If I could remember exactly how many days, I would say so, but I know it was more than a few.

That's because Wayne was not awake. Still unconscious, in a coma, I believe they call it, although I never thought the word would apply to my husband. He lay in that hospital bed--and not peacefully. He thrashed and twisted and tried to pull out the tubes and IV lines attached to him. They tied him down, strapped him in, however you want to say it, to keep him from tearing those lines out and from pulling his gown up or off. Unconscious or not, he did not respond well to being tied down.

But until he woke up, he had to stay in that bed, restrained and hurt.

It was a serious head injury, the doctors told me, and they could not promise me anything about Wayne's future. I suppose it was possible that Wayne not come out of that coma, but thought he would. (I was young, remember, and I could not bear to think otherwise.) In the meantime, I went in when they let me looked at him. I probably spoke to him, which took courage. Try to imagine my fear. He wasn't quite like my husband.

I learned that he was not hurt in any other part of his body. That's good, I thought, now if he can just wake up, everything will be fine. I hoped. I prayed. I assumed. It had to be that way.

A Story, True Story Part 1

I'm not sure if I can write this. It's long and involved and long past. But it has been much on my mind, and I think I need to write it, should write it, so I will begin to attempt.

April 1976. Wayne, my husband, was driving from his early morning seminary class, which he taught, to the JR Simplot Company, where he worked. The road cut through a rural area, alongside fields, and was no doubt sparsely traveled in the early morning. But at a certain intersection--two-way stop--a young woman ran the stop sign and crashed into the driver's side of Wayne's car. Because she was driving a large car and traveling fast, and because she did not slow her car, it hit with great force, pushing the part where Wayne was sitting nearly to the center of his car. People who later saw it, a small Datsun station wagon (smaller than you're thinking) wondered how he survived.

Wayne's parents happened to be visiting, and as we sat at the breakfast table, the doorbell rang. It was Mel Priest--I don't remember if he was our bishop at that time or just a friend from our ward. He had come to deliver the news of Wayne's accident. His face told much. I believe he thought Wayne would die. Wayne had been taken by ambulance to the Caldwell hospital. We lived in Caldwell.

I think Goldie, my father-in-law, took me down to the hospital. That makes sense, but I may have driven myself. Anyway, I left my four-month-old baby girl and three-year-old son with Grandma. When I got to the hospital, I was told I could not see my husband, that he would soon be transported by ambulance to St Al's hospital in Boise because of his severe injuries, especially his head injury. He was not conscious, and they seemed to assume that there was no reason to see him since he was unconscious, but I still wanted to see him.

A police officer was there, speaking very sympathetically to the young woman who had run the stop sign and put my husband's life in jeopardy. For a long time they spoke, ignoring me, although I had told him who I was. I had a hard time feeling sorry for her. Her name was Susan Roblyer.

If this narrative sounds ordered and calm, please know that I am calmish now, 40 years later, but at that time I was less than calm, trying to be calm while I was actually frightened beyond my ability to convey in writing. My husband, young, father of six, good man, good looking (not that it matters, except to me) might die, and I could hardly face that possibility. I remember asking my father-in-law if he thought Wayne would die. I don't know what he said. I know I wanted my husband here with us, needed him here with us, with me.

We went home, and I prepared to follow the ambulance to St Al's. This time I took my baby girl, Alyce with me. After all, I was a nursing mother, ill-prepared and not willing to leave her.