Category: Ties

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Mom And Her Food

Here’s a dusty photo of Mom and her earrings in her family room in 2005, where we threw a little 75th Birthday open house for her. It was a word-of-mouth, mostly family event. Mom didn’t want anything too big, because she was setting her pace to make it to her 80th Birthday bash. And magically—she’s now on the cusp of 90.

That’s Dad behind her, eating whatever it was she made for her 75th B-day open house. Yes, she catered her own birthday party. She didn’t want it any other way. Mom is an excellent cook. It is her talent, and she knows it. She has always liked to see people enjoy her food. When we were preparing for her 80th Birthday bash, we told her she was not allowed to cook for the occasion—not because she wasn’t fully capable of doing it, but for the simple fact that we didn’t want her to work that hard. In the notice we put in THE CHRONICLE to invite folks to Mom’s 80th, we even announced that Mom would not be cooking for the occasion—hoping that just such a public proclamation would further encourage Mom not to attempt to cook something for the whole town. Oh, how naive we were!

Mom showed up at her own 80th Birthday shindig with trays of wrapped homemade toffee and baked popcorn galore—and little jars of jam—for everyone who showed up to see her be old. I immediately gave her the sarcastic raised eyebrow and Evil Eye stare. During the party, she said to me, “You kids aren’t mad at me for making treats, are you? I just wanted to give everybody a goodie.” I told her to relax. I said, “Mom, we always get over you not minding us. Get over it yourself.” And then we winked at each other, and off she went to hand out more treats. I will tell you now that she felt guilty she ran out of her creations before all the people quit coming through the door to bid her a happy 80th. She told me the next day that she was going to try to remember every single person who came but didn’t get a goodie, so she could make more and deliver the offerings in person. I was sore afraid! Could we pump that much gas into the Helenmobile?

So what did Mom do? She quickly figured out that her plan to see that every last person who attended her 80th got homemade, Helen-created treats was not feasible. She let go of her guilt, and let it slide. She went back to worrying that her children were mad at her for cooking when we had already taken care of refreshments for the open house. In the thank-you-to-everyone-who-came-to-my-party note she put in THE CHRONICLE the next week, she half-heartedly apologized to us for not listening about not cooking for her own bash—for yet again doing whatever the HELL-en Wright she wants to do. I called her and told her once more, “Mom, we always get over you not minding us. Get over it yourself.” And then she said, in her best theatrical, smart-mouth tone, “Well, what do you expect? You kids never listened to me all those years you were growing up!” Point taken. Game, set, match! Mom wins!

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This Photo Is Entirely Different From The Ones You Saw In This Morning’s Post

Mom’s got more of her eye-catching garb on, and her hair has been recently “did.” Heck, her socks match, and that doesn’t happen much. She’s got her glass o’ Pepsi in one hand, and her phone in the other. This is my mother, in a nutshell.

I vividly remember taking this picture of Mom. It was in my living room in Delta, about two weeks after Dad died, in 2007. I can see the anguish in her features. And she’s cried out. I forget who she was talking to at the time I snapped this, but I do remember it was someone offering her their condolences on Dad’s passing. From listening to her side of the conversation, I could tell she had a close relationship to the caller. She bared her soul and—based on her responses to the caller—it sounded to me like the caller did the same. To my ear, it sounded like Mom did much of the comforting in the conversation.

I have always admired Mom for her ability to be a true and deep friend to so many people at the same time. Sometimes I think everybody she meets is her best friend. She doesn’t just pretend to care. She authentically cares about you, and wants to know you, and wants to know what’s going on with you and your family, and your pets, and your crops, and so on. I know my mother is far from perfect, but I think I’m not exaggerating when I say that Mom is a woman who fundamentally loves like Christ loves. Every person Mom encounters, she simply loves—no matter what tattered shape they’re in, or what mistakes they’ve made. She’ll make sure you know you have to correct your wrongs, but she’ll be nice about it. To Mom, every single person is worthy of love and laughter.

Here’s an afterthought: Now, imagine you have Mom’s name, and you’re expected to live up to her example every day of your life! I do try, but she’s so far ahead of me in the Christlike love department that I don’t anticipate I’ll catch up to her, no matter how long I live. And I’m counting eternity in the equation, too.

FYI Send her a card or note for her 90th birthday @ Helen A. Wright, Millard Care and Rehab, Room #104, 150 White Sage Ave., Delta, UT 84624. Skitter thanks you.

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This Photo Was Taken On Mom’s First Day At MCR

After Mom broke her hip in June of 2017, she could no longer live in her own home in Delta, so she moved to St. George with my brother, Ron, and his beautiful wife, Marie, for the next year. We brought Mom “up north” with us when we could, and she’d spend part of her “up north” time with my oldest sister in Pleasant View. We kids traded Mom back and forth like she was a fragile, prize baseball card we were trying to share with each other. (“It’s my turn to have her!”) But Mom was not done with her beloved Delta, and when a residence space opened up for her at Millard Care and Rehab in October of 2018, we were pleased and sad at the same time. Mom would be in a safe and happenin’ place for the final chapter of her long life, but she wouldn’t be having sleepover camp with her kids and grandkids anymore.

Ron and Marie were out of town being grandparents for a week when the MCR space opened up, so Suzanne and I were down at their house doing our Momsitting when we got word Mom needed to be checked in at MCR almost immediately. Suzanne and I helped Mom go through her St. George bedroom to make decisions about what she could move with her to her new digs. To say the whole process was tearful is to underplay the upheaval Mom was feeling. She knew it was time for her to make the move, but it was a huge and probably final move, nonetheless. We had all cared for her until she needed more care than we could safely provide.

That October morning we were packing up Suzanne’s SUV to move Mom from St. George to Millard Care and Rehab, I had to wake Mom up. She had a check-in time in Delta, and we needed to get on the road. As I woke her, I sat on the edge of her bed and explained, step-by-step, what we were doing that day. She said in all seriousness, “Well, I’m not going. I was quite restless in the night. I finally decided I’m not going to the care center, and then I fell asleep. I slept like a log.” I don’t know exactly what I said after that, but we talked and cried and talked some more. She got up and started to gather things together, but she had to choose which of her home-made porcelain dolls to take with her. She could not have them all in her new room. I told her we could trade them out occasionally, so she’d have them all—but only one at a time. Mom’s tears were fierce. I eventually went and got Suzanne, who was packing up the car, and said, “I need you to do one task right now. Help Mom choose a doll. We have to leave.” Suzanne was somehow successful. We eventually ended up in the car with Mom’s belongings, including one bigly doll. Skitter was in the backseat, by Mom’s side, from St. George to Delta. Mom petted Skitter the entire way. Again, we talked and cried and talked and cried, across all the miles of our journey. Gee, I’ve gone through some rough things, but this was the worst day of my life.

By the time Suzanne and I left Mom in her room at MCR later that day and headed back to Centerville, Mom was still a bit flustered. The saving grace was that she knew almost everybody in the place—residents and staff. Every one of them made a fuss over her arrival. She was already the Queen Bee of the prom. It wasn’t her home, but everybody was familiar.

I learned one thing that day we drove Mom to what will likely be her last earthly home. (Honestly, I already knew the thing. But, like any human being, I’m stubborn, so I had to re-learn it that day.) And the thing I learned is this: The right thing to do for someone you love is sometimes the most difficult thing you could possibly ever think to do. But you have to do it. Because you love them. And it’s what they need.

Damn it.

That’s why I was wearing my broken/bandaged hearts Tie o’ the Day. I knew it would be appropriate for our mission.

FYI I drove to Delta to visit Mom three days after we moved her to MCR, to make sure she was doing okay. She was already absolutely jubilant to be there. So many family members and friends were stopping by to welcome her, I only stayed with her two hours. Heck, I was in the way, and I had never been so happy to be in the way. I decided Mom’s best trick is to carry her contentment with her wherever she goes. We’d all feel better if we would do that.

Another FYI You can see Mom had already temporarily “lost” her sunglasses and her tooth on moving day, but you can also see she had her all-important clip-on earrings on her elderly earlobes. No matter how old one is, one must always wear something with a touch of class.

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Skitter v. The Wascally Winds O’ Centerville

TIE O’ THE DAY brings you a selection of pix of Mom and Skitter during some of our visits with Mom at MCR. Mom has always been kind to all of God’s creatures—except ants, flies, mosquitoes, and mice, of course. Even so, Mom has never been a petter of anybody’s pets. But for some reason, Skitter and Mom hit it off, from the get-go. I’m sure it has a lot to do with Skitter being abused prior to her life with us. Mom’s got a whole diatribe she goes into about people who abuse animals, which usually ends with, “They oughta be shot.” Hey, you’ll get no argument to the contrary from me.

Anyhoo… Last week’s devastating winds here in Centerville were a thing to behold. The tree carnage was incalculable in Davis County. The damage to homes and cars was hit-and-miss, but homes and cars that did get hit, got hit bigly. Thankfully, our home was mostly missed. Skitter was the real victim of the winds, as far as our people and things are concerned. How do you explain the sound and feel of torrential wind to a mutt who is already chronically skittish from her previous abusive life? The power was out, so there was no cranking up music or the television to cover the sound of the storm. You have to understand that our tv is always on. When Suzanne and I are out of the house, we leave the television on for Skitter so she knows we’ll come. back home. Skitter is not stoopid. She knows if the television is on, I will definitely be back. When we go out of town and Suzanne’s sister stays here with Skitter, she knows the television is to remain on if she has to leave the house. It’s the law!

Anyhoo, again… With winds gusting into hurricane range, Skitter still had to go potty. Winds can’t prevent that need. I guiltily had to push her out the patio door. Out she went, into the bluster. She stared at me with eyes that said, “What did I do wrong?” I had to turn away. When I turned back to her, she was dutifully pottying—claws clutching the grass to keep her from being blown away in the awful wind. But I noticed something that made me feel relieved. Skitter’s pee was falling almost straight down into the ground. I immediately thought, “Skitter’s got this!” I knew for a fact Skitter had braved stronger winds in her life. We had spent tons of time at our tumbleweed ranch in Delta, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. I had seen Skitter’s pee fly sideways in the winds o’ Millard County at least a half-dozen times, and it was dropping straight down in the once-in-a-hunnerd-years storm in Centerville. After all was said and done, and despite its wrath, last week’s storm o’ wild winds was just a hullaballoo of wimpy city wind trying to blow with the bigly winds o’ Delta, Utah!

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The Chia Hairs Have Been Tabulated

Barry and Mitt have reached the end of their Chia Pandemic Hairs Thursday race. Barry looks about the same as when his Chia hairs were first spread on his head. In fact, his pandemic hairs closely resemble the real hairs of his real-life counterpart. Mitt sprouted some healthy, long Chias for about a week. Now his Chia hairs are wilting rapidly and sticking to his head. I think I’m going to make this political Chia hairs contest a regular event in presidential election years. As for this year’s competition, I declare a draw. Look at these dudes. Ain’t nobody got winning Chia hairs here.

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Is This Barry’s And Mitt’s Pandemic Chia Hairs’ Last Stand?

I dunno for sure, but it looks to me like Barry’s Chia hairs aren’t really in the race anymore. Mitt, on the other hand, looks like his Chia hairs might have peaked already and are on the way to a strong shrivel. Hairs problems aside, they each borrowed a Tie o’ the Day from Skitter, so they clearly know the importance of starring on TIE O’ THE DAY for Pandemic Hairs Thursday.

This morning, I am so weary of my pandemic hairs that I couldn’t stand the thought of taking one more photo of them. I have called myself on a mission today to hunt down Miss Tiffany o’ Great Clips—to beg her to chop off my over-grown locks. She’s the only one I trust to properly hack away at my noggin fur. At this point, she’s gonna need a machete and a Weed Whacker to wrangle my mop into a semblance of order. I hope to present myself to y’all as freshly coiffed in my next post. Wish me bigly luck.

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Where’s My Kite?

[Suzanne just gave me a print of the John Bercham photo of a tumbleweed in mid-air over the Bonneville Salt Flats. Gee, I can’t imagine why it made her think of me. And it doesn’t resemble life in Delta at all! Anyhoo… This is a repeat of a post from two Augusts back. It’s appropriate.]

Bow Tie o’ the Day begged to head outside to experience the concept of wind. I explained to Bow Tie what it is, and why it exists. I also explained that any wind that shows up in Centerville, UT is not “real” wind. Dirt devils in the desert are also not real wind. Tornadoes and hurricanes are not real wind. Those breezes are merely a taste of wind. Even the wind in Chicago, which is known as The Windy City, is not real wind. If you want to experience real wind, you have to be in Delta, UT. It’s not even a contest. Delta wins. I’ve observed the Delta wind blow cats out of trees. On many occasions, I have seen the wind there blow bigly dogs over while they tried to potty. I have regularly seen the Delta wind move sheds, lawnmowers, trampolines, and bags o’ golf clubs. And, I kid you not, I once saw the wind blow a chainsaw off a picnic table. Where it ended up, I can only imagine. I myself was once blown over onto a washboard road while riding my bike in an unexpected wind, and my bike was nowhere to be found when I dusted myself off. I have seen Delta wind blow herds of humongous tumbleweeds against fences, covering the fences so thoroughly—and artfully—that the fences themselves were not visible. In fact, I once saw the wind in Delta blow so ferociously that it threw a bazillion acres of tumbleweeds so high into the air that they actually disappeared. And when gravity was finally able to pull them back down to earth, it appeared as if the heavens had opened wide and were raining tumbleweeds down upon the whole of Millard County. That, my friends, is wind. And trust me, there is no umbrella for tumbleweed rain. 🌪 ☔️ 🤡

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Skitter Loves Her Old Rowan

Our incredible Rowan turned the bigly age o’ 23 over the weekend. He managed to squeeze in some time to celebrate with his moms last evening, and we were so glad he did. I fed him vegan frozen dinners, and Suzanne made him a vegan birthday cake. Skitter wore her mustache Tie o’ the Day for the occasion. I managed to dig up Rowan’s 2nd Grade school photo, in which his gorgeous brown eyes bulged with glee. Last night, he was more than willing to pull his now-adult version of his 2nd Grade facial pose. He hasn’t changed a bit. His brown eyes are still gorgeous even when he makes them bulge. Merry Birthday, Flick Muckle Spinner!

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Plan To Improvise Your Life

This afternoon I was wearing one of my fattest, widest ties as Tie o’ the Day when I pulled up to the Post Office to go inside to mail a package. I suddenly realized I didn’t have a face mask in my car. I have a billion of them. But all the dirty ones were in the washer, and I had just plain forgotten to re-supply each of the vehicles with clean ones. I had to get in that Post Office to complete my errand, and I didn’t want to take the time to run home and retrieve a mask first. What’s a girl to do? No worries! Fat, wide Tie o’ the Day to the rescue! Luckily, I was also wearing my bow tie sock garters. I slipped one of the sock garters around my head, then clipped it to the wide end of Tie—such that Tie snugly covered my nose and mouth for the duration of my postal errand. Mission accomplished. Well done, makeshift Face Mask o’ the Day.