Yep, Valentine’s Day

Some years ago I spent a most unusual Valentine’s evening having dinner with my parents. It was six weeks before my dad’s death. Not that we knew the day was so close but his strength was failing and we we could see that. Not known really for his romantic gestures Poppa wanted to give my mom a special dinner. I’ve learned that when we can’t do something it often becomes a thing we want to do very badly. And dad wanted mom to have a real Valentine’s Day dinner. A proper celebration. Prime rib and all the fixings. So mom took the assignment to make sure that she had a nice dinner and enlisted my aid to make it happen. We ordered prime rib take out from a favorite hotel, packed up a tablecloth, china, silverware, flowers, and were sure to get permission to use a conference room at the skilled-care facility as our dining room for the evening.

We got there, got Poppa down to the conference room and found it full of family. Not our family—another family. Somebody had given them permission to use the room too. A teen in a wheelchair-cum-gurney laden with equipment needed a Valentine’s dinner too. We would have been glad to share a dining room but the conference room barely held all his family so we were glad to find another spot. 

We ended up in the mini cafeteria that served as the employee break room. Actually it was one of Poppa’s favorite spots. He had full permission to wheel himself down and have all the diet soda and snacks he wanted. I was never sure it was truly policy, but the staff encouraged his movement, decision making, and independence. And for Valentine’s dinners they didn’t charge mom and I for soda. So, the break room it was with all the clinical ambience of hospital white melamine and fluorescent lighting for our formal little table. We ate, we talked. Poppa was grateful. It was a prime rib dinner for Valentine’s Day.

That dinner was a object lesson about how love (the noun) requires love (the verb). Caring about each other and showing it matter and take effort. A friend of mine says that location doesn’t matter only who you’re with. I like that. Recently he even stoically sat though a stage performance of Les Miserable (his spelling, it wasn’t his thing) because, hey, it was a long date with his wife! Love (the noun) requires love (the verb).

So on this Valentine’s Day here are my suggestions:

To all—

Remember that advertisers say what they say and show the images they show to make money not to enhance your relationships. Same goes for sappy shows. Don’t base your emotional health on somebody else’s money-making needs.

To those without a sugar—

Be glad love exists.
Don’t envy lovers the joy they have in each other.
If you have to mourn, do it privately.
If you have to eat a whole carton of ice cream, well, enjoy it don’t just shovel it in.

To those of with a sugar—

Love the person more than the gift.

If the roses wilt in a couple of days gently pull the petals off and dry them.

Don’t give the gift you want to give, give the gift your sugar wants to receive.

Enjoy the labor of love.

Mardi Gras!

Mardi Gras isn’t really my thing anymore. I’m not Catholic so there’s no preparing for Lent. I’m not a huge party person, so, you know, the revelry doesn’t appeal much. But, I was born in New Orleans and lived my first years looking forward to the annual Mardi Gras festivities. 

Here’s the Mardi Gras I remember—

For about a month we got to have a slice of king cake once a week during our reading group time at school. Once I even got the baby! It was a little nerve-wracking since I had to be queen for the week and I didn’t know how to handle that kind of attention. But, true to my New Orleans sweet tooth I would not have given up cake once a week for a month at school for shyness sake! King cake was one thing I really, really missed when I moved away.

We also had great fun at the Boy Scouts parade in our neighborhood. The troop was sponsored at church so I knew most of the paraders. Once my brother drove a little covered wagon pulled by a Shetland pony. I think it was a Shetland anyway. At this little event I could learn how to yell, “Throw me somethin’ mister!” and run and grab for treats and beads. I’m sure that I was too quiet for anyone to really hear and didn’t scramble like some of the other children but I learned how to do it all the same.

My mom and dad always took us to a parade downtown too. And sometimes a night parade. Those were exciting to a small girl. The parades by those big krews, Rex, Zulu, et al, were pretty raucous even way back then. I doubt mom and dad would have taken us to too many more. 

One of the most joyful things was going home and assessing all the treasures. Truly, Halloween candy hauls have nothing on Mardi Gras hauls: strings and strings of bead necklaces, ratchety noise makers, kazoos, candies—ahhh, the sweet life. I felt like I had a pirate treasure. Each year I remember how my stocks of Mardi Gras giveaways would slowly diminish and how I’d look forward to loading up again. 

I do, however, have one Mardi Gras heartbreak. I never got a dubloon. I wanted a real dubloon more than anything I could imagine. The gold, silver, and copper dubloons represent the coins that the Spanish grandees were once supposed to have tossed as they paraded down the streets on their horses. New Orleans has a lot of history and I loved the idea of the catching a dubloon and feeling like I had gotten a coin from a Spanish grandee. And it almost happened. At the very last Mardi Gras parade I attended I was standing on a step-ladder and a dubloon came my way. I couldn’t catch it but it fell at my feet and I stomped on it hard. It was mine! I thought it was probably only a copper dubloon but it was a dubloon—the thing I’d waited my whole life for. But, alas, before I retrieve it a little boy pried my foot up and snatched MY dubloon. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to yell thief, thief! But Mardi Gras is Mardi Gras so laissez les bons temps roulez, y’all!

Engaging

At church on Sunday there was a family with a six-month-old baby sitting behind me and baby was just over my left shoulder. On the row in front of me was a family with a two year old sitting just one spot to my left. Needless to say, the two year old caught sight of the baby. And she did all the things we do when we spot a baby: she gazed at him, she smiled, she made a face, she wiggled her fingers, she alerted her dad that there was a baby, she kept the baby's attention as long as she could.

Of course, time goes by and a baby she can't touch, talk to, or hold can't keep her attention engaged forever. Twenty minutes later she and I had prettty much the same exchange. We gazed at eath other, she gave me her "shall we play" look (this is the one that's going drive her dad crazy in a few years), she teased me as to whether she'd share her pretzels, we wiggled our fingers at each other, we smiled, and we touched our hands together a bit.

Engaging each other is pretty simple really. Some of us are really skilled at it and some, like me, do better with children and friends. But I'm working at it. Smiles are good. Just looking up and being aware of people around you is good. Be a little engaging today, it's good for you.

January 2013

The orange light of the sometimes on sometimes off streetlamp cast a muted now and then light. When it was on, I was captivated with the sheen of the ice sheet. I could feel a miniature continental glacier in the gentle ebbs and flows of the ice-capped snow in my garden. I could hardly wait for morning when I could skate-walk, slip, slide, crash, and maybe crawl on all fours to my car for my daily métro, boulot, dodo commute.

2013 Resolutions

We all have to say something about our New Year's resolutions don't we? So here's mine—

In 2013 I resolve to eat all the peppermints that were given to me during the 2012 Christmas season. 

Oh, and, I will finish reading Ivanhoe during this year!

Moments in the Tabernacle

I was in the tabernacle a few days ago. I’d gone to sit with the standby crowd hoping to get into the Christmas concert across the street at the conference center. When I didn’t get into the concert proper, I decided to stay and enjoy the live feed into the tabernacle. I moved from my bench beneath the overhang and took an aisle seat out in the open where even the piped sound would be better. 

Alfie Boe’s first number was “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” One of my favorite carols. And with a power singer? Wow. 

And then, of course, came the opening night banter and Alfie’s gently northern accent made me heave a sigh and remember all the voices and tones I loved in England. A little later the dancing number began and my mind started to wander as I pondered the moments that have meant so much to me in that hall. 

I was sitting in the south balcony the day I was privileged to attend a solemn assembly and sustain a newly called prophet. And again I was in the south balcony that day when friends had phoned just before a general conference session to say they had a couple extra tickets, did we want to come? Oh yeah! But it was the north balcony when I attended, all by myself, one of the first concerts in the rededication series. It was summer and magical as the light faded and the spirit of the evening swelled. One of the hymns was written by President James E. Faust and the credits said that Jan Pinborough had work with him on it. Two ties to Texas in one hymn. On the night I heard Bryn Terfel and the Choir sing the Elijah oratorio I was on the floor near the back. 

 

So I sat, gazing at the lighted boughs and remembered. And thought of my grandmother sitting up in those empty choir seats when she sang with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I was never in the tabernacle with my Grandmother Cora or Great-grandma Jane, but I know they spent many hours here too—as had my parents. I wondered at how many of ancestors had been in this same place and learned the same lessons of the gospel, felt the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. I was connected to this place in ways I knew and ways I didn’t. 

So there I was gazing around at the festive decorations and listening with half an ear to the festive music when, two rows in front of me,  a man and his little girl stood up to leave. It was Sharp—a mission friend. He walked right up my aisle; I reached for his hand. They sat down and we chatted for sixty seconds. It was sweet to see him with his lovely daughter and knowing he was still my friend in the gospel was sweeter still. Another moment in my history in the tabernacle.