Ruminations on the idiot box

I resolve to never again watch one minute of any reality show. Or any show of which Charlie Sheen is the lead actor. I will not even ponder the fate of Jon and Kate. Or consider spending one minute of my life on a show with "Bachelor" or "Bachelorette" in the title. Now that we're entering re-run season (and I'm almost ready to say "Thank goodness for that!") it's back to watching NCIS episodes that are New To Me. Because I came late to the series and have remembered how much I like Mark Harmon.
Personally, I think Mark Harmon is sexier now that he was 20 years ago in St Elsewhere. He is a Real Man, not a Boy Toy. Plus, like me, he is showing a few signs of weathering. And he has been married to the same woman for over 20 years. I have also grown attached to the other quirky characters on the show. I can watch three episodes on a row and not get tired of them. Ohhhhhh, a sad commentary on my life! I really like "House," but I'm afraid I preferred Hugh Laurie as a comedic Brit. The angst-ridden House is a little difficult to swallow when you were raised on The Original Hugh. Here he is with Stephen Fry as Wooster and Jeeves.  

Random thoughts from the past week

We (Mum, Jeff, and I) went to a Memorial Day service at Gibbs Cemetery.
It sits in a quiet spot on Chehalem Mountain and is peaceful and serene.
Just like I want to be when I'm dead.
So yesterday I called to find out the price of plots.
For only $500, I can buy my semi-final resting place.
As soon as my CD matures next week, I'm going to hand over $1,000 to the cemetery guardians.
Jeff and me, together forever!
Whether he likes it or not.


It's a bargain at twice the price, don't you agree?
As a girl who has very strong opinions on what happens to me after I expire, this gives me great peace of mind.
I won't get into my views on embalming and coffins and all of the other strange traditions of Western culture.
You can thank me for that, if you like!

I wonder why Bethany's two youngest are such despots of destruction, experts of entropy, masters of mayhem.
I love alliteration!
But seriously, Josh and Natalie spend their entire lives getting into mischief.
I don't know how Bethany survives the day sometimes.
When her Facebook entry of the day reads, "I feel battered," you know there have been some dire goings-on in the Mitchell household.
Tonight she gets to go on a date with Dad.
Star Trek and Wolverine at the local drive-in.
Sniff.
That's me, feeling slightly put out.
But only slightly.
She REALLY needs a break from being Mom.

I've been very active this week, walking ferociously, riding my bike hither and yon, yoga class, working hard in my garden.
My curvaceous bod ought to be feeling somewhat diminished.
But it's not.
Maybe it has something to do with this very small bowl of Dreyers Slow Churned Rich and Creamy Limited Edition Drumstick Icecream that I'm eating as I write.
Ya think?

Annie had a garage sale today, getting ready to run away with her handsome soldier.
She's dumping the detritus of her single life.
Oops, more alliteration.
Can't help myself!
It was kind of cute to see the saleswoman in her.
I see why she gets the good sales jobs.
"Oh, that looks good on you, so much better than it looked on me!"
And she really means it.

Jon and Jenny and the boys leave for Peru on Monday.
Jenny is so excited, I've noticed that her Facebook entries are just a tad over-the-top!
I remember how I felt the first time I went back to New Zealand.
It had been about ten years and felt like forever.

Charlie is being ordained an Elder next weekend.
Jeff is flying down for the occasion.
I wish we could be around the "new and improved" Charlie more often.
We hope he makes it home for Annie's wedding.

Speaking of wedding, there's still lots to do on that front.
We have a photographer now.
I'm working on cake ideas.
Brilliant recipe for whipped cream frosting, anyone?

Jeff and I are escaping to the beach for July 4th weekend.
One week after The Wedding.
A lovely retreat to our favourite Rose Briar Inn, which puts on a killer breakfast.
A wee walk up the mountain to the Astoria Column.
Another walk all the way down the waterfront to the Red Lion Inn.
Heavenly.
Suddenly, I don't care how much it costs.

Hope you have some things to look forward to.

My Dad

In the spirit of Memorial Day, which seems to be lingering a bit this year, I thought I would post a slightly modified version of a speech that I gave in a speech class a few years ago. My Mum has been working on her stories for me and it's been bringing my Dad to my mind a lot. I count him as my hero.

My Dad, Herbert Thomas Wilson, known as Erbo to his family and Tom to his friends, was a happy person. It seems that he was always this way, as his teachers mentioned it in his report cards and his siblings always spoke of it when asked for their recollections of him. He was one of thirteen children born to poor parents in the city of Birmingham, England. He left school when he was fourteen and I believe he worked for a greengrocer, delivering groceries. Most of his meager paycheck was given to his mother to help support the family. He went on to become a plumber’s apprentice and that became his life’s occupation.
Because of his happy disposition, I suspect he was a favoured child. His sister says in her written memories of World War II, “Your Dad came home from school one day and said he was going to be evacuated to the country. He didn’t ask if he could go, he said he was going, and I don’t think the rest of us would have got away with that, because it meant he had to have new things to take with him. But he had a mind of his own, and off he went!” And his younger brother had this to say. “Erbo was the only one in the family to be evacuated. I think the rest of us kids in the family must have been expendable.”
Dad met his beloved wife, Elsie, when he was about seventeen. Once again, his brother tells the story best. “Erbo’s mates used to call for him to go dancing on a Saturday night. They would be all dressed up in their best clothes with their hair all plastered down with Brylcreem. They used to go to Barford Road School dance. That’s where (he met Elsie).”
Dad also was smart. He could build anything as long as he could get a good look at it. He used to get up at 5:30 every morning and get to work early to labour on his projects. He built wheat grinders, woodstoves, and even a tandem bike. He won prizes for his chrysanthemums, and his tomatoes were the best you’ve ever tasted.
Dad was always one who followed his dreams and he was forever looking for a better way of life. That led him to join the LDS Church when I was seven and later to move his family from England to New Zealand, without knowing much about the country or even where we would live. He was the only one of his siblings (merely eight of whom survived childhood) who ever left Birmingham. Can you imagine selling almost everything that you own, packing up the rest of your possessions, traveling on a ship for five weeks, and landing in a country where you knew no one? In the 1960’s, not the 1850’s! I call him and Mum my own pioneer stock!
Dad died at the young age of 49, shortly after retraining and working as a locksmith for just one year. I regard my Dad as the most intrepid person I have ever known, and his example inspires me to consider my own aspirations to be reachable. I was 50 years old before I became a music therapist, but my Dad taught me that we can all be pioneers in our own right; we all have the resources to follow our own dreams if we are just willing to make the requisite sacrifice.

Remember Memorial Day

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty - they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless Place of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars - they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: cheers for the living; tears for the dead.
~Robert G. Ingersoll

It doesn't feel quite apropos to say "Happy Memorial Day."

Charlie is a serious observer of the holiday and requires the same of his family.
He always asks, "Are you guys going to a service?"
In that vein, here is a photographic tribute to those who have served and given their all so that the rest of us could live in freedom.
The photos were taken on the boys' trip to Washington D.C.












My military guys. Marines, Coast Guard, and Army ROTC.


Now go find a memorial service near you.

Beach interlude

Lincoln City Beach near sunset.
Yesterday.

The unsung birthday

I don't mind getting older.
Really I don't!
I love the grandparenting,
the disposable income,
the peace that usually prevails in our home,
the joyful chaos that reigns when grandchildren visit,
the ability to come and go as I please,
the people my children are becoming,
the wisdom and perspective that come from experience,
the freedom to dress weirdly if I choose,
friends who know me and still love me,
and many other gifts that come with age.

What I do mind is the decrepitude of the body that follows the advancing years.
I resent the inexplicable pains that sneak up unannounced,
the pounds that creep onto my body no matter how much I fight them,
and multiple body parts (which shall remain nameless) that sag.

Luckily, the list of complaints is much shorter than the list of blessings.
I hope it remains that way for many years to come.

I requested that there be no party or cake for my birthday, as we have been inundated with both lately and still have Tommy's party this Monday.
Everyone was very obedient.
Would you like to see my presents?

Lovely African daisies and sweet potato vine from Mum.


Persian violet from Jon and Jenny.


A sweet-smelling gardenia from Bethany, which I will attempt to not kill.


I asked for flowers, can you tell?

A beautiful picture of the Portland temple from Jeff,
which now fills the only empty spot on my walls.
The photo does not do it justice.


Possum hat, gloves and truffles from my sister, Anne.
White Corningware dishes from my friend Barb, who is also trying to give up the plastic habit. The Lindor truffles that filled them are long gone!
Crocheted slippers from my friend, Brenda.
Relaxing bath milk and foot scrubber from Annie.


A phone call from Charlie, who remembered all on his own.
For that, there is no photo.

Growing things

I have become a fan of violas.
Their colours are so bright they are almost iridescent.
They will no doubt fade in the heat of summer, but they have been spectacular through our changeable spring.