On a soap box? Maybe

When I was young, but old enough to see that some people behaved in ways worthy of disapproval, I thought that when those people got older and had families they would somehow straighten up and become solid citizens. So they could raise their children properly. They would have standards and morality and would behave in socially acceptable ways.

Wrong. It doesn't happen with everyone. Look around. Some people never grow up, and some people have no morality, or so it seems to me. Is it because they did not see moral behavior in the homes they grew up in or what?

I don't know if I'm making a point here. How could I? The subject is too vast. But there is so much in this world or this country that is a shame, a crime, reprehensible. Children deserve better than what many are getting.

I'm done.

Oh well

Yesterday we sang at the Plantation Home for the elderly. 

I guess that's a way to say what the place was, a place the likes of which I hope never to call home.

Our audience was a mix of asleep, distracted, needing help to get in there and seated--late--fidgity, still as stone, and enthusiastically entertained and vocally grateful to be so. I guess I could say that about the audiences in most places we have sung, including our concert.

 It is what it is, as they say, and I thought I'd never allow myself to say it.

Holiday dinners at Mama's

Turkey and stuffing, ham,* her fabulous potatoes au gratin, some kind of vegetable, salad--usually with fruit (she loved fresh pineapple)-- and at Christmas time a steamed pudding--carrot usually and sometimes  persimmon--cooked in a Crisco can and served with her special sauce. Not a hard sauce, but a sweet, spicy sauce.

Now that I don't cook big dinners, and am pretty much relieved by that fact, I marvel that at age 80 she was still doing it.

A remarkable woman. Not just because she's my mother, but because she was remarkable. I always said she wore herself out for other people, mostly us and our dad, her beloved Wilford.

 *Mama made her own ham glaze from mustard and brown sugar and spread it all over the ham before baking. Just plain good.

About my mother

I have been reading my mother's journal again. This time it seems to go right into my heart. She did not keep a journal faithfully all her life, but she did keep one quite regularly during the last few years. And she wrote some about her early life, thank goodness. I love knowing about the sleigh rides and Paul Baliff, for instance.*

I have suffered with her through their move--in 1978--to Bountiful, Utah. Turns out it was a good thing because all her kids were there, except Janeen, and she planned to move up soon. But it was agony for my mom and dad to leave all their friends and Allie. They had lived in California for nearly 40 years, most of their married life. They had many friends, friends for life. So hard to leave.

And I suffered with her through Heber Eastman's infant botulism.  That's Eric and Lucile's baby boy, who survived and is a fine man, father of two. But it was six weeks in the hospital and many anxious days and many prayers.

Back to Mama.
Now it's getting harder and harder to read, because I know she has only a year to live. I know that. It doesn't sound, as I read, that she had any notion of that. Her days were spent taking my dad to the hospital for radiation treatments or helping someone in the family or staying with Lucile's children or having everybody over and fixing a big feast for them or just doing. She was one small package of talent and smarts. And she was always doing. Doing. That was her life. That and music. At age 79, she still played as soloist and accompanist and ward organist and still taught piano.

Of course, I am curious to see the last things she wrote but apprehensive, too. And I do not want her to die.
It has been 34 years since she did. Her journal brings her to life again for me. I see her so clearly, love her so much.

* Lola (my mother) was invited to go on a sleigh ride. Her mother said no, but her dad said yes. So she went. Such fun. But on that sleigh ride, Paul Baliff kissed her. I think on the cheek. Next school day the kids were teasing her, saying she loved Paul Baliff. Lola said, "If there's anyone I hate, it's Paul Baliff." I know she didn't mean it, but Paul didn't know that. He did not speak to her for the rest of Jr High and all through high school. Obviously, she noticed. I'm sure both of them were hurt.

Some small things are important

I guess I have given up on finding the ring.

I wore Wayne's wedding ring on the middle finger of my right hand since he died. Nearly eleven years.

Until about three weeks ago, when I noticed it wasn't there.

I have no idea when or where it came off my finger.

It was very important to me. I feel bad and very sad.

In the back of my mind, though, I keep expecting it to appear somehow.

What do you call it?

Okay, here's my question, or questions. Not particularly important, but I'm curious.

Why is the restroom called the restroom? We don't exactly rest in there.

And why is it that we say, "I need to go to the bathroom," when we don't plan to take a bath but only to use the toilet?

When I was in elementary school, the place was called The Lavatory. Yes, we did wash our hands in there, or we were supposed to . . . after we used the toilet, which is why we went in there.

Outhouse I see. I mean it is outside of the house. But still it avoids the word "toilet."

It isn't a bad word, toilet, and has been used historically to mean something other than the way we use it today, as in A Lady at her Toilet, which was where she put the final touches on her hair and makeup. Or her personal maid did those things for her. The Lady could be sitting or standing, and it was usually done in her bedroom, facing a mirror, not in the "bathroom."

But that information I insert only so you will know I know about it. Really, it may have little to do with my original question, but it does raise another question.

How did that use of the word "toilet" change to the toilet we know?

Little Annoyances, or Biggish

igoogle went away November 1. Bummer and a half.

I have been disoriented and irritated. No longer can I, with one click of the mouse, see all the blogs I write and follow, see the phases of the moon, see the daily weather, read a poem daily, get a few news stories. All right in front of my face at once. One click.

I will have to adjust, have to cope, have to learn and make the best of it.

No big thing, you say, I'll bet.