The Blessing of Fear

                 The temperature outside was about two degrees Fahrenheit. I had ordered enough pizza for 10 although only three showed up. Two were there for domestic violence (DV) charges and one was there for drug charges. Experience dictated that I should be afraid of the two dv clients. Common sense along with my nagging gut feeling said otherwise. I was facilitating an addictions group the night before Thanksgiving. It was to be a graduation ceremony for one of the clients who never showed up.

                Approximately a month prior, my son, J., made plans to go to Wyoming to visit with his dad. The weather had been unusually cold for this time of year and the road conditions were dangerous. We were watching the weather reports with eagle eyes.

                My son would not describe his relationship with his dad as close but he did want to get away for a break. About two weeks before, J. started getting an uneasy feeling. He had had too many negative experiences in the past two years to ignore them. He tried to analyze the reasons for the feeling. First he thought it was the tires on his truck. He had them checked and fixed. Still, the uneasiness persisted. There had been a nine car pile-up in Parley’s Canyon due to the ice. Parley’s Canyon was the route he would need to take. It was known for being treacherous in the winter. He decided to cancel the trip. His dad gave him a difficult time over the decision. My son also knew that whenever he had a bad feeling about anything and his dad dismissed it as nothing, my son had better listen to his own intuition. Still, the feeling persisted.

                On Wednesday nights J. attended a church function that wasn’t far from the facility where I was at. We had an agreement where, if I ever felt threatened, I would text him and he would stop what he was doing and meet me without question. During this group, the individual who was there for drug charges was acting strange. The other two kept looking at him with questioning glances and then at me. This person dominated the group even though we tried to refocus the group back to the main topic at hand. I felt scared even though I had no obvious reason to be. I began thinking of all of the pizza there was, along with my own things that needed to go out to the car. It would take me at least two trips.

                Outside was dark. The street was quiet except for the fire station across the way. Part of me wanted to ask the other clients to wait but I also did not want to call attention to myself. I sent a text to my son to meet me there. He said he was on his way. When the clients left, I locked the doors and wrote my notes which took all of about five minutes. J. arrived soon after. We walked out together. Normally we would talk on the phone during our drive home but tonight we drove in silence. My thoughts raced to how thankful I was that J. did not go up to Wyoming.

                Unloading our vehicles he said in relief, “Mom, this is why I wasn’t supposed to go up to my dad’s!” We both felt that had he not been there, I would most certainly have been attacked.

                In his book, The Gift of Fear, Gavin de Becker attributes fear as a gift because it is an instinctive sense that something is not right. He goes on to say that we all have this perception,

“My basic premise…that you too are an expert at predicting violent behavior. You have the gift of a brilliant internal guardian that stands ready to warn you of hazards and guide you through risky situations” (de Becker, 1997, p6).

                Through a series of encounters we have learned to take note of those senses and to be consciously aware of them. Sporadically, nothing comes of it, for which I am grateful.  But when I do not feel good about a person, and I am talking about a distinct uneasiness for which there is no logical explanation, I am cautious and take precautions. Similarly, my son has learned the same thing.       

                One Sunday we needed to take my youngest son back to Snow College in Ephraim. I had insisted I ride along, although J. didn’t seem to think so. He escorted S. back from Salt Lake that evening because S. was undergoing horrible vehicle problems. A drive that would normally take a half hour took an hour and a half. By the time they arrived at my home it was already late. There was a strong sense that I should go.

                 When we were leaving home and about to get on the freeway I kept getting the impression to have a prayer. Brushing it off because we did have them earlier in the day, the feeling persisted. Knowing better than to ignore these promptings, I spoke up. S. agreed, saying he had the same feeling. He offered the prayer invoking the Lord to watch over J.’s driving. Off we went.

                In Utah, especially the small towns, one does not mess around with the Law or posted speed limits. Period. As J. was driving through Fountain Green around 10 p.m. the posted sign said 35 miles. J. was driving around 45. His gut feeling was to slow down but he thought “Oh, I’ll be fine” due to the fact that he was used to being able to get around certain speeds in our area. When he passed the second sign stating 35 miles per hour (mph) and still going just over 45 red and blue lights suddenly appeared. If that doesn’t make one want to …you fill in the blanks…I don’t know what will. J. is a law abiding citizen who holds absolute respect for the law, no questions asked. He quickly jerked the car to the side of the road. We just sat there staring straight ahead. J. had his hands on the steering wheel, every accident racing through his mind. All of us were offering silent prayers. The officer went over the car with his light. He asked J. if he was aware of going over the speed limit. J. gave his reasons while apologizing. The officer asked for his driver’s license. He asked where J. was headed. J. explained that he was taking his brother back to Snow College in Ephraim. The officer said he had to look some things up and then he turned the flash light on S. and I. He asked who was in the car with him. S. is sitting straight up with his military fatigues on. I introduced myself as their mother. J. introduced S. and me. The officer looked at this kid who was driving his brother back to school on his own birthday and back at his mother. He said without going back to his vehicle, “Tell you what, I’m going to let you go this time” and hands back J.’s license. We thanked the officer and drove off.

                We did not get home until 12:30 a.m. I had to be up at 6 and J. had to be up at 6:30. The ride was spent talking, expressing gratitude for the officer and his generosity, prayers and that I came along. He said he would have just listened to his music and probably would have fallen asleep considering how tired he was from all of the nerve wrenching driving he had endured the last 8 hours. I don’t want to imagine what would have happened otherwise. There is no doubt in either of our minds that we were watched over that night. Coincidental? Not in our minds.

Kelli McDonald 5/31/12

Just Playing Ball

We were fortunate to have lived in a neighborhood where sports were played on a regular basis in the street. Each season would find the local kids playing whatever was the current game. Scores were kept in official score-keeping books from year to year. The official books were bought at “The Sports Shoppe” in downtown North Hollywood. Billy Schumacher safeguarded them. Scores were kept in an effort to improve each person’s game. All was done in fun and coached by the kids themselves. Criticism came from one’s peers and not the adults.

            Although the teams basically contained the standard players that included Billy Schumacher, Mark and Danny Dow, Chris Wyneken, Michael Lurch, and Johnny Hayes. There were the occasional others such as Tony Toth, Bobby and Ronnie Robinson, Scott Schumacher, Danny Van Damme, and the Swenson kids who were cousins to the Dow boys. Additional players were recruited when there wasn’t enough players for a complete team.

            The games were played on Tuba Street between Wisner and Noble Avenues. Home base for baseball was located at the corner of Tuba and Noble. Tennis balls were used since they were softer and went further. The fresher they were from the can the better they flew. They came in a vacuumed sealed can. First base was between the Dow’s and Haye’s  houses on the north side of Tuba. Second base was west at about Tuba and Wisner. Third base was in front of the Schumacher’s house at 1112 Tuba Street.

            My brother, Shannon, played baseball with the local parks. Watching the games was disappointing when an adult yelled or chastised his child for not performing as he had been instructed. It seemed that all the enjoyment of just hitting or catching a ball went out the window as that child was humiliated in front of a crowd of spectators. The child’s performance on the field reflected his feelings thus furthering a poor performance.

            For a short time I coached girl’s softball with the LDS Church. To me, anytime someone hit the ball or caught it – regardless of the team – was pure delight and reason to celebrate.

            Billy was revered as a sort of hero. Even 30 years later, where we were approaching middle-age with our own successes behind us, he was still seen as a mystical figure. What happened to him? One remembered him as being “totally hot!” Another remembered what a good kisser was. And still another remembered his home as a refuge from his own dysfunctional life.

            True, he was incredibly handsome with a healthy set of lips. His looks only seemed to improve with age as did his popularity. And true, he was considered the neighborhood hero during his teen years. Many learned the confidence of hitting balls and of camaraderie from participating in these activities. His home was a refuge. It was where the kids congregated to play Atari games, watch concerts on the new cable television, ON T.V. along with playing whatever the current sport was whether it was basketball, street hockey, baseball or football. The statistics were saved from year to year. Each participant vying to better their performance from the previous year.

            Billy was my friend as was his best friend, Mark Dow. Billy played on the men’s baseball team for the LDS Church for a short while. Mark and I watched in support. There was a family who was well-known in the Church who frequently made poor calls and issued criticisms to Billy. Billy was not a member of the Church. The criticisms were inappropriate, especially considering whom they were coming from. Several times Billy and the member of the well-known family got into heated arguments on the field. At least once they threatened to literally fight it out. Each time Billy was the one asked to leave. Then and now, I feel that the other person should have had to leave as well. How sad because this was just church ball being played for fun. The poor sportsman-like conduct exhibited may have had long lasting consequences such as a sour note towards members of the LDS faith. So it was back to the neighborhood where sports were played without regard to uniforms or performances.

            While serving a mission for my church where the women were expected to wear either dresses or skirts six and half days of the week, I needed some comforts of home. I purchased a soft Nerf football and began tossing it to whoever would reciprocate it. Here I was in the Deep South, wearing nylons and a skirt and throwing a football. No scores were kept. Oh…such sweet memories.

            When my own kids were old enough, I taught them to throw, catch, and hit a football as well as a baseball. Occasionally kids from the neighborhood tagged along. But it was mainly Johnny, Brooki, and Seth, and myself. Years went by. Seth went off to be in the military and a missionary. Brooki went off to be a mother. Johnny stayed behind. Early one fall I missed playing ball with an incredible longing that ached. Full into graduate school with homework, clinical hours to complete as well as working two jobs, we somehow found a way to squeeze in time to play. John and I bought a bunch of tennis balls and a new mitt – due to the fact that he had out grown his old one. We located the old blue mesh duffle bag of bats and drove to the nearest park just to hit balls. We lived in north central Utah where snow arrives in October and November. Fall, as beautiful as it is, does not last long. We simply made the time. The aching didn’t go away entirely but it was pacified until the weather cleared.

            In the movie, The Rookie, Dennis Quaid plays Jim Morris. Jim Morris was playing ball for a farm team and getting weary from the long days that provided little financial rewards. One evening he walked over to a park to watch some local kids play baseball. In the movie the child in the outfield turns to wave at him. He smiles, waves back, and realizes he get to play baseball every day. Completely changed his perspective.

            In this day and age of super star sports figures receiving audacious amounts of money  as well as adulation for being able to hit or throw a ball, I believe we have lost sight of what playing is really about – having a good time. It is about the fun of just hitting, throwing, or catching the ball. Nothing more.

Kelli McDonald 5/26/2012

Home Teaching Sunday

We hadn’t made Chow Mein in quite sometime. While at church, I made a list of the process. Chop onions, grate carrots & cabbage, boil pasta (spaghetti noodles), and bake ham with mandarin oranges. The boys, John and Seth, Brooki and myself agreed. Seth offered to chop the onions while I grated the carrots and cabbage. John had cereal and milk – he was hungry. About half way through the onions, Seth couldn’t handle it anymore. So John took over. He could only go so far when he decided he couldn’t take the emotional trauma of chopping onions. He decided to take a bath. Seth took over.

          Chow Mein is done and the boys are hungry!

          We were watching a movie & my new home teachers arrive unexpectantly. Embarrassed, we scramble to pick up the living room. Boys went into the kitchen for some cereal. One of their white shirt and ties was scrunched to the edge of the couch. It so reminded me of a scene from the movie, “Home Teachers.” We watched it that evening because after all, in LDS culture, the last Sunday of the month is “Home Teacher’s Day.” This is the last day of the month to do that last minute, forgotten visits to the ward families. It is not allowed on Mondays. Mondays nights are reserved solely to the family which one reside or lays claims on.

          The kid’s dad picks them up at 7:15. He’s late getting there being held up by his own home teacher. Johnny gets in the car & his dad announces that he and Dalen are going home teaching at 7:30.

Kelli McDonald 5/26/12

Tuttle

Our turtle, Tuttle, plays in a tank that sits about 2 ½ feet off the ground. The tank is 2 feet long and 1 foot wide. Although the tank holds approximately 20 gallons of water, there is less than that. If more was put in, he would be climbing out and that would not be a pretty site. We are his third family and will be his last. I estimate he is eight years old. His first family grew bored with him. The second family, a former co-worker, was from Hawaii. The mom grew up catching turtles from the ocean and eating them. Tuttle was beginning to water her palate. I was looking for one as a pet after seeing a teacher keep hers in her classroom for 7 years. This co-worker sent out an email asking for any interested takers. We thought hard about it. Questions of where would he go in our already small apartment abounded. My daughter was totally against it because of the lack of space. My oldest son said it was my decision and he would support me either way. I decided to take a chance not knowing how big Tuttle was. Leap of faith if you will.

            He was brought to our humble home in a very small tank. At 10pm that night we bought a 10 gallon tank so that he would have room to at least move. Not a good idea. It, too, was not large enough. The next morning we splurged and bought a 20 gallon tank and put it on an old t.v. stand that was being used for books and basically junk. I painstakingly decorated it. He seemed content. We also kept it uncovered. I really knew nothing about caring for him except for what I’d seen the teacher do and what I found on the internet.

            We named him after the fictional character on M.A.S.H., Captain Tuttle. M.A.S.H. is a television series from that ran from 1972 to 1983. It has been our family’s all time favorite series. Captain Tuttle represented a sense of altruism that we felt about this turtle.

            One of our cats was intrigued by Tuttle. Kolipoki is a robust, part Siamese cat with a gentle nature. It became his routine to squat at the corner of Tuttle’s tank while drinking the water. As he did so, his long tail would hang down into the water. This happened every time Kolipoki wanted a drink. Of course Tuttle was facinated at this thing floating in his space. Every time Koli partook of the goodness of that succulent treat, Tuttle observed. Inching closer to the hanging object, Koli drank oblivious to his observer until one day when… SNAP!  Tuttle snapped at Koli’s tail! Kolipoki flew quick as a whip!

            It only happened once more after and then just briefly.

            Tuttle continues to amaze us with his intelligence. When my daughter and granddaughter were staying with us, Lizzy wasn’t quite a year old. As she stood up to Tuttle’s tank, her head reached just above the bottom. Excited at seeing this creature, she would bounce up and down. Tuttle, excited to have an audience, would crouch down so that he was eye-to-eye with Lizzy. As his legs were flapping, so was Lizzy in utter amazement! Truly a sight to behold!

            I knew the day would come when Tuttle would start to outgrow his tank and figure a way to get out. He had already tried several times by climbing onto the filter. At least that lead to other junk and was safe enough. I was just hoping it would happen after we moved being that we have so little room as it is. Not so. One Sunday I was “busy” relaxing by working on a difficult puzzle. I kept hearing Tuttle’s filter make an odd sound. Pushing the sound to the back of my mind because I was busy relaxing, the sound persisted. Finally, I got up to check on it. There was Tuttle just about to climb out the tank. The fall would have proved injurious. The moment he saw me he slid back into the water! Terrified at the thought of him being hurt I instantaneously devised a plan. I cut the lid from a plastic storage box to shape the tank and put a heavy plant on top.

            I told my colleague at work the next day about the incident. She suggested letting him crawl around outside occasionally. DUH! I wished that I had thought of that long ago. Now he has another audience – the neighborhood kids.

Kelli McDonald 5/24/12

              

Payday

Walking past the Payday candy bars, an unexpected flood of memories suddenly overtook my emotions. I quickly sent my stepmother a text asking if Dad could still eat them. He was nearing his 78^th birthday and since I did not live close by, I honestly did not know the answer. To my dismay he couldn’t and had not been able to for at least a year. I wanted to send him a package – a memory gift if you will. Unable to make up my mind on what size, I bought several packages of the two sizes. This is something I rarely do because I do not eat that much candy!

                Growing up we were poor. We always talked of having more money and pay day was the golden day when all would be made right. Maybe kids are not supposed to be that aware of the finances but we were. Quite possibly it was because there were so many things we could not have.

                I still remember with clarity of starting the 9^th grade at my new school in 1978 wearing thick, blue thongs – or flip flops. They were nice enough in the Southern California summer but certainly not for the cooler weather that fall brought on. Of course my classmates made comments that furthered the sting. When my birthday arrived in November I was given a new pair of soft leather shoes with laces. The first week after getting them I rode my bike to school and fell tearing the left shoe. The tear was near the left toes. We could not afford another pair until months later. The only way to hide the tear was to wear extra long pants and even then the tear was not entirely hidden. Absolutely embarrassing for an already sensitive self-esteem!

                So many things had to wait until pay day. My parents would indulge us by purchasing a box of 12 Payday candy bars every now and then – usually on Sunday’s. To us, it was a reminder of good things to come.       As the years moved along, I would buy my parents a box for their birthdays or anniversary. Then I stopped. Life happens.

                The day that I came across those treats my life was hectic. Trying to finish up this and get through that. Time stood still in the far away place I now called home.  I was back in the San Fernando Valley and suddenly 15 years old again. People were bustling around. My son was asking about a particular purchase unaware of my preoccupation. And as if I had just lost my dad, the realization hit with an additional force.  He would never again be able to eat those. I fought back the urge to show any emotion. People were around and it just felt inappropriate.

                Savoring the sweet, salty flavor of those morsels brought comfort to unexpected memories.  I wanted to be close to my dad even though that was not possible as a result of distance – he lived in California and I in Utah. But by eating the candy bar, I, in some way could again.

Kelli  McDonald 3/17/2012

ADDENDUM:
When my dad died, along with an American flag and a bullet because of his military service, we gave him a can of Pepsi, a bag of jelly beans, and a Payday candy bar to enjoy.
September 22, 2013

The Typewriter

            Blake bought it for me that Christmas back in 1981. It was a 1922 Remington Rand. He purchased it from a dealer who fixed typewriters. The dealer was located on Sepulveda Boulevard in Mission Hills, California. I don’t know how much he spent, but the dealer said he would fix it for about twenty dollars – maybe less. I believe it was less since I remember thinking either the guy was crazy or just a really, really nice man.

            Blake, who, like our brother, Todd, was not known for ingenious gift-giving. But this was different. He knew that I loved old things. Oh how I did love that machine! Practically the day after Christmas I took that typewriter –case and all – to this dealer. He fixed it within the promised couple of days – even cleaned it. My, the work was impressive.

            These old typewriters have keys that are high. The keys are not easily pushed down. The fine, small muscles in the fingers are soon strengthened by all the work.

            Six months later found me enrolled in college. In order to obtain decent grades one had to turn in typed papers. My instructors insisted this had to be but turned their heads because I did not have one. I did not have a modern typewriter. Reluctantly I pulled out that old 1922 Remington Rand and began typing out my papers. The weak, fine muscles in my fingers hurt! It was frustrating not being able to type at a flowing pace! I used so much “white-out” correcting fluid to fix my mistakes. Gradually, the papers were accomplished.

            During this time my Uncle Dean gave me an idea. He had a small notebook from the early 1950’s. While serving a mission for the LDS Church, he collected different sayings and quotes from every source that he could. When I saw his impressive work, I wanted to copy it. Dean simply asked me to create my own. He was concerned about letting it go. Understandably, I was disappointed, but the advice was given in such loving tones. How was I to create the same type of work that he had? Life has a way of working out. Create your own.

            I had been collecting church programs from our LDS wards. Wards in the Church are local congregations that typically hold anywhere from three hundred to seven hundred members. The programs listed the speakers, short snippets of upcoming events, jokes or seasonal word games. Usually listed was a quote and purposeful story relating to a particular value. Each week contained something new. That poor old typewriter was again put to use as I began typing out my favorites onto 3 x 5 inch cards. The cards would fit into recipe boxes and were categorized alphabetically. They were later used while I, too, served a mission for the Church. As a result of that simple advice to create my own, I have many boxes and binders of sayings and quotes.

            Electrical typewriters were becoming popular, but students learned on the manual styles while I was in high school It took longer to type. Again, the fine muscles were developed and then, when one switched to an electric machine, typing went much faster.

            Through the years, the typewriter has sat on the shelf or under stuff in storage. Keyboards used for typing have become easier on our fingers. Less effort is needed and correcting fluid is also used less frequently.

            Blake grew up. He gained a family. I grew up and gained a family. Life happens. One Sunday morning just after Thanksgiving, I was looking at the case containing the typewriter. The scene outside was white due to the blowing snow. My now teenaged kids and I took it out. They fingered it. They asked if the handle on the return carriage was the equivalent of the computer key for “enter.” It had been a while since bringing it out. While putting it away, I put it together wrong. My mechanically-inclined son had to show me how to put that old machine together correctly.

            Christmas was in the air. I remembered Blake and that Christmas now long ago. So many feelings and thoughts surrounded me because of that typewriter. Everything has a story. This old box certainly has one. But this is just one story about this typewriter. When I would type out the characters on that old machine I often wondered what other life this typewriter had. Who owned it before me? What was their story? Was it part of a business or did it belong to a want-to-be-famous writer?

            In 1985 I was privileged to serve a mission for my religion. We were expected to memorize many valuable verses daily. The purpose was to help us remember our reasons for this service. However, the one verse that has stayed with me the longest was spoken by a thin, strong-minded man whose widowed mother raised him under trying circumstances. Heber J. Grant is quoted as proclaiming:

“That which we persist in doing becomes easier; not that the nature of the thing has changed, but that our ability is increased.”

And so it is with the typing, the writing of papers, the ability to face change and difficulty. At first our mental muscles are weak, unchallenged. They need the strengthening that comes from the trial of endurance. Our ability to face these things becomes easier. A simple lesson from an old fashioned typewriter. Who would have known?

~Kelli McDonald 5/22/2012

The Freezer Fish

As my cousin, Mary, remembered it, all three boys had ringworm. I remember the story as just Todd having the rash. But whenever one got something, the other two supported the afflicted one. Like the time, for instance, when Blake was using Dad's electric drill out in the garage. He raised the hand that was hold the drill. Without warning, the drill caught hold of Blake's hair. He remembers it hurting like...So, on to the barber shop to have his head shaved. Todd and Shannon also had their heads shave so that Blake would not feel so bad.

The story goes that  at least Todd had the illness while efforts were being made to cure the rash: raw garlic rubbed directly onto the skin, oatmeal baths with the oatmeal floating around the body, various vitamins. You name it, they came up with all sorts of remedies. Aunt Anna, Mary's mom, came up with the idea of the boys wearing togas to stay comfortable. Togas are large sheets of cotton fabric tied at the shoulders. Ours were white. The only other thing underneath was white briefs. Today they are known as whitey tiddeys.

This was the summer of 1981 in Mission Hills, California and the weather was naturally warm. My job, as well as Mary's when she was over, was to thoroughly rinse off the dishes and then put them in the dishwasher. It was my brother's job to put them away -which I might add, they rarely, if at all, did!

On this particular day, my step-mom was insisting that Mary and I do the dishes and defrost the freezer. We kept putting the chore to the back of our minds. Mom kept insisting. Mary was getting agitated since did not have much time to ourselves to swoon about guys and go on a long walk. But, the ice had built up to the point that there wasn't too much space left to add anything more to the freezer.

I had developed a process of thawing this thing out. I took out all of the sort-of-perishables and set them on our large wooden table. Things such as bread, eggs, condiments and casseroles went on to the table. Milk, ice cream, and cheese went the sink and onto the counter. Then I unplugged the fridge.

I took out all of the shelves and set them in the sink as well. Occasionally, the shelves went into the bathtub because the bathtub was bigger and easier to clean the shelves in. This was especially true when the sink was already carrying more than its weight in food. 

Next, would begin the chiseling away at the ice with a butter knife. The ice tasted oh, so good! On this particular day, one of us got the idea to use a hair dryer. It must have been Mary because she was in the habit of taking short-cuts and chiseling too long!

As we were busy chiseling away, ice was flying about through the air and sliding along the floor. Arriving at the bottom of the freezer we discovered a large, forgotten fish. If memory serves me right, it was a trout that was given to us. Somehow, with all of the chiseling and blow drying going on, it fell to the floor, cascading to the feet of my step-mother who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to check on our progress.

Mary clearly remembers how angry Mom was. I just remember her surprised look. Twenty-five years later she remembered the incident far better than myself. Twenty-five years later we found ourselves busting at the seams. Twenty-five years later my kids marveled and laughed at the scene. They saw us as adults - serious and busy. So it is, when they catch a glimpse of "long ago" and they caught a sliver of time when their mom was their age.

In the end, Todd recovered from the ring-worm. Blake's hair grew back, although it became a yearly tradition for the boys to get their heads shaved. Mary and I were able to clean the mess with time to spare to swoon over guys and go for that long walk through my neighborhood.  
~Kelli McDonald 5/20/12