Category: Stories

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Flowers Try To Hang In There

I have always been The Grocery Shopper. It’s one of my housewifey chores. For the first few weeks after my surgery last summer, Suzanne was the one who had to regularly go to the store. The horror! Because Suzanne doesn’t grocery shop, she is a total comedy of errors when she tries to complete the task. She has no idea where items are located. It takes her an hour to do ten minute’s worth of shopping, and she gets a two-mile walk as she tries to figure out the aisles, while attempting to decipher the unreadable list I give her.

When she’s on the hunt at Dick’s, she sends me a boatload of texts. It’s as if she’s on a treasure hunt for food and she needs clues. In fact, when she’s at Dick’s, we text more than when she’s at work or out of town. And Suzanne is so unenlightened about how to correctly use the self-checkout line that she knows to not even try. It’s a fiasco. Suzanne is brilliant, but not in the self-checkout-line way.

Anyhoo… A few days ago, I didn’t feel like leaving the house, and I needed a grocery or two and some stoopid prescriptions from the pharmacy. I texted Suzanne at her office and said, “Hey, on your way home from an extra-late day at work, will you please add to your overtime by stopping at Dick’s for my Diet Coke and my meds?” I don’t even have to tell her I’m having one of my bipolar days. I don’t have to tell her I couldn’t handle leaving the house and going to Dick’s myself, even though it’s only a block away. If I ask her to go to the grocery store, she knows. And she also knows to not know exactly what I’ll be like when she gets home. The only question in her brain is which side I’ll be on: Will I be manic or depressed? She’s used to both.

While at the store that evening, Suzanne bought me this bouquet of flowers from the we’re-trying-to-get-rid-of-these-almost-dead-flowers section of the floral arrangements. They were discounted. That’s how Suzanne and I both roll. We are not tightwads with our bucks, but we are thrifty. As we know, it’s the thought that counts– with some things, but not all. She knew I would be double happy with this bouquet because it was both a bargain, and– despite its near-deadness– it was still kinda pretty. Blue and tan Tie o’ the Day thought so too.

I thought of this bunch o’ flowers as I think of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree: pathetic and in need of love. It’s cute, in its own way. When she put them in the vase, Suzanne pulled out the really, really dead flowers and threw them in the garbage. I rescued them and stuck them back in. Suzanne wasn’t happy about that, but I was– so she let it go. They were for me, you know.

The second photo was taken fifteen minutes after the first one. The flowers did not suffer long. I can prove that’s exactly what happened. See, I’m wearing the same shirt and same Tie o’ the Day in both pictures. There’s absolutely no way I could fake that. It’s not like I could wear the same attire for a photo a week later. You know it’s against my clash fashion rules to wear the same exact outfit twice– ever! And I am not a rule-breaker. 😉 🤡

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The Wheels On The Car Go ‘Round And ‘Round

Skitter and I– and Bow Tie o’ the Day– jumped out of our beds this morning and said to each other, “Hey! Let’s get ourselves into the car and go visit Helen, Sr.!” And so we did.

I always enjoy my visits to Millard Care And Rehabilitation. I get to see my former bishops, school teachers, church teachers, bosses, neighbors, coaches, etc. It is somewhat strange to see them “old.” They resemble their young selves enough that I know who they are. In fact, I know most of the MCR residents. That’s an effect of being from a town small enough that you know everybody. I knew these folks as I grew up, and I know them now as we all grow older. MCR is like a rickety, hard-of-hearing, cane-and-walker version of the “real” Millard County.

I’m always amazed by how much laughter I hear wherever I go in MCR. Staff and residents share a genuinely playful banter with each other. I know it sounds cliche, but it really does feel like family there. The staff is always trying to feed me like I’m family, too.

Like in any family, there are a few “problem children” who live at MCR. In fact, I have seen a sourpuss or two among the residents. Oh, well. I remember those fuddy-duddies when they were a heckuva lot younger, and they were sourpusses even way back then. People gonna be who people gonna be, I guess.

I met someone today at MCR who Mom has raved about since she was in MCR with her broken hip almost two years ago– Tess Greathouse. I have always known Tess’ family, but I had never actually met her before, since she is decades younger than me. As Skitter and I were walking to Mom’s room, Tess stopped me and asked if I was Mom’s daughter, and almost before I could answer, Tess’s hand shot out to shake mine. I don’t think I have ever visited Mom at MCR without her telling me how much she enjoys Tess reading stories to her. She loves Tess. Tess is one of Mom’s blessings, that’s for sure.

Jeez, Mom has more blessings than anyone else I know. I might need to borrow some one day.

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And Lucas Drooled Non-stop

Bow Tie o’ Yesterday Afternoon had a baby shower to attend with us. Of course, I chose to wear one of my infant-size bow ties.

Suzanne’s nephew, Robby, his wife Jorie, and their daughter, Brooklynn are expecting a baby boy in a few weeks. Thus, a baby shower had to be organized. Robby’s sister, Rachel, and their mom, Marjorie, created the bash at Rachel’s residence. (Remember, Marjorie is Skitter’s sleepover pal, who takes up residence at our house when Suzanne and I go out of town. Skitter loves Marjorie. As do we.)

So the baby shower for Jorie got planned and scheduled weeks ago. Even though Robby and Jorie currently live in Tucson, they were planning to be here in Utah to attend the party. Enter the unexpected hitch: Jorie was recently told she wasn’t allowed to travel until after the babe is born. Does the baby shower get canceled? Does the baby shower go on with nary an appearance from Robby, Jorie, or Brooklynn? Does the baby shower get rescheduled until after the bambino is born? Nope. Nope. And nope. The shower must go on, with all the usual suspects in attendance.

Solution: The baby shower was done by Skype– between the Rachel’s living room in Layton and the Tucson living room of the expectant family, in whose honor the occasion was thrown. Everybody could see and hear everybody. Presents for the soon-to-be-here baby boy were opened in both living rooms. Yes, it went swimmingly. In fact, I’m kinda thinking of never going anywhere ever again. I’ll just Skype myself to wherever I’m supposed to be.

Rachel and her husband, Walker, are the parents of the two tikes I’m hanging with in these photos. Neither child had any clue what a baby shower is or why it was happening in their house, but they were the Best. Party. Favors. Ever! The bigly boy is Liam. The new one is Lucas. They are happy kids.

At one point yesterday, Liam wanted me to go downstairs with him to watch him do his death-defying trampoline moves. AGAIN. I said I was going to stay upstairs with the adult folks right then, but I’d go downstairs again with him later. My answer sent Liam into a small pout, which teetered on the edge of a tantrum. The only thing I hate worse than a kid throwing a tantrum, is a kid throwing a weak-ass tantrum. Kids, if you’re gonna have a meltdown cuz you didn’t get your way, make it monstrous. Go all out.

“That’s not a tantrum,” I told Liam. “THIS is a tantrum!” And then I threw myself onto the carpet, on my belly– flailing my arms, kicking and pounding the floor, crying, and screaming. And guess what? Liam started to laugh. It works every time. Mission accomplished. Kid’s tantrum transforms into laughter before it can become a Category 5 storm.

And that brings me to the reason I just had to choose bowling pin/bowling ball ‘links to be my Cufflinks o’ the Day for a baby shower. Years ago, I heard a comic– whose name I can’t recall– observe that having kids is like having a bowling alley installed in your head. After you have kids, you’ll never be able to concentrate again. Your head will pound with questions and worry. You will never again be able to relax. I found this to be one of the truer analogies– literally AND figuratively– about having kids around. Kids and bowling alley similarities: lots of alarming noises; unexpected outbursts; balls landing where they shouldn’t; the occasional body going splat on the floor; fisticuffs for no reason; machines mysteriously going kaput; Mountain Dew spilled on the floor; inexplicably dirty bathrooms; volcanic eruptions of bad language; general chaos even when it’s quiet; and stinky shoes.

That reminds me. Here’s a tip: If you’ve got a kid, you will be blessed with the odor of stinky shoes. You will be doubly blessed if you are able to follow the odor and locate the shoes. DO NOT THROW THEM IN THE GARBAGE CAN! If your kid notices the shoes are missing, your kid will follow the scent and retrieve them. No, when you find the smelly culprits YOU MUST BURN THEM! YOU MUST ANNIHILATE THEM! They will find their way back into your house if you do not destroy them completely.

BTW Hey, check out the ribbon bow tie atop the Cake Made o’ Diapers. The bow tie was a special decoration at the baby shower, crafted just for me to see. Suzanne’s family knows me so well. They had a bit of extra ribbon after they finished making the “cake” and they thought of me. I love them.

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Niffin’ About Roxy



Today, I found some old TIE O’ THE DAY doggie pix, which Skitter and I culled through. The photos were mostly of our late pal, Roxy Lou, posing in Ties and Bow Ties o’ the Day. Skitter and I have lowered our smiles to half-staff since we looked at the photographs. We teared-up a little. FYI When Skitter cries, she hogs the Kleenex.

Suzanne and Skitter and I had to help Roxy go to sleep just over a year ago, and Skitter has been dog-less since then. While Roxy Lou was here, she took the scared, abused Skitter under her wing and taught her how to be a dog. While Roxy was here, I also never had to turn on the vacuum cleaner: Roxy ate anything that fell to the floor, anywhere in the house. It did not have to be food. (We called her Hoover.) That’s how she became the fattest mini dachsie to ever waddle on the face of the planet.

Enjoy these reposted pix of the late Roxy’s modeling, as she appeared in TIE O’ THE DAY. I included a couple of naked-neck pictures too.

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My Poor Hairbrush

My hairs went through so much terror yesterday, and at bedtime some of them were still going through it. I thought I should prove to you how strong my hair goop is. Seven hours after I did my visor hairdo, a few brave strands were still hanging tough– trying to visor through, as long as possible. I chose a simple wood Bow Tie o’ the Pajamas to wear while snapping this selfie. I thought it was a fitting choice, since my hairs kind of resemble dead tree branches.

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The Mad Hattery O’ My Afternoon Hairs

Colonel Sanders Tie o’ the Day helped me re-think my baseball caps. Do I really need them, or can I get by with this glued-up visor hairdo? I dunno. My hairs visor seems to be keeping the sun out of my eyes so far today. If I got rid of my hats, I could free up their space in The Tie Room, where I could house more bow ties. But alas! I love my hat collection too, so that’s not gonna happen. There’s room in The Tie Room Resort for all things that wander in.

Small towns are like that, even though we tend to think of them as narrow-minded. A small town will generally set a place for you at its table. Trust me, you will find narrow-minded people anywhere you go. You will find jerks everywhere you go, as well. And if you act like a jerk in a small town, be prepared to lose that place at the table you were so kindly given– as you would deserve to. But most people realize nobody’s perfect, and they’ve got plenty of their own issues to work on. A lot of “mind your own biscuits” combined with even more of “love your neighbor” goes a long way toward allowing you to live like a mature human being among other grown-ups. [Note: The meanings of the aforementioned two sayings are more alike than they seem.]

For example, I’m reminded of a Delta-area woman I knew in my kidhood, who suddenly– out of nowhere, out of character– began to steal. She stole insignificant things from stores, and she didn’t seem to hide what she was doing. A lot of the town knew.

Some people wanted to see her put in jail. Some people wanted to see her face plastered across the front page of the newspaper. She was a wonderful, law-abiding wife, mother, citizen, and church member in all other ways. She wasn’t stealing because she couldn’t afford what she took. And the things she stole were random and unnecessary. It was clear she was suffering from a mental issue. The cops, store owners, and her family had a pow-wow and decided legal action was probably not going to help her. They decided shaming her in THE CHRONICLE wasn’t going to help her or her family. But she couldn’t keep getting away with stealing, without consequences. That this woman was not going to jail bothered a few busybodies who neither minded their own biscuits, nor did they try to help.

Working together to love their neighbor, the group of cops, store owners, and family– including the woman herself– created a plan to get everybody who was involved in the immediate problem what they all needed/wanted. The woman agreed to receive mental health services. The store managers wouldn’t call the cops when they saw her steal, which would free up the cops to deal with more pressing issues. The stores would keep track of what the woman stole, and the husband would pay the bills each month until she got her mental issue taken care of. After months of mending her psyche in therapy, she became well. Nothing “official” was done. A small town of neighbors loved one neighbor enough to solve a strange problem together. A narrow-minded town would not even try to accomplish that.

As with most things in life, you need to find the balance. You need to keep the balance between your biscuits and your neighbors: You have to pay just a smidgen of attention to your neighbors’ biscuits, so you’ll know your neighbors’ struggles. Sometimes that’s the only way you’ll be able to know how to love your neighbors in specific ways that will help sustain them.

End o’ sermon. Again.

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Hairs Thursday #5


As I considered what to make my hairdo do today, I started to think about how snazzy mustaches can be. I decided I’d try to create a couple with my hairs. Here’s my stab at a Fu Manchu. You can see my mustache-styling skills are quite limited. I can’t even do a Fu Manchu that looks right. The important thing is that I tried. Just for y’all, I tried.

My ‘stache makes as much sense as my Prince-Albert-in-a-Can Bow Tie o’ the Day. I mean, these young whippersnappers nowadays have no clue about the old routine of prank-calling a store that sold tobacco and asking: “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And when told YES, saying “Well, you better let him out.” I have to do a lot of explaining when I wear this piece. And the young wonderers still don’t find it amusing. And that gets me to thinking about how much more isolated Delta was when I was a kid. Oh, it was still 140 miles from SLC, but without cell phones, texting, and the internet, your mind was near-completely soaked in the confines of Delta and its offshoots. A phone prank and toilet-papering a house was about the funniest crap you could pull, without causing a town civil war.

Don’t think for a minute that Delta was boring back in the day. There was plenty to do: for example, sliding down the flumes easily morphed into cliff jumping; tubing down the Sevier could end up planting you at the reservoir for a swim and a bonfire; throwing a couch in the back of a truck (Yes, we rode in the back of trucks.) often ended at an Oak City canyon party– complete with a campfire and s’mores.

Like most kids, I was allowed to ride my bike everywhere from the age of zero. (Slight exaggeration.) I was allowed to play on the railroad tracks. They were pretty much our front yard. I was taught the rules, and then set free to explore. Of course, being bored in Delta was your choice. Some people were, and I felt sorry for them.

Delta was also packed with characters who had made their individual lives a little iconic by their bigly actions. For example, there were Bernell and Blanche Ferry (son and mother) whose accidental antics included Blanche falling out of their old truck’s passenger door as Bernell rounded the corner to turn onto Main Street. She rolled like a roly-poly into the gutter, stood up, and waited for Bernell to go around the block and come pick her up again. That’s right: he did not stop for her. He went around the whole block. When he came back around and finally stopped by Blanche, she hopped in the truck, and off they went on their merry way. The scene looked like they were following a script– like they had done this a million times before. I felt privileged to observe the entire event. I’m still I awe of that old woman’s un-breaking bones.

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I Got Scolded

I sure did, and it wasn’t even about politics– which I will gladly talk about one-on-one with anyone, in person, but I will not address the subject on Facebook or the website. So it wasn’t about that, but it was a mini brouhaha anyway. Ascot o’ the Day reminds me it is not my job to be in charge of other people’s ruffled feathers. Nevertheless, I did get called on the proverbial carpet by a reader who thought I was attacking marriage in yesterday morning’s post. Not so, my friends. Not at all. Not one bit.

I thought I was very clear in my post. My point was that marriage has its near-impossible moments of pain and discontent, as does life in general. Because of that fact, it’s helpful to have a stash of stupid tucked away in your love, in order to soldier on. Even the best of marriages get bumpy and convoluted occasionally. If you could see– before you got hitched– every land mine you’d experience in your marriage, there’s a good chance you might not have gone through with it. That’s why it’s good to be clueless/naive about some ventures. Being stupid about love is part of what makes us brave and hopeful enough to risk hitching our ball to someone’s chain. (That sounded very wrong, but you understand.) A healthy dose of stupid when you’re in love is, well, healthy.

So I apologize if anybody took offense. I won’t, however, budge on my belief in the value of stupid when it comes to marriage– and kids and all of the important people we choose to love. The stupidest things I’ve ever done, I did for love. Those stupid moves– and the courage they required– have earned me the strong, enduring relationships I have. That’s everything.

And it’s all because of stupid. Really, if you wanna know a secret, here it is: I will surely do more stupid things for people I love, until the minute I die. I recommend you do stupid things for those you love too. Will I sometimes get hurt for doing those stupid things? Yes. Will it eventually be worth it to me and to those I love? Yes. In fact, sometimes the stupider it is, the better it turns out. Why? Because The Kingdom of Stupid is where we all learn how to be better human beings. Nobody learns anything in The Kingdom of the Easy Things We Already Know.

[I really should have stuck with the word “naive” in yesterday morning’s post, instead of “stupid.” But “stupid” is probably closer to the truth. Plus, it’s funnier to say.]

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Evil Dishes

Bow Tie o’ the Day is helping me procrastinate. I should put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and push the button to start it. Nah, I’ll do it later. But why? What is so darn hard about putting dishes in the dishwasher racks, and then forgetting about them as they have a shower? Nothing.

I have a complicated relationship with dirty dishes, and it’s Mom’s fault. I blame her for everything that’s wrong with me. I have threatened to sue her over the years, but she isn’t a Rockefeller or Vanderbilt. Anyhoo… Mom has always been a control freak about her kitchen– especially about anything that went on in the kitchen sink. Her kitchen sink was her private domain. I have no idea why. It was nothing special– just a kitchen sink. But it was a forbidden spot. Just ask anyone who offered to do her dishes after a bigly family feast. Mom’s answer was usually NO. Her exact words would be something like, “I should say not!” Sometimes you’d even hear, “No way, Jose.” To be fair, as she got older and the family got bigger, she’d accept a teeny bit of help. (Mom made it clear she did not want a dishwasher installed in her kitchen–ever.)

My childhood was full of household chores, but doing the dishes wasn’t one of them. I dusted. I vacuumed. I mowed the lawn. I delivered honey. I moved Dad’s stinky work boots out of the living room. Dishes, on the other hand, were never put on my to-do list. Based on the few times I managed to wash the dishes, I hated the task with a vengeance. I think Mom took pity on me. Mom did trust Dad with the task on occasion. When she was out of town, Dad took on the washin’ o’ the dishes. I have a feeling she told him about my “allergy” to doing them.

[FYI Dad and I didn’t generate many dirty dishes when Mom was out of town. When it was my turn to fix dinner for us, I ordered pizza from the Rancher. When it was Dad’s turn, we ate fish-and-chips from A & W.]

Karma hits hard sometimes. When I went to college, my first job was as a dishwasher at Dixon’s Pies, in Ogden. I called Mom after my first shift and said, “Mom, you know all those dishes you didn’t make me do when I was growing up? I did them ALL last night.”

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Home At Last, Last Week

My Bolo/Tie o’ the Day combo is one of my fave clever ties. I thought it was quite a fitting choice to wear home from our Tucson/Las Vegas trip– Western theme and all. Sometimes I wear appropriate things. Sometimes, I can choose clothing and neckwear that “match” my situation. Not often, but on occasion. Most of the time it makes me feel oogy and itchy to blend in, or match, or fit in– whatever you wanna call it. It ain’t my true soul.

In this photo, I sit outside the SLC airport, waiting for the shuttle bus to take us to our faithful car at the end of our traipsing to and fro. My minutes-new saddle purse is in the orange bag. (I know, I know. I still owe y’all the purse story post. It’s coming.) I didn’t want to show off the purse in this particular photo, cuz its stunningness would have taken attention away from Tie. Tie deserves to shine in its own spotlight.

I’m quite proud of my magenta suitcase. It is designed to be extra lightweight, and I got it soon after my surgery so it would be a little easier for me to maneuver and heft through airports. Of course, on our first couple of post-surgery trips, Suzanne lugged everything for me anyway– so I guess it was nice of me to provide her a lighter suitcase in which to haul my stuff. I’m so thoughtful.

Although we have at least four concerts to attend in the next few months, they are in Utah. We don’t have any travel on our schedule for the near future. And I’m ok with that. I can drive down to visit Mom more often. And I’ve got stuff to do here. I do not consider myself a “real” homemaker (although I guess I am), but I am a homebody. Suzanne is too.

Suzanne sits in one of two spots in the house when she’s home. She sits in either the loveseat or in front of her Ultimate SewingBox. She’s pretty much a statue. She sits motionless, except for her hands. They never stop crocheting, sewing, piecing quilts together, etc. Her body sits still the entire evening, but she accomplishes oodles of craftiness with her paws. She creates constantly. She has a ton to show for her not moving.

I, on the other hand, flit and flutter around the house constantly. I call it “birding.” I “bird” around. I never light. I don’t know if I accomplish anything or not, but I haven’t yet heard Suzanne tell me– or tell anyone else– I’m a useless waste o’ space.

I really have nothing to show for all my Tasmanian-Devil-around-the-house movements. It is true that the ties are hung snuggly in their closets, and the bow ties are safely tucked into their card catalog drawers– a dozen per drawer. At the end of the day, the neckwear is always clean, fed, and put to bed. I guess that counts as doing something. And it is also true that I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 notebooks/journals full of poems and stories I’ve conjured up over the years. That should count as something. Also, I keep Skitter pottied. I guess that’s something that shows. Or it’s something that doesn’t show, if you wanna look at it that way.