After all those days and all those miles, I can’t leave these out.
Day 24: Pleasant Grove to Nampa
miles traveled: 392 total miles driven: 4722
AND…..drum roll, please….
Day 25: Nampa to Hillsboro, Oregon
miles traveled: 436 miles total miles driven: 5158
wow…did you see that?
5158 miles
right now I am pretty impressed with myself…do I know how to throw a road trip, or what?!?
Well it had to happen, didn’t it. No matter how hard we tried to keep partying along the way, the day of becoming Oregonians had to finally arrive.
But not before having a great time at Megan’s house. Megan introduced the kids to the book & movie of The Gruffalo, which Rachel is still quoting. She showed them how to play the game her husband invented called Squarrels and just as quickly as he could Jared bought the app. (Yes, apparently there’s an app for that too!) We had such fun at Megan’s & loved meeting her super nice husband who made them a yummy lunch out of shells & tomato juice. (And who may live to regret having invited us to stop by anytime!!)
Then, when we could delay no longer, we started for Oregon. When we got to the welcome center in Oregon someone needed a bathroom so we pulled in, but I figured it was also a good opportunity to document this moment.
And lest you start to think that my kids are always cooperative for pictures, let me show you a few more that I took…
They had a lovely rose garden at the welcome center and that made me very happy.
Here are some of the other interesting things we saw along our way.
Tree farms:
Lots and lots of windmills. I love that this pic gives some perspective on how giant these are. It was super windy in this area—I could see why they would have put the windmills there.
For a while we thought we were driving along the worlds longest reservoir, and then we realized that we were driving along the Columbia River. It was cool.
Once we realized that on the other side of the Columbia River was Washington, we had to drive over the next bridge we found just far enough so we could claim that we’d been in Washington too.
As we got closer to Portland we saw these beautiful flowering plants all along the side of the road. They were so pretty.
As were the towering pines.
It would make a great ending to our epic travel story if I could say next that we got to Hillsboro, were thrilled to see Russ, and lived happily ever after. And if that’s what you want to believe, go ahead and close your browser now.
In the interest of being honest for my posterity and letting them know that I’ve had hard times and survived, I will tell you what actually happened. I had visions of being able to blog about this last day and call it something like “Reunited, and it feels so good.”
Instead, I started crying when we passed this sign,
and pretty much didn’t stop for the next 24 hours. All I can say is poor Russ, thank goodness he’s a patient guy. And that things have slowly gotten better.
THE END
Last week I got a phone call from someone in the ward. “Sister Ray, I was wondering if I could ask you to substitute for singing time on Father’s day. I know some people aren’t really comfortable with singing time, do you think you would be?”
I assured her that I thought I would be ok.
But really, I was a little bit worried. I haven’t been a primary chorister in a LONG time. After I was released from being the chorister I substituted off and on for a couple of years, but I haven’t even subbed now for a long time.
In the interim I’ve changed. I’ve gotten older, and tireder. Much, much tireder. (By the way, spell check doesn’t consider tireder a word. In case you were wondering.) I was worried that I am now too old and toooo tired to do a good job as a primary chorister. Add in the fact that they only three kids I would know were the ones I gave birth too, and well…I was concerned.
The junior primary was first. Fourteen kids, to be exact. Sweet little faces, eager to play my game (provided by the real chorister who’s belongings aren’t all in storage like mine) of “pin the tie on the father.” They were so darn cute that I had to make sure every little one got a chance to have a turn. That wasn’t too bad at all.
Then it was time for senior primary. I already knew that my own almost-twelve kids aren’t enjoying singing in primary these days—they’re ready to have their birthdays and age out. The chorister had also mentioned that the 10 year old boys never sang either. I didn’t know what proportion of the entire senior primary was 10 year old boys or 11 year olds, but I figured I had my work cut out for me.
Thankfully, it all came rushing back.
Before we even sang the welcome song (in Hawaiian and German, thanks for asking, even without the flags!) I announced that I had a fun game for singing time, but that the only ones who got to play would be those who were singing.
When we started singing time I introduced myself. I told them my name and that I had just moved from North Carolina and had spent a month driving to Oregon. Everyone was impressed. I told them that the water in the ocean in North Carolina is so warm it’s like a bathtub. Everyone was impressed. One little girl piped up, “Well it’s not going to be like that here!” I laughed. I told them that I’ve been the primary chorister before, a lot of times. I told them that all of the kids always said two things about me. First that I was the most fun primary chorister ever. Everyone was impressed. And second, I said, that I was the meanest primary chorister ever.
They were a little puzzled.
I went on to clarify that I had brought a great game that we could play. And that as long as everyone was singing and we were having fun, we would keep playing my game. But that as soon as anyone started misbehaving, my game would be over and we would just sing the songs. I added that the teachers were going to help me keep track of the good singers so I’d know who to pick for the game.
My, but those kids sang well. And I had so much fun.
Not all of the boys sang, or sang all of the time. But they didn’t cause any problems and I figure there’s only so much I could accomplish in one singing time. After every song I (genuinely) complemented everyone on their singing, and I could tell that inspired them to keep trying. After one particular song I asked them if they knew why I wanted them to sing. I asked if I was going to get paid more if everyone sang, or if they were going to get to be on American Idol if everyone sang. And then I got to bear my testimony to them about the power of these songs in helping us feel the spirit in our hearts.
Oh how I love primary music. It’s good to know that I’m not too old or too tired for it, at least not yet. And it made my day yesterday.
It occurred to me this morning when I was thinking about what I could blog about for father’s day, that I don’t think I’ve ever blogged about my dad. I’ve mentioned him in other blog posts, but he’s never gotten a post of his own. So here, in the last few hours before Father’s day is over—memories of my dad.
As the oldest child in my family I feel like I got the best of our dad. In some ways it’s like I had a different dad than the one my younger siblings did, and I feel lucky to have known him.
My dad taught school when I was young. Every summer he would have a lot of time off and we would go camping. Camping in the beautiful Sequoia National Forest has to be one of my favorite childhood memories.
I also remember that as I got a little older, when we went on ward campouts my dad would always tell a story or recite a poem. (This was back in the olden days when kids could stand to listen to a long poem.) His favorite poem to recite was “The Highwayman,” but the best of the best was when he told the story of “The Most Dangerous Game.” Talk about a story that would make chills run up and down your spine, and he told it well. (If you’ve never heard this story, you can read it here. It’s not that long and it’s quite exciting!)
My dad taught summer school every year and every year we would go and take fun classes at his school. I took rocketry and singing where I learned to sing important classics like “King of the Road” and “You’re so Vain.”
Many summers we would drive from our home in Southern California to my dad’s boyhood home (aka “The Farm”) in South Carolina. I don’t know how either of my parents survived these trips—they were brutal and bore no resemblance to the trips my kids and I take now. I remember getting to sit up in the front with my dad at night to help him stay awake while he drove. We would eat small gum drops and see who could make one last the longest, and my dad always won. We would listen to Marty Robbins—“Cool, Clear Water” and “El Paso.” I loved those moments driving in the dark with my dad, having real conversations and singing Marty Robbins.
When I was in 6th grade I switched school so that I could be in my dad’s class. Some people worried that he would be too easy on me, but they couldn’t have been more wrong—he was really hard on me. It was a great year though—he and his colleague were terrific teachers and we learned a lot and played hard too. I don’t know that my dad could have taught much longer than he did, and he certainly couldn’t today—he’s not nearly PC enough and he wouldn’t put up with the coddling today’s students demand. But he was an amazing teacher. I’ve always been grateful that I inherited some of his ability to teach.
For the science fair the year I was in my dad’s class I decided to study distillation. He helped me make a grain concoction that I put in my miniature still and distilled into whisky. I thought I was hot stuff when I won 2nd place and had my picture in the newspaper. Can you imagine a student today making whisky for a science project??
I’m usually pretty glad that I grew up when there were fewer rules and regulations about everything, and here is another reason why.
Yes, you are seeing what you think you’re seeing. My dad used to ride my mom’s bike up and down the street with us on his shoulders. He was our hero.
I would say that my dad is a self made man; that he pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, but the reality is that my dad was a marriage-made man—I believe that he became who he has become because of my mom and the help she gave him and the confidence she had in him. When they married he was driving a delivery truck, but after a few years he went to college and became a teacher. When he was still a teacher he went back to school so that he could become a principal. Then when I was 12 he decided to stop teaching and go back to college to become a chiropractor. He was just a few years younger then than I am now, and I have to say that I DON’T KNOW HOW ON EARTH HE DID IT!!! He went to school full time for 5 years and also ran a full time janitorial company to bring in some income to keep food on the table for our growing family. (There were 8 kids when he started and 10 kids before he finished.) I don’t know how he managed to cram all that information into his head, much less do it and work full time too.
I learned to love photography from my dad. When he was serving a mission in Finland he ate oatmeal every morning so that he could save his money and buy a nice digital camera. When I was in high school he let me use it as much as I wanted, and didn’t even kill me when my friend dropped & broke the light meter.
My dad has always loved to drive, as evidenced by our summer pilgrimages to SC. One fun memory from after my family had moved to North Carolina happened right before Christmas—my dad had found a place to buy a new trampoline but it was in Georgia, and so he and I hopped into the truck and drove to Georgia that day and bought a trampoline for Christmas. Spending a lot of time with him like that was always a treat.
When we bought our “new” house in Durham and the triplets were so little, my dad came and helped me prime their bedroom before we moved into the house. The room was so violently ugly—it was Pepto Bismal pink, and it was sponge painted with teal and white. It really looked like someone had vomited all over the walls. Right as we were ready to start priming he looked at me and said in all seriousness, “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it just like this??” We had such fun painting that day, laughing and joking together.
My last memory of my dad is really many memories together. My dad has always been able to hear the Spirit better than most people I know, and the stories he told us as we were growing up helped build my faith. I don’t know how some of the things he told us about happened, but I never doubted that when my dad prayed, Heavenly Father heard him and responded. One time when Cindy Lynn was little and in and out of the hospital, someone said something to me about giving her a blessing to “make her be healed.” I was so young—probably only 22—and so confused at this. I still remember my dad sitting with me and helping me to understand why I wouldn’t want to force Heavenly Father to do anything that wasn’t part of His plan, because His plan was ultimately what was best for my little baby. I know that I’m so blessed to have had parents who both loved the gospel.
So there you have it—a smattering of memories about my dad—just enough to remind me of how truly lucky I am to have him in my life. I love you Dad!!
My friend Joe died last week. I couldn’t be there to offer comfort or service in person or to celebrate his life at the funeral today, so I thought I’d do the only thing I could and write about him.
I met Joe when we moved to Durham. I was his wife’s visiting teacher for 5 wonderful years and so I was in and out of their house enough to get to know him as well. Joe and I shared a love of photography and frequently he would tell me about new places he’d been taking pictures or best of all, when he scored a really nice tripod for just a few dollars at a yard sale. When my camera was in the shop Joe loaned me one of his and then celebrated with me when instead of fixing my old camera they sent me a new one.
Joe had a beautiful voice. One of my earliest Durham memories is singing in a stake cantata and getting to hear Joe sing his bass solo each time we practiced. It didn’t matter how many times I heard it, I always loved it. Someone told me earlier today that they sang “Far Far Away on Judea’s Plains” at his funeral. That made me smile. First of all because now I won’t be the first person ever to have a Christmas hymn sung at my funeral. (Angels We Have Heard on High. But you already knew that, didn’t you?) And second because I can just hear Joe’s booming bass in my mind, singing the that chorus. From now on when I sing “Glory to God in the high-est” and hear the basses come in, I’ll be remembering Joe.
When I told my kids that Joe had died they each had the same reaction. Sadness because “He was always so nice to me.” I was a bit surprised—I didn’t realize that that had been their experience with Joe as well. Joe and Diane have been through some hard times in the last 7 years but I can’t think of one time when I was ever around him that it showed. Instead he was always so kind to me. Kind & sweet, calling me a “Heavenly Ray” (from a hymn) or telling me how young I looked. Joe had a gift for making me feel cared about in the brief moments that we interacted and I hope I never forget how that felt.
It makes me so sad to think that when we go visit our Durham ward in August, he won’t be there. But I’m going to work on becoming a little more like Joe and try to notice people and do a better job of being kind in the little interactions. Because I feel blessed to have known him.
They’re going to be 12 in August, so I figured it was time. And I didn’t want for them the same experience that I had. I was in 7th grade (so probably just barely 13) and in a school that had PE every day. I was so aware of just how hairy my legs were and so one day I snuck into my parents bathroom, got my dad’s old fashioned razor, and started shaving. When I say old fashioned razor I mean the kind that you opened up and put a straight razor blade in. I mean the kind that would scrape the skin right off your entire shin bone before you even had a clue what you were doing. I mean the kind that could hurt bad…
So this morning I invited the girls into my bathroom, handed them each a nice relative safe razor, and showed them what to do.
They were a little apprehensive at first, and surprised at how long it took. But in the end, four nicely shaved legs and two happy girls.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them to enjoy it, because now they’ll be shaving those cute little legs for the rest of their lives!!
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