Let it Snow!

(Imagine the Peanuts "Snowfall" piano piece tinkling in the background as you read this blog. Sorry I'm too tech-ignorant to put it on here.)

Wow, as I write this, it is snowing like mad outside. Generally, we don't get a lot of snow here in the DC area, but I've got more than a foot on my deck table, and it's still coming down hard. The newscasters are calling this one of the three biggest snowfalls in the history of DC!

Tha last one was a week of storms early in January, 1996. The kids and my husband were off school and work for over a week. Yep, they shut down the government when there's more than a half-inch of the white stuff.

It gets much icier here than in Utah, and because of the humidity, it feels much colder too. I simply will not ski here in the mid-Atlantic because it is so uncomfortable. I vastly prefer the ideal conditions of Alta and Solitude!

The downside is that we had to postpone the arrival of our youngest daughter. We did not want her to be stranded in a strange place, alone, as she was last year. So she comes in on Monday morning.

Maybe we can make a snowman! I am not, however, looking forward to shoveling the driveway.

Take that, Global Warming enthusiasts!

The Christmas Run-Up

I love Christmas. I really do. I try to plan ahead so things are not too stressful (this is not especially effective), and I enjoy looking for presents all year 'round. All my kids (three I birthed and two I got as in-laws) will be home, and I want to make it fun and joyous and cozy for them.

I am working my way through several recipes (some multiple times!) and sharing with my co-workers and my dad, and nibbling a few myself. Well, more than a few, but I'm trying to be more mindful of my eating. We have a Continental breakfast on Christmas; I make pizzelles and my mother's cinnamon twists.

We sleep in now that our children are adults--which is just fine by me. When I was a kid I got up at the crack of dawn and sneaked downstairs for a look at the haul. Then I got my sister and we looked together, then tried to go back to bed until a more civilized hour, but we couldn't sleep. Eventually my parents got up and my dad filmed us "waking up" and "discovering" our gifts under the tree. He always panned around the room to get the whole display.

The run-up to Christmas is more fun than the actual day for me. I don't particularly care about getting any gifts myself (which frustrates my husband, who loves having lots of presents under the tree). I like to prepare the meals and the pies and the cookies and candies, and watch Christmas movies. And every other year or so, we have a huge party, the highlight of which is a White Elephant gift exchange. I had planned to have one this year, but my mother's passing has taken a bit of the stuffing out of me, and I got very far behind because I was away for three weeks. And my kids lament that they cannot be here for the party--they loved it when we had them when they were young. Next year, I hope!

I am grateful for my Savior and the miracle that was His birth. I am so glad that our Heavenly Father provided for a way we can repent of our sins, and the example of His Son, who came into this world in the humblest of circumstances. When I compare the ease and comfort and conveniences of my life compared to his, I feel very blessed. I am grateful that I could live in this day and age, despite the wars and problems. I try to let the peace begin with me, and as I get older and learn more, I am becoming more successful.

Merry Christmas, every one!

A Well-Lived Life Ends

Goodbye, Mom.

I have been in Utah for two weeks because my mother was dying, and she passed away one week after I got here, on November 6, 2009 at the age of 84 years and 8 months.

My mother was both brilliant and naive, loving and domineering, enthusiastic about her own interests, pessimistic and negative about those of which she didn't approve or share. Often, she didn't approve of me. I learned to deal with it, though often her anger and disapproval hurt or enraged me. But, as my husband observed once, people are a mixed bag. Mom certainly was.

At the end of the day, though, I always knew my mother loved me. She had serious anxiety issues and never really learned to adequately control her emotions. However, the strength she taught me gave me the ability to stand up to her disapproval and do what I knew to be right.

Each day since her death has been a little easier. Having watched her decline for nearly 3 years made it easier to say the long goodbye. I am glad she is in a better place, no longer prisoner in that pain-riddled, deteriorating body.

No Kindle Inflames my Passion!

"I could not live without books."

"So many books, so little time."

"...books are keys to wisdom's treasure. Books are paths that upward lead. Books are friends. Come, let us read."

I have loved books and reading since I was a very little girl. Walking into the library never fails to give me a little frisson of excitement. I cracked the code quickly and became impatient with the repetitiveness of Dick and Jane; I wanted to move on! I never liked Dr. Seuss because of the repetition when I was a child, though I like the cadence of the prose as an adult. Reading is the activity that I enjoy above all. I could read and do virtually nothing else.

For some reason, even with two voracious readers as parents and frequent trips to the library, none of our children are the readers we are. I stood before our crammed shelves one day with a daughter, pointing out to her the merits of various books when it dawned on me: those stories are not a part of her the way they are of me. And they likely never will be. This realization broke my heart.

The various experiences and the infinite wisdom I've gleaned through books are invaluable to me. My child, whom I love so much, is bereft without even knowing it, and this breaks my heart. How much will this diminish her life? She may never know or care, but I do know that my own life would be greatly diminished without the vast storehouse of information I've read and pondered and stored up for many, many years.

Lately I have been reading for escape. I just finished Cold Comfort Farm, a brilliant and hilarious book that sends up the overwrought English countryside novel popular between the wars (much as the Jeeves and Wooster books do). Lately my life has seemed difficult and bleak, and to get myself out of this mood, I have been reading. Real printed paper-between-covers books.

I cannot imagine using yet another electronic device to read when it is so easy and inexpensive to read a book. You don't have to plug it in or recharge it; it doesn't cost hundreds of dollars plus a fee to read, only a short trip to the library. I have been told that a Kindle stores 1500 books (but since length varies so much, who can tell?) but that's a load of money too, since it costs about $16 to download a book. Who needs this gadget? Not I.

In ninth grade, I took a Power Reading course. It was a proud moment when my teacher stood before the class and said that I had completed the highest available materials in the course by semester's end. (One other boy, my crush for a couple of years, had overcome the material at the beginning of the class, but he decided to finish it anyway.) I'm zipping through novels and biographies at the rate of several a week, just to keep ahead of what Winston Churchill called "the black dog."

At least it's working, even if I don't get much else done.

Just give me the words printed and bound. I am happy with these treasures.

Road Trip

I went on a road trip with my friend Kacie last weekend. She had to drive to meet her family at the National Order of the Arrow (Boy Scouts) conference at Indiana University in Bloomington. Her son was receiving a prestigious award. She didn't want to make the trip alone, so I agreed to go with her.

We were near the Flight 93 site in Shankstown, Pennsylvania, so we went over there. Now I have been to all three memorials from 9/11. It is still very makeshift, but very touching for that. Hundreds of mementoes are there, left by those who have visited. There are park benches with the names of the victims engraved on each, and granite headstones with messages too, presumably from families. The actual site of the crash is across a field and is fenced off. It is very rural. Living near Washington, D.C., I can only imagine what plot those brave passengers foiled. How many lives did they save? Amazing.

We went on to the Workshops of Gerald Henn headquarters, where there is a small gift shop. The company is going out of business and I wanted to add to my daughters' pottery collections before the stuff was completely unavailable. Lo and behold, their warehouse was open, and I was able to garner a whole bunch of stuff far below the retail price! I was very satisfied with my purchases. I love this pottery because it is of such high quality. Now my girls will have some kitchenware that will be passed down to their kids, as well as serve them well throughout their lives.

We went on to Fort Wayne, Indiana where I had the best chocolate I've ever eaten in my life (DeBrand, check out their website at debrand.com) and made the acquaintance of my friend's niece, a very precocious ten-year-old who reminded me a lot of myself at that age. On Sunday, we drove to Bloomington, and made the mistake of stopping at a White Castle burger place for lunch. The worst food I have ever eaten, bar none. The thinnest piece of meat possible, gray, on an over-steamed bun. No flavor. I took three bites, as did my friend, and we gave up and ate the fries only. We should have asked for our money back. Eeeuuww.

Kacie went to the festivities at IU Sunday night while I stayed in our motel talking to family. I love cell phones! On Monday we drove home over I-70, a route I had not taken since 1984 when we moved to Maryland. (Well, technically, I did take it in 2008 when we drove to Utah, but it was in the other direction.)

All in all, we had a great time. I'm glad I did something different for a few days, and I'm glad I could help my friend. I would not have wanted to make that drive alone. And I'm really excited to have gotten my hands on more pottery!

A Day Late and a Dollar (or More) Short

Guess what. I've been scooped again.

Annette Lyon, a Utah writer, just published a book: Their, There, They're, a grammar guide.

I went on Amazon and looked at her chapters. It's definitely got a Utah slant (she has one section on Supposedly/Supposably, and it's only in Utah that I have ever heard this error. That is also the only place I've heard the remark, "He was bein' really ignernt to me." People use the term "ignorant" to mean "rude."). She has a lot of the same things I have on Mrs. Clark's Grammar Rant, which has yet to see the Internet light of day, mostly because I do not know how to set up a website.

Oh, well.

I know I could not hold a candle to Eats Shoots and Leaves, the wonderful grammar book written by Lynne Truss, an Englishwoman and therefore a higher authority than I, but I was trying to make my little light shine.

Move on, dear. Move on.

No County for Old Women

So, a friend of mine wants me to attend the Relief Society Book Group. The book this month is Emma, by Jane Austen. A classic, right? You'd think the regional (meaning bigger than most of the others) library in my town would have several copies, right?

You'd be wrong.

Not finding the book in the stacks, I went to the online card catalog. I typed in the word "Emma" as the book title. Simple, huh?

Ninety-eight different titles came up. Beginning with "The Wonderful Adventures of Emma," or something like that.

WHAT THE?

I scrolled through five pages of book titles, none of which was simply Emma, to the last page. Then came the videos. FINALLY, there it was: my library was in possession of ONE large-print copy. No others. And it was checked out.

This library does, however, have available copies of Hello!, People, and InStyle.

I had to order the book to be sent from another library.

Now, keep in mind that in the county where I live, the median household income is $105,000 per year, the highest in the nation. And we pay the taxes to show for it.

Yes, this is a cranky post, and I really do try not to be cranky for various reasons, not the least of which is that I believe in purging one's life of crankiness, but this really dumbfounded me. It shows I'm getting old. I should've gone to Borders and shelled out the $15 for the book. It would have been easier on my blood pressure.

Wearing a Crown

My dear husband was thinking of me this past Saturday as he pursued yard sales. This is quite a hobby for him, and I have to say that quite a few articles in our home, including one of my favorite sweaters and his easy chair, have come from yard sales. Not to mention a lot of books.

I had received an email suggesting that I had done a poor job on an article I wrote, and I was pretty upset. I went off to exercise class and Wes went off to yard sales. (Side note: I have found that I do not like to attend yard sales with him. He follows the same route every Saturday, and I would like to try different neighborhoods. And he tends to whip the car around, in what feels to me a very dangerous way, when he sees a Yard Sale sign. And I get bored with them much earlier than he does.)

When I got home, there was a new book waiting for me on the kitchen table: Crowns, which is a photo-essay on African-American women in their Sunday hats. I was so touched. I needed that little gift (which cost a whole dollar). It made me feel loved.

Back when we first moved to the Washington, DC area, we drove down Georgia Avenue on a Sunday. I was fascinated and amazed by the African-American women in their hats and perfectly-coordinated outfits. I had heard of the book, and I had always wanted to read it. I love hats. I have a few, but I hesitate to wear them because I feel I'm calling too much attention to myself.

Anyway, I eagerly sat down and began reading the fascinating stories of these beautiful women and their gorgeous hats. Some of them were hilarious. I was impressed with the dignity and pride of many of them. What a great legacy and tradition.

So I went up to my room and took down my big lavender Nordstrom hat box. I dusted off the top and lifted the lid. I took out a cute black and natural straw and put it jauntily on my head. I wore it with a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. And I felt great.

I love hats. I think I will overcome my shyness and wear them more. The Crowned ladies have inspired me.

A Comfortable Home

I once wrote an article about what makes a house a home. I think that a chiming clock (the kind you wind up, not electronic chimes), the occasional smell of fresh bread baking, and a piece of Belleek china (or some other little thing that is the best quality of its kind) are necessary in every home.

My home means a lot to me. I am home alone for the second day in a row, nursing a head cold and trying not to get a sinus infection. I love being here all by myself. The light came through the skylights in my living room this morning, bathing it in a golden glow. Then came some thundershowers. It was nice to sit here with chocolate and a book, cozy on my comfy couch, with not a lot to do, listening to the clocks mark the hours with their gentle ticking.

A home is a refuge from not just the elements, but the cares of the world. Making it a pleasant and inviting place is not a priority for many people any more, but it still is for me. I know my children like coming back here.

So we continue to do things to make it more enjoyable, attractive, and safe. We have a few landscaping projects to do, and need a new driveway, and we need to get some furniture reupholstered. It will probably never be done, but that's okay. It's home.

Time Marches On

I talked to my dear friend Lisa yesterday for almost two hours. She just turned 50. We have known each other since our husbands were undergraduates and she was a law school student in the early eighties. We each had boys a couple of months apart in 1983, then went on to have girls (she had four, I had two). When we moved east in 1984, Lisa and her family moved to New England. Last year, however, she moved back to Los Angeles. (She and her husband, and Wes and I, are all from Southern California.) We have kept in touch for 25 years. It's been very interesting.

When we were young, I'd say things like, "In 20 years, we..." and now it's coming true. We shared stories about frustrating in-laws, kids doing stuff of which we don't approve, turning 50, siblings, aging bodies, books we've read, etcetera. Funny, how inside your head you stay about 25, but the years march on and your body ages. Lisa gets the unvarnished me, and she still likes me. I'm grateful for that!

Endings and Beginnings

For some reason, today my emotions have been very close to the surface. I'm not exactly sure why, except that hormones do another wild dance as women approach menopause, and that may be the cause. It could also be because I am reading a book which brings up a lot of emotions, and I am also writing about raising my children, which is another emotional experience.

We attended the temple with Ethan Tuesday night, and I was once again struck by the profound joy of knowing that no matter what, my children are sealed to me. I am so grateful for that privilege. I love my children even more now than when they were born.

My friend Beverly died last week and her funeral was on Friday. That was not too sad, as Bev suffered for a long time with brain cancer, and her only daughter was grown with three beautiful daughters herself. But the past year has brought a lot of rather stressful experiences for me, which now seem to be coming home to roost.

My youngest child graduated from high school and began college 2500 miles away. Five friends of mine have died, four from cancer. My older daughter got married. My mother's health has deteriorated badly. Add to this crises with our economy and job uncertainty, and I guess it's inevitable that I get emotional.

A particular elder serving in our ward is going home this week, and for some reason this has upset me deeply! Though there have been many elders and sisters move through our ward over the past 22 years, and some I have known better and loved a great deal, but this particular young man has touched my heart in a profound way. I truly feel the Spirit when I talk to him. As I left church this afternoon, I wished him well, and thanked him for his service--and I choked up. Embarrassed, I rushed past him, then turned and said, "Go home, and be a good man." In front of a lot of people, too!

I hope--and in my heart I know--that out there in Utah there must have been someone who felt like that about my son. The young men and women who make such a great sacrifice of time and personal indulgence to serve missions are a tremendous blessing to those whose lives they touch. We need them. The world needs them. Thank you, Elder M. We will miss you.

The Peter Principle

I'm not stupid, but I'm no intellectual heavyweight, either. At least compared to some of my friends and acquaintances. I am fortunate to have had a good education, good parents who encouraged intellectual development above and beyond what they themselves attained, and a wonderful husband whose intelligence and intellectual curiosity have helped me to learn a great deal I might not have, if it weren't for him. (See Brigham's Blog, right.)

I am also the Martha type who fusses and putters around the house, cleaning and cooking. Of course, somebody has to do those things, and because of tradition, inclination, skill, and time, it falls to me rather than my husband. (And yes, I appreciate going to the bank and withdrawing money that his effort, and not mine, put in there.) It's long been my argument that men have been able to be the more prominent thinkers and doers in this world because they have women at home taking care of the necessities of life. I don't much admire Thoreau because while he was at Walden, he lived only 1 1/2 miles from home, his mother did his laundry, and she kept him supplied with food. It was hardly the lonely hardscrabble self-sufficient life Thoreau painted it. I don't think he was trying to mislead his readers; I think he really thought he had it rough and considered the support his family gave him as his due.

But now we come to something I have written about before: my woeful lack of meaningful work experience. I am trying to get to the point where I can earn enough money writing that I can quit my part-time store job. I have been rejected by a couple of places, and the last item I wrote and submitted was returned as all wrong. I panicked: is it the Peter principle finally at work in my life? (The Peter principle is that everyone rises to the level of his incompetence. In other words, at some point you're going to be in over your head.) I asked for some direction from the editor, and he gave it to me. I rewrote the piece, and re-submitted it, but I fear that it is too intellectually lightweight for his website.

So, I am very sad, but what can I do? Rather than bone up on all things political, work my way from the newsroom to the anchor desk, and network at trade association meetings, for the last twenty-five years I've made a home for four other people.

Some women seem to be able to handle all the other stuff as well, but whether by temperament or sheer inability, I was not up to that. I feel like neither fish nor fowl. I am not completely content working a little and making a home, but neither am I able to swim with the bigger fish. Either the Peter principle has kicked in, or I've got a lot of catching up to do. I guess we'll see!

My Career

I have been a stay-at-home mom for 25 years. Oh, I have always done something, such as babysitting, teaching adult education, writing and editing, and working part-time in a store, while raising my kids. I need to be productive in some way, and I have a lot of curiosity about the world that I could never satisfy by simply being at home. I never had to leave my children with a sitter, though. Having gone through that experience myself, I had no desire to inflict it upon my kids. So I took them with me, worked when Daddy was home with them, or worked while they were at school.

So, here I am, over 50, with no career path and no retirement of my own. Don't get me wrong--I know with absolute certainty that I did the right thing. But it's hard to endure the lack of response to my job enquiries. I'm sure a lot of it is because nobody can believe that a woman who graduated from college 30 years ago has anything to offer. Even if there are no gaps, essentially, in her resume.

Let's see: making Halloween costumes and high-school play costumes, while memorable for my kids, isn't doing anything for me. Ditto making all those cinnamon rolls, breads, pies, cookies and other goodies for my family. Not to mention having dinner on the table every night. With vegetables.

Writing and editing nice little essays about home life? Nope, doesn't hold any water, evidently. I'm a good writer and editor, but my work, though published, has mostly been on some pretty lightweight subjects. At a friend's house one evening, I told her husband, a lobbyist, that I was available for freelance work. Oh, he didn't need me. He has a guy on retainer who used to be a chief editor for Advertising Age. I felt like the world's biggest loser when he told me that.

My book on how to dress and conduct oneself? Huh. The one agent I did speak with wanted to know if I had a TV show. The fact that I taught adult education and have over 25 years' experience helping others to get a more professional image means little to literary agents. They want a name people recognize. Sigh.

And all that volunteer work I've done? On committees for our homeowner's association, president of the Drama Boosters at the high school for two years? Fat lot of good that does me. I don't even bother mentioning it.

Granted, I live in the Washington, DC area where power is everything and everyone is truly top-notch. I'm a little guppy swimming with piranha.

Still, in my heart I am deeply content. My older daughter told me recently she and her siblings-in-law were discussing their childhoods. There was nobody, she said, who'd had a happy childhood. But that wasn't true for her. "Couldn't have been better," she said. My son has said the same thing.

Maybe I can't retire on that, but it's worth more than a million to me.

College or Not?

I watched a wonderful 15-minute address by Steve Jobs (one of the founders of Apple) at the 2005 commencement ceremony at Stanford University. See it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF8uR6Z6KLc

Jobs did not finish college, and he talks about that. But mostly he talks about following one's passion and loving what you're doing.

There is a tremendous amount of merit in what he says. Yet, I still feel that a bachelor's degree is one of the most important things a person can achieve.

This is why. In college, you can spend time on a breadth and depth of learning and exploring ideas with other students that is impossible during any other period in your life. (After attending for one semester, Jobs spent a year and a half just auditing various classes at Reed College; I got the impression that he was not going for credit.) A college degree also gives you an edge over other candidates for a particular job. It means you will very likely never have to work in a fast-food joint. Knowledge is something that no one can ever take away from you. Interest in a lot of things enriches your life and leads you to lifetime learning. The people you will associate with will challenge your thinking and teach you broadmindedness. And you will earn, on average, 60% more over your lifetime than if you have only a high school diploma.

My daughter seems to think that she is going to college only to please me. Believe me, it's an expensive pastime of mine, if that is the case! She does not understand that I am trying to prepare her for independence and self-sufficiency, while doing meaningful work. She does not know that she will look back regretfully if she does not finish school, but will have no regrets at all if she does.

I love what Jobs had to say to the Stanford graduates. He displays the admirable quality of having learned lessons from his life. Fortunately, not having finished school has not hindered him. However, this is no longer the world Jobs lived in during the 70s. A degree is even more important now that it was 35 years ago.

My college years were probably some of the worst of my life. The work was hard. I was lonely (though I still keep in touch with some of my college friends!) I was making the break from my parents, which can be agonizing, as I re-examined my values and chose a lifestyle different from theirs. I struggled with my weight. I struggled with the schoolwork. I began confronting my personality flaws. I had some issues with depression. But basically, I learned that I could stand on my own two feet, emotionally, financially, intellectually and spiritually. It was very, very hard. And it was worth it.

BAAA!

Woo hoo! TAMN, also known as Tiffany/Amber/Megan/Nicole, of Seriously, So Blessed has posted a blog entry I wrote for her! If you aren't familiar with this blog, and you're a Mormon woman, you need to read it! It's a hilarious sendup of Mormon-mommy blogs--and from some of the real ones I've read, I can assure you she's not far off the mark. The accent, the highlights, the pedicures, eating at Cheesecake Factory--all feature in the twentysomething life in Salt Lake City.

As TAMN would say, BAAA!

Over the Hill?

Today I went to a church meeting for a committee I'm on. We plan quarterly activities for the women's auxiliary. There were 6 women present, and I was the eldest. One other woman has a daughter in college and two middle-school age children, but of the other four's combined 11 kids, the eldest are 7. Needless to say, I could not contribute much to the planning of the activities for the year--I've been there and done that, for the most part.

This is just one other instance that reminds me I'm getting a bit long in the tooth. While I am a member of the largest age cohort in the United States, I still feel a bit past it, as the British say.

My home is starting to look a bit dated, for example. The rich golds, burgundies, and navy blues I favor are no longer in vogue. My Karastan rugs have been manufactured in the same color scheme since the 1920s, so they are modern classics, and my furniture is all basically reproductions of federal styles, but the latest iteration of Mid-Century Modern that the thirtysomethings favor makes my stuff look, well, stuffy by contrast. Now, I know the mid-century modern aesthetic is going to look passe in a few years too, but there you are.

Then there's my clothing style. I try to stay up on things and not let my look get too dated, but I still favor a lot of eye shadow and some volume in my hair--reminiscent of the 1980s when I was in my twenties and thirties. (Fortunately, I have a fabulous stylist who changes my hair on a regular basis.) I am loath to get rid of my beautiful silk blouses and wool suits, though they are not currently in style. A lot of the time I feel like a frump.

Women my age cannot wear clothes from Forever 21 without looking idiotic, but I am finding the happy medium of staying au courant without looking teenagey much more difficult than I thought I would. I keep reminding myself that just because something is not worn out doesn't mean it should still be worn!

My political position seems to be out of it, too. I have noticed a very liberal trend among younger people. Ultimately, this means that even Republicans will be more liberal in the future than they are now.

What did John Mellencamp say? "Life goes on...long after the thrill of living is gone." Gosh, I don't want to believe that.

Body of Evidence

Sometimes in a church meeting there is an electrifying lesson or sermon. Sunday delivered one of these.

A woman in our stake Relief Society presidency (the women's auxiliary of the Mormon church) gave the lesson. She talked about creating a body of evidence regarding our belief in God.

Now, while I would not say my childhood experiences were stellar, I had stable, loving parents and a secure environment. This woman, however, had an alcoholic father and a mom who worked and was away from the home most of the time.

She had been sent to visit her grandmother every summer, and that was who taught her to believe in God. When she was nine, she decided to pray to God to help her father stop drinking. She went alone to a playground in order to get to a high place--the huge slide that was there--to deliver her prayer.

"When I walked home, I got the feeling that everything would be okay. When I got home, of course, everything was the same--but I was different. I had received comfort from that prayer." We went on to discuss what she had learned from this initial experience in faith: that there was comfort in prayer, and this encouraged her to do it again. She had taken a baby step--but after all, she was only nine years old. She went on to say that it takes a lifetime to build this body of evidence, and something that I have often thought: we learn every day, line upon line and precept on precept, here a little and there a little.

So I began thinking about my relationship with God and what constituted the body of evidence for my faith.

I really can't remember when I didn't believe in God. Thankfully, my parents had taught me to pray and began sending me to Sunday school when I was three or four, though they did not attend church themselves. My father taught me the Lord's Prayer, and I had a Little Golden Book of prayers. I felt the spirit when I was young and I prayed, although I couldn't identify it as such. I just knew that I felt that a Presence heard me.

As I have grown older I have come to learn that the Lord is there, and He loves me, and He loves everyone else, too. He has granted my prayers, and He has given me a miracle or two. I have come to believe in His Son and His atoning sacrifice.

It seems odd that at age 51 there is still so much to learn, but I hope that I can continue to learn, and make the most of whatever time I have left. This, I feel, is at the heart of a life well-lived.

A Woman's Work is Never Done

I swear I have the dustiest house in North America.

Not that I am one to dust on a regular basis, but when I do get to it, I manage to enfilthiate (my word) dust cloths at three times the rate my mother ever did. And it seems that the minute I finish, the dust reappears.

Mom made us dust when we were kids. She had unfilled travertine tops on a lot of the furniture, which means dust-holding holes. We had to dust every week, and we were admonished to DUST THE BASEBOARDS as well. I never remember those dust cloths picking up much at all. It seemed like a wasted effort to me. I never saw a dust bunny during my childhood.

Not so in my own house. I live in a colonial style house that has colonial moldings, which are much dustier than the Los Angeles mid-century modern simple, rounded baseboards I grew up with. I also have six-panel doors, dust hoarders all, as opposed to the blond wood smooth doors in my home of origin. Mom also hated knicknacks--"Just more to clean"--so we had few of those to REMOVE AND DUST (of course, being kids, we kind of flicked the dust cloth over and around them). I, however, have "tablescapes" on every flat surface, with lots more tchotchkes than Mom ever had. (Back then, though, we had ashtrays everywhere. It was the sixties, after all.)

My mom was a champion cleaner, at least until she started working full-time. She'd nearly rip the clothes off your body when you came through the door ("Give me that blouse! I'm doing light wash-and-wear!"). Nobody had whites like hers. She and the occasional maid, Homako, would go through the house like a dose of salts. They'd wash the windows every month, wash the woodwork, vacuum everything. It was amazing.

Mom still makes me clean the bathtub and shower every single time I use it at her house. Even though she can't climb the stairs and inspect the bathroom, I am still very careful about it. Her regimen includes using a squeegee and then rags to dry the remaining water from the glass doors and tile walls.

Once my sister and I were nine or ten, though, and Mom worked, the story changed. Although she never let us touch the washing machine, we had to fold the dried laundry. And iron the pillowcases. Vacuum the house. And, of course do the aforementioned dusting.

As you might expect, we lied a lot about whether we had done our chores. We couldn't see the point in doing all that work every single week. When we did do it, it was done halfheartedly.

For the last thirty years, though, I've had to do my own housework, and boy, has my attitude changed. I had to educate my husband on the virtues of "deep vacuuming" (which means moving all the furniture and using the edge tool to get the corners, and rooting out the dust bunnies from their gambling dens and whorehouses, or so he says). I never forced my kids to do much, either, because I became so particular about how things were done (big mistake). Yet, my daughter Julie, as a college freshman, called me one day and said, "Mom, you've done it. You should be proud. I am dying to clean the dormitory bathroom." Obviously, she didn't go to BYU, which had the best janitorial staff I've ever seen in any institution.

So here I am, spending nearly all day today dusting and vacuuming and cleaning bathrooms. And I'll do it again, and again. But I do have to admit, when I glance around that clean, dust-free living room with its gleaming mahogany tables and porcelain vases, I do get a sense of accomplishment. Sick, huh?

Ring in the New

I seldom make new year's resolutions. They usually go by the wayside, and I feel guilty for not sticking with them. On the other hand, if I don't make resolutions or set goals, I feel guilty for being a lazy slug.

There are several things I'd like to do: lose fifteen pounds, always do my visiting teaching and let the supervisor know on time, quit swearing, stop participating in gossip. In other words, to be perfect.

Nancy Drew was perfect. She always knew what the right thing was to do, and she did it. She may not have been attending college or pursuing a career, but she could ice skate, dance, ride a horse, shoot a gun, and apply makeup like a pro. She was nice to old ladies. She always had just the right emergency supplies in her car's trunk. She never overspent, lied, or gained weight. And she never got mad (at least, as long as no one was trying to kill her). She was humble, too. She never lorded it over anyone else. I'll bet she could sew a dress, mow the lawn, and install crown molding as well! All by age 18.

Do I believe perfection is possible? Theoretically, yes, intellectually, no. I understand that I am imperfect and that's what Christ's sacrifice in Gethsemane was about. However, in my heart of hearts, I believe it is possible, and I will never, ever, measure up.

Do I hold others to my standards? Not at all, though I tried to inculcate high personal standards in my children--with limited success.

The balancing act comes in working toward perfection while still loving the imperfect self. This is difficult and it takes a lot of faith.

So perhaps my resolution should be to simply act with more faith in myself, God and others, this year.