I’m a Mormon, and I don’t care who knows it

Living our religion out loud

We’re in the news, we Mormons. It seems everyone is talking about Mormons these days, thanks mostly to presidential candidate Mitt Romney whose campaign has caused a journalistic avalanche of articles, editorials, television interviews, and radio talk shows discussing, if not featuring, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and turning “Mormon” into a household word.

Just 3 must-haves for the car

Every good driver carries tricks in the car

Water doesn’t count. Everyone knows that almost as important as keeping enough gas in the tank is carrying water in the car at all times. But beyond that, we all have things we can’t live without when we drive. Even though I’m down to just one child, I’m still driving a minivan, and the two of us have become quite attached; in fact, it has become a sort of home on wheels. So, over time I’ve personalized what I keep inside. I can get along without some things, but others are must-haves for the car. Here are just three:

Beyond glue guns and kitschy crafts

Everyone is better off with a woman in his or her life

I wanted to throw it away. It was just another failed craft project I did at a women’s church meeting, but being newly married with very few Christmas decorations, I really wanted at least one nice ornament for our tree. Besides, this project seemed so easy. Instead, I was impatient and tried to hurry along the glass etching then quickly glue-gunned the ribbon around it, with the end product resulting in a very homemade-looking ornament.

Robin Hood is back in town

Let capitalism be the hero

Sadly, even some of the best political gaffes are lost on those who don’t understand the difference between capitalism and socialism, so I keep trying to explain the economy to my children in light of the presidential candidates’ platforms. To help me, I turned to my son’s 11th-grade Social Studies textbook, whose sum total definition of socialism is “the idea that the government should own and operate industry for the community as a whole.”

Rediscovering parenting tools

One of my all-time favorite parenting books

Growing up, vacuuming was a real chore. Our industrial-strength canister vacuum looked like R2D2 minus the cool lights and funny voice, and hauling that clunky thing around was as much work as the vacuuming itself. We’d bang it against walls and furniture just moving from room to room, and going up and down stairs was out of the question. Dust mopping, in comparison, was efficient. Four times as wide as any broom we had in the house, our dust mop with its nifty little swivel device in the center made it easy to turn at the end of every pass across our hardwood floors. Good tools just make life easier.

Just three reasons I love being 50

Halfway to 100, and life looks good

When my mom turned 50, I thought she was ancient. After all, half a century sounds pretty old to an eight-year-old. (Who knew she’d almost double those years of living?) But now that I stand where she once did, I think this is a vibrant age! In fact, if I knew 50 was going to be this good, I might have looked forward to my birthday a little more. It turns out the fifties are great for lots of reasons, but here are just three:

Just give me a sign!

Should vs. Want

Yesterday I drove through the state of Idaho. After dropping Grant off at college, Ken and I followed our Google Maps directions as carefully as we could, working our way across wide-open spaces crisscrossed by highways. Considering neither of us had ever made the trip before, we did pretty well until we got a little off track in Twin Falls, where we had to ask directions from the lone worker at the Reeder Flying Service (airport). “Just go back across the canal, turn left at the first intersection,” she said flatly, “then drive about five miles, and you’ll catch 93.”

Surrounded by old friends

It's healthy to keep friends nearby

I was only half kidding when I said Mom might love her furniture more than her own children. When it came time to downsize, she was torn up for months about having to part with her precious pieces. “Some people just need their things around them,” my sister tried to explain. (She would know.) Hearing that helped me appreciate Mom’s dilemma better, and I realized, of course, that she’d invested decades collecting and refinishing her antiques, but it wasn’t until I pressed Mom a little more that I finally understood why she was so attached to her possessions.

That’s where you live!

Where we live is more than a place

Our son Grant gives wonderful bear hugs. He often pulls me in close to his over-six-foot frame and croons, “That’s where you live!”

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep, but you can also tell a lot by knowing where they live—and I don’t just mean which city or house they live in. In college, I tired quickly of the standard trio of introductory questions: “What’s your name? Where are you from? What’s your major?” I have to admit that knowing where people were from provided at least a small dot on my mental map and it did tell me something about them—if they had cold winters, if they grew up by the ocean, or if they were city people or country folks. What it did not explain, though, is what kind of home they lived in. Even a photo of their home and family couldn’t really tell me where they were from.

Timing is everything

Alex Morgan, USA Women's Soccer player

From sports to humor, from health to happiness, timing is everything.  You can throw a zinger to first base, but it doesn’t do a bit of good if the runner beats you there, and who cares if you have a killer swing if you’ve already missed the pitch? In these Summer Olympics, over and over again we’ve seen split-second timing make all the difference. Suppose the women’s water polo coach hadn’t called a timeout with one second left in the game against Australia; no nail-biting overtime would have ensued. On the other hand, what if the most recent women’s soccer game hadn’t gone into overtime? We would have missed Alex Morgan’s spectacular header, the game-winning goal over Canada that sent the U.S. team to the gold-medal round. And half the art of telling a good joke is timing, too. Even with a great punch line, you won’t get any laughs if you deliver it too early or too late.

Just one daughter

My daughter KaRynn surprises and delights me

I’m the mother of four sons and only one daughter. Growing up a tomboy surrounded mostly by brothers, I was well prepared to be a tough-and-tumble kind of mom—the kind that could play catch, rollerblade, and wrestle with boys, and my sons would probably agree that I have, indeed, been that kind of a mom. Raising boys has been mostly a “What-you-see-is-what-you-get” experience—very fun, sometimes funny, and often very physical. No big surprises there. On the other hand, being a mom of just one girl has been full of surprises.

Finding our voices

Grant and Kelsi please the crowd

Grant never sings anymore. The truth is I don’t remember him singing an entire song audibly since he was about five years old. Back then, I actually had to shush him once because he was belting out the music above all the rest of the children. But since then he’s refused to sing in church. In fact, he'll rarely even pick up a hymnbook. 

So, you can imagine my shock the other night when I saw him on stage, cool as could be, singing a duet with his friend Kelsi whom he’s known forever. While she played the guitar, the two of them sang away as if they’d been doing it every day since they were kids. They’re no rock stars, I realize, but their voices blended well and they sounded great to me. Where had Grant been hiding that voice? 

Singing voices are a breed of their own, I suppose, but this experience made us wonder just what helps people find their own voices.

Don’t let geometry define you

The "Given" is essential in geometry and in life

We’ve had more than one child struggle with geometry. Even Bryan, our son who ended up majoring in math, recently admitted at his college graduation that he was “not a geometry guy.” Along with many others in high school, he had a tough time grasping the spatial relationships of points, lines, angles, and figures. 

“I don’t want to major in triangles!” complained another smart but disgruntled guy who joined the ranks of those forced to face the world of geometry. Like Alice arriving in Wonderland, many frustrated teenagers often find themselves puzzled and bewildered by unfamiliar rules and strange new ways of looking at circles and other once-ordinary objects.

Hiding our passions

We're lucky when passions and obligations intersect

For a long time, we had to tuck away Mark’s Harry Potter audiobooks in my drawers. During that same time, we stuffed piles of Grant's favorite books under our bed and buried his Game Boy in a secret place. For a briefer period of time, Ken tried unsuccessfully to conceal Craig’s guitar and ukulele in our closet. Most of these attempts were in vain, however, because somehow the boys always managed to find their cherished CDs, books, or instruments and return to their pleasures.

Just 3 foods meant to be shared

Eating with others is just more fun

Emeril Lagasse, the flamboyant American celebrity chef, says, “Food is meant to be shared, especially with friends like you." Although not universally true of all food, some foods are, indeed, meant to be shared and have the power to bring us together with friends—old and new. Besides some of the obvious choices, such as chips and dip, pizza, and fondue, the irresistible and tantalizing aromas of certain foods seem to invite us to enjoy eating them with others. Other foods are simply too much work to make for one person. Here are just three:

Strong Women

Black Widow, an Avengers superhero, is an admirably strong woman

I’m not a big fan of superhero movies, but, I’ve got to admit, I loved that opening scene in The Avengers when Black Widow, tied down to a chair, manages to break free, take out every man in the room, and coolly walk away in her skin-tight, black jumpsuit. Immediately, she won my respect, and I was anxious to see the next scene packed with her superpowers on display. After all, she was the only female superhero in the movie, and I wanted to know if she would be strong enough to keep up with The Big Boys. 

Like good chocolate, strong women come packaged in assorted ways. On Mother’s Day particularly, we women consider our own mothers and wonder which of their strengths we carry forward. I’ve found it sometimes takes looking back a few generations to figure out who we really are and where we get our strengths.

Athelia Sears Tanner (my mother)

My mom's mother was a polygamist, the second wife of a man several years her senior who ruled the roost in typical English style. So, every night like clockwork, Grandma Sears faithfully and cheerfully served him a hot dinner on a freshly-pressed linen tablecloth. She was a strong woman. She had to be. After she had ten children, her husband and Aunt Aggie, the first wife who could never have children, were called to serve a three-year church mission in Samoa, leaving Grandma Sears and several daughters behind to manage the household. Fortunately, this grandma of mine could pull it off because she was not only strong but also extremely capable and, I think, secretly competitive. In those days, every Monday was “wash day,” and she would arise early to be the first in the neighborhood to hang her clean laundry on the line. Her energy and zest, though, did not seem to get in the way of her compassion. In addition to looking after her own children, she cared for all the widows she knew, faithfully baking homemade birthday cakes for them every year.

Athelia Viola Sears Call Irvine (my grandmother)

In spite of her heavy workload, Grandma Sears had a legendary sweet demeanor. Called “an angel” by those who knew her best, she sang from morning till night, encouraging her children to work out differences by hugging each other, and her family swears she never raised her own voice. As a mother and homemaker myself, I find such a pleasant disposition to be remarkable and almost unbelievable. In fact, such claims make it difficult to see much of myself in her.

Mary Theresa Thompson Call (my great-grandmother)

Pamela Elizabeth Barlow Thompson (my great-great-grandmother)

Going back further are two more grandmas also full of kindness as well as fortitude and grit. Mary Theresa Thompson Call was exiled three times from her home in Mexico during the Revolution; however, in spite of the upheaval in her own life, she was always compassionate and never idle. With a keen sense of who was suffering, she would often slip away from the dinner table to deliver a hot meal to a neighbor in need. Also an excellent seamstress, she would frequently sew through the night so the dead could be buried in proper funeral clothes within the 24-hour period allowed by law. Her mother, Pamela Elizabeth Thompson, was kidnapped by Indians at age six but, fortunately, rescued by her father, and later in life she gave birth to her ninth child just six weeks after her husband was killed. Neither grandmother was a stranger to tough times. These were strong women.

Elizabeth Haven Barlow (my 3rd great-grandmother)

Reaching back just one more generation, though, is a woman I can really relate to. Just two summers ago, I learned about Elizabeth Haven Barlow, my 3^rd great-grandmother. Talk about a strong woman! Described now in the 21^st century, she may not sound very impressive, but in her time she was an independent thinker and a feisty feminist. Indeed, set in the context of the early 1800s, she emerges as a real fireball. Motherless at age nine, she sought comfort and learning in ancient books, old letters containing discussions about Puritanism, and the family Bible, which was her personal favorite. 

Thus armed early with a deep and keen understanding of Christian beliefs, Elizabeth later boldly challenged her minister when he tried to convince her of false doctrine. On that very day, she left the church without compunction, taking her friends with her and never returning. This passion for truth stayed with her throughout her life. In fact, her intellectual curiosity motivated her to pursue a teaching degree from Amherst and Bradford Colleges at a time when most American women had very little education, thus “fulfilling one of her heart’s greatest desires,” as her daughter would later report. 

When I “met” Elizabeth, I finally realized whose blood was in my veins. I felt I met part of myself and that I finally fit in with this group of strong women. Like Elizabeth, I love a lively intellectual discussion and am not the retiring, quiet type. In fact, truth be told, I openly challenge opinions, speak my mind freely, and have been known to question authority. Other kinds of strengths—patience, kindness, and compassion—don’t come so easily to me.

We commonly revere gentle, soft-spoken, compliant women—the peacemakers and bread bakers—and raise eyebrows at outspoken, nonconforming women. Especially on Mother’s Day, it’s good to remember that all kinds of women can be strong. I come from a long line of them. 

The glass is half empty, thank goodness!

Why can't we call a glass half full and half empty?

Why do we buy into the notion that we can see the proverbial glass only one way—either half full or half empty? Why can’t it be both? I reject the notion that our view of the glass automatically relegates us to the ranks of either optimists or pessimists.

I’ve been slacking a little in my blogging, and I don’t have a terrific excuse except that I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking about my life. Looking back on my almost-five decades, I’ve done a lot of really good living. By almost any standard, my life has been rich and full. Now, as I’m closing in on 50, some might say I’m only halfway through my mortal journey. If that’s so, then I’ve still got plenty of undetermined, unchartered, unlived years ahead of me. In other words, my glass is only half full; the other half is half empty, thank goodness! 

Tappers and listeners

Shared experiences can make listeners tune in so much more easily

I love those first letters home when kids go off to college. It’s that moment when they realize you know so much, they know so little, and they’re so grateful for you. Finally, after years and years of trying to teach them what they might need to know (how to balance a checkbook or work out a disagreement) or tell them things to beware of (too many late nights or poor nutrition), they finally get it. Suddenly, your words make sense, and it’s payday for parents.

Etched in our hearts

Children leave behind mementos of themselves  

I was mad. Really mad. In his path of destruction, Craig first spray-painted a big smiley face on the green utility bucket because he “just wanted to make everyone happy.” Then he took a sharp knife to the kitchen faucet, leaving deep gouges in the white enamel. But the topper was when he began carving his name into one of our kitchen chairs—“C R A . . . .” Enter the mean mommy, aghast at my little vandal. To this day, the dirty deed remains incomplete, a reminder of his errant behavior forever etched in the chair.

Remembering the elderly and being a grandma

Good grandmas come in all kinds of packages

My good friend of 20 years or more moved away and is now living in an old folks’ home halfway across the country. I miss her very much and told her so at Christmastime in a Facebook message, even though accessing such technology is challenging for her. Yesterday she sent me a letter in the mail—yes, the kind that comes with a stamp and a handwritten signature. I cried when I read her words, “For sure I didn’t intend to live this long. It takes lots of effort to fight depression, but I’m doing just fine.” Evidently, her children and grandchildren visit when they can, but, as she says, “Everyone is busy.”

A little more pink

Pink has a way of bringing out the girl in me

Sometimes I just need a little more pink in my life. I grew up surrounded mostly by brothers and their guy friends. As a young adult, I spent a year and a half serving with mostly male missionaries. I married my husband and had four sons, two of whom still live at home. I now go to networking events attended mostly by men, and I just started a volunteer tech group whose membership is about 95% male. (In fact, I would have been the only woman at our last meeting had my girlfriend not offered to come along as a carpool companion.) I’m used to seeing suits, ties, and black Wing Tips, and I’m used to washing blue jeans, boxer shorts, and white tube socks, which are all fine and good. I like boys and I like men. (Truth be told, at social events, I typically gravitate toward the male conversations.) But sometimes I just need a little more pink in my life.

Please tell me when my fly is down

Real friends tell friends when their fly is down

Please tell me when my fly is down. I know it’s awkward (for both of us), but try to remember that discovering that kind of faux pas is even more embarrassing when it’s too late (and you know when that is).

I feel the same way about making typos and grammatical errors . . . like a couple Sundays ago when I misspelled a word while I was teaching.

In praise of country music (and other stories)

Country music's popularity may be due to the power of its stories

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I lived with my sister and her family in Utah where I landed a temporary job at a small factory doing manual labor. Not the kind of labor that gets dirt under your nails. No, it was the mind-and-seat-numbing kind. My brother-in-law, a very successful businessman and entrepreneur, kept telling my sister how good this was for me and how I would learn to appreciate more stimulating jobs, and how I would become even more motivated to get an education. I thought, “Yeah, right! It doesn’t take more than one day at that place to figure out I should stay in school.”

Back in the day

Letters can capture inescapable truths about our lives

Back in the day (before emails, text messages, Skype, blogs, instant messages, Facebook, and inexpensive phone calls), my family of origin used to write letters to stay connected. Each of the 13 children would contribute a monthly update, and one person would mail copies to everyone. (Yes, we actually used "snail mail" - stamps and all.) Recently, while cleaning out her garage, my sister-in-law found those letters and sent me the ones I’d written. One of them from 18 years ago helped me remember what parenting was like back in the day of tight budgets, toddlers, and tension. Here’s a portion of it:

"Report Card for Parents"

Report cards are just one lens to see children

Sometimes I forget how stressful it is to be a student. Tomorrow my boys begin their semester finals and soon after will face the "moment of truth." Report cards will come home, and we’ll know just how well they’ve measured up to the academic challenges of high school.

It’s been years since I received a report card—at least I thought it had been. Just a few days ago I was cleaning out old files and came across copies of a “Report Card for Parents” that Grant and Mark had each filled out for me (http://tiny.cc/z1bee). Back in the day, I was a pretty good student, so I was very disappointed to see that Mark, addressing the report card to “Mrs. Perry,” had given me one glaring “F.” (My turn to be stressed.) Evidently, I failed at watching TV with him. Ouch. Grant had given me a failing grade in the same area. Double ouch.

Are your friends durable?

Don't discount challenging, monotonous, and unexpected moments with friends

“Are your friends durable?” my friend Ruthie used to ask her children when they invited friends to come over. One of her sons was mentally challenged, often making him difficult to be around, and not just any so-called friend could handle the chaos and messes and uncomfortable moments he created. Having a brother like theirs provided those kids with a litmus test for identifying potential friends, sorting through them perhaps more quickly than they might have without him in the picture. But awkward moments pass, and kindness can be faked. If nothing else, people can excuse themselves and go back home. 

Real friends—durable friends—are not found but rather created over time in the crucible of tough circumstances such as sickness, stress, or sorrow. Any one of these can strip us down to the nails, exposing the real structure of our foundation.

A few summers ago, I went with some 50 teenagers on a pioneer trek. Re-enacting the crossing of the plains, everyone agreed to wear not-so-stylish pioneer garb. In addition, the girls left behind makeup and curling irons while the boys gave up unlimited access to food. Stripped of pretense and comforts, the youth began the trek much like a game or a stage play. They teased each other about costumes and showed great bravado when competing to pull the handcarts the fastest. However, as the long hours dragged on and they had to keep trudging along difficult trails, those kids were soon unbearably hot, unusually hungry, and unbelievably tired. Some were just plain bored. They laughed a little less, and the “nails” of their personalities began to show.

What’s more, because they were organized in “families,” they were required to stick together in their assigned groups, no matter what. So, just as in real families, there was no escaping the hard work, the inappropriate comments, or the frustration of someone burning the meal. But as they slogged through each day under intense circumstances, real friendships began to form. Feelings of genuine concern for each other began to grow and deepen. I daresay even a noble spirit began to emerge. 

For instance, when a few trekkers became dangerously dehydrated and were far from a water source, about ten boys quickly organized themselves into a makeshift rescue crew, racing up and down the mountain in blistering heat to relay water back to those in need. When the terrain became rough or steep and the handcarts became heavy or started to careen out of control, it usually took an entire family—the weak and the strong—to either move forward or to avert potential disaster. While these trek experiences lasted only three days, they provided fertile ground for seeds of durable friendships.

It’s no mystery that being yoked with others through challenges forges trust and leaves indelible marks on our memories. Many speak fondly of lifetime friendships built during military or missionary service. Others make inseparable connections to those with whom they’ve shared a trauma. No singular experience, though, can compare to the strains of daily family living where both the monotonous and the unexpected can test our durability. That’s why in the end, while Ruthie and her children had their radar up looking for durable friends, they themselves became the durable ones. 

Too efficient

Sometimes, I take efficiency too far

I have an enviable little device in my kitchen that’s connected to our built-in vacuum. Whenever I sweep the floor, instead of using a dustpan, I just kick a little lever, and WHOOSH--away goes my pile of dirt through a labyrinth of pipes and into a canister in the garage. If I mistakenly suck up something I shouldn't have, I can rifle through the nastiness and retrieve it if I really have to. Efficient. 

Swimming, driving, and kissing

Some things simply must be practiced in real time

Some things just take practice. To illustrate this principle to my colleagues, I once created a presentation using three examples of activities that can only be mastered by doing: swimming, driving, and kissing. Talk about these activities all you want, but unless you actually do them, you’re not going to get any better.

Today I sold part of my soul

The real worth of books is the time spent with them

I could only bring myself to part with the ones I didn’t love, love, love, but I had to do it. We were just getting too many books around here. I had to let go of mostly children and young adult books that had done their job. So, after complimenting myself for purging our house of unused items, I schlepped two big, full boxes into Half Price Books.