tea with...

Excuzez moi, could you please pass the
J A M !
Je reste sans voix.

More than that

I live my life from Thursday to Thursday.






Is that so wrong?

Ike and Em

It's no secret that girls need girls. And, I've got the best girls around, hands down. I'm not quite sure what I did to deserve such loyal friends. They and their darling husbands are all off doing exciting and good things with their lives. Em and Isaac Hawkins are now in Spokane. Em left a photography studio here in Salt Lake in desperate need of a top-notch photographer, graphic designer, and an all-around inspiration girl. She's now doing her own thing in Spokane and is going to revolutionize things up there, just like she's done here. Emily has an incredible eye for color, composition, space, texture, shape and form. I adore her work as much as I adore her. Isaac just passed the Bar and they're just about to move into a darling home. To top it off, they are just about the best looking couple I've ever seen!

Check out Emily's amazing pictures and other Hawkins Happenings on their blog.



I've had these girls by my side since junior high (Em has actually been there since first grade). Having them gone has been a bit of an adjustment. But, I'm excited about all the good they are doing in their various locations. I've decided my life would be really great if I could just hop on a plane and stop everywhere from Washington to New York City to Minnesota to Kansas to Texas to California and places in between. To all of you out there who I miss so dearly, I'm thinking about you and hope to see you soon!

Falling from the treetops

I can think of few places I'd rather be this time of year. There are certain things you count on, and Fall on Yale is one of those things. It is, to sum it up, perfection.

It officially commenced, I think we'd all agree, while walking home from church yesterday. Susan stooped to pick up the first of the fallen leaves - the ambitious yellow-orange and still-green daring leaves; first of the bunch to "talley-ho!" and free-fall down into the crisp autumn air. The excitement continued last night as I sprinted through the first truly fall rainstorm with Elizabeth after the fireside eager to pull out my flannel pajamas - the red ones with snowflakes, just for fun. And today as I said farewell to Katie and Grace, we walked out the front door to greet Steve, who, in between a Katie-catch-up, would shout, "Go long, Dan!" and off would be the Dan Man, looking left, sprinting from our driveway to the end of Whipple's, to complete another perfect play.

Katharine is home from the Y tonight. Our late-night news-spilling sessions moved inside last week as the porch got entirely too cold to sit on - too cold in the good way. There are fresh tomatoes in abundance, pears from Howells and plums from Grandpa's tree. I miss him. Especially at The Lot amongst all his golden aspen. Aside from 15 minutes up Weber Canyon with Grandpa, I couldn't dream of being anywhere else as I sit and type in my room, the treetops on beautiful Yale just below, windows wide open. And, I'm wearing my red snowflake pajamas.

Go Blue

Miss you, Annie B. and Feffrey!

3,000 miles away is a LONG way. I'm craving Shop-N-Go and the heater in the summer, last-minute walks on tree-lined streets, drive-bys, blue nuggets, discussing the usual, our own take on the Compassionate Service Committee (which, for some reason they won't go for anymore), the Sunday block of meetings with AB/JCB - "aren't we blessed n' grateful? Mmmhmm," bagels, "yamba-yuce," late-night talks in the driveway, laugh attacks, "quick, gimme the update," 2056, MRF, Sissoula...The Shmallowness. Thank goodness for free moblie-to-mobile, email, digital cameras, flexible work schedules, Skymiles, the Internet and unlimited text messaging. Oh, Beans! HAGS.

Love you lots!

Case Closed.

Brown chords. Gray shirt.
Mystery Man: Identified.
As always, Kates, we got to the bottom of it.
Case Closed.

Life Lessons, via the Post

Sure, I could have used the drive-thru. Easy access. Drive through, drop it off, move on with life. But the gold Volvo couldn't be ignored. And, I just needed to see her. I squeezed my car in between two yellow lines and walked in.

* * *

As I look back, I'm amazed at the times she's magically appeared in my life. Like she knows. Lots of us say she does - that she just knows. It's the end of The End (I'm sure of it) and, on cue, it's a phone call to Mom that I just happened to answer; a run-in at Top Stop, or she's across the lawn at Jim's submitting her taxes. Everything that is thick and cloudy; all the haze and confusion of life, is at once unmistakably translucent. Evident. Undisguised. Solved. And with but a few words. Words. After all, she is the Queen of them.

Perhaps these short sentence-life's-lessons came about in the interest of time. Because anyone and everyone seemed to be calling to her. They needed help. And, even if they didn't know they needed help, they needed help, according to her calculations, and I wouldn't mess with her calculations. Once, she knew I had a crush on a boy even before I knew I had a crush on a boy. "Oh, don't think I haven't seen those glances across the room!" (in that great inflection of hers - so signature: when she's out of breath, but she keeps reading, managing an inhale and half a sentence all at once). A finger shake, and the evil-eye: She raises her eye-brows, squints at you and hunches over the podium. I gasped, feeling oh so wrongly accused. Then, realizing I wasn't so innocent, I gave her that look - the look she's watched curl across droves of faces - in a "but-how'd-you-do-it?!" fashion, leaving all to wonder where her eyes-into-the-soul- spectacles are stashed in that silvery hair).

* * *

Just as my envelopes slipped into the outgoing mail slot, she slipped out of line, the postman finishing her order and calling, "Next!" at the five-o'clock rush queue. She gave me her usual salutation and a big hug. I confessed that I'd side-stepped the drive-thru hoping for a happy accident. Silly me, in all her queen-like clairvoyance, she already knew. We had all of a few minutes of a conversation as she tucked her always-sandled feet into her Volvo. I got in my car, drove passed the row of blue mailboxes, and followed her down the hill. Refreshed. Replenished. Ready for It.

Seeing her is like seeing a best friend, a fortune teller, the most royal of subjects, just the cynic you need at five pm on a Monday, a wise philosopher on all things Life, your teacher, your mentor, your kindred spirit, your biggest fan...your very own Suzan, all to yourself at the post office, on a Monday.

To Eddie With Love

Oh, Eddie. Pure love. Pure, pure LOVE!






*A note to Eddie's other lovers, I'm sure you know, but check out the sweet new tunes on iTunes.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

Nein...And there are a lot of other things I don't do. After a few months of dabbling in this, The Vast Universe of The Blog, one thing I know for sure: there is so much talent out there! From Wellington to Wisconsin to the Isles of Wales. People are amazingly talented. What a great way to share with the rest of us. What a wonderful world...BLOG ON!

A Green Canvas

I spent the weekend helping Carolyn with flowers for another wedding. Here are the pictures. When you start with a garden like this, it's hard to go wrong!

but what about the moss?

When it says a watch is "water resistant," how resistant does resistant mean exactly? And what about the moss? It didn't say anything about moss.

It was five-million degrees, I had been helping Carolyn for almost twenty hours and the guests were going to arrive in forty-five minutes. But how was I supposed to know? My watch was bathing in 18" of murky, messy, green moss. Oh how I envied it. While I was toiling, it was taunting, basking in the cold, cold water.

I suppose the bride hadn't envisioned a fanny-forward girl, elbow-deep in moss, literally sweating her life away, greeting the guests at the front gate. What? Like it would ruin the ambiance? Puh-leeze. My sixty-dollar outlet-purchased watch was missing in the murkiness, for crying out loud! The. world. must. stop!

Never you mind, bride. I was cool as a cucumber. Actually, I was in frantics. This was the wedding. She was the bride. The Who's-Who of Utah's finest - in government, church and social circles would all be present and no, they didn't want to see my toosh, nor did it want to be seen by them. Commence utter-frenetic watch-searching.

The security guards were in-and-out, as were the musicians, and the entire staff from The Point Restaurant. I began sort of a system. When solitary: I searched. When surrounded: I mossed (aka I strategically placed the moss around the topiaries ever so professionally). Truth be told, this was all seen by an entirely different set of security guards, at Command Post Central Station, as was (I'm convinced) my trip to the bathroom (with an LED laser-lit control pad for the "Downstairs Bathroom Four" in it's entirety, which, by the time I mustard up the courage to actually touch, I was in a bit of a bathroom crisis, if you know what I mean, providing another laugh for Big Brother, etc. wherever He was. Or wasn't? Hmmm).

Okay, back to the moss. So Security Guard "Stan," (we'll call him) was a fast least-fav as he walked back and forth, back and forth, not only slowing the search process, but also acting as a verbal Father Time, probably on cue from BB himself. "So, you work well under pressure..." No, this wasn't a compliment. It was a question. Especially since this is what followed (again and again and again) "...twenty-two minutes." Then he'd gab something on his walkie-talkie, "Identify white 4 Runner. Over." I'll show YOU 'over'! I had told him the 4 Runner was mine as many times as he had asked me if I worked well under pressure. "And this guy's at the front gate? You might wanna re-think that one! Over."

The tale ended happily. We narrowly escaped the guests by about two minutes. (Well to tell the truth, we actually stumbled upon a Church Authority and wife on our way out. Always a treat). Another beautiful wedding by Carolyn. The whole day had been pretty funny, considering: Katharine going to Larry Miller's instead of J. H. Sr.'s. Liz and me "trapping" the maids downstairs after we'd spent about fifteen minutes tying a beautiful bow across the designated "Do Not Pass" areas. K & L's back-and-forth ribbon feud, "Yours is so Queen Ann-Baroque-looking!" Our constant bets to see who had the guts to go jump in the pool. The whole bathroom bit, which I wish someone witnessed, and, like I said, someone(s) probably did.

What about the moss, you ask? Well, after I'd finished with the topiaries, I walked back in the main entry (or was it? We never really figured out which entry was the main entry as there are so many) I sifted out the moss and there she was, in all her silvery sixty-dollar glory, still ticking away. And to think, the reason she fell in in the first place was because I was taking her off, trying to protect her from all that grime, but she slipped (jumped?) from my grasp and fell into the bucket. (It was very Anne of Green Gables. You know, where Anne makes up that story about losing Merilla's brooch on the bridge).

So yesterday, when Carolyn tossed out the idea about the moss, I was quick to offer the job to Kelly, who handled it beautifully, watch and all.

Just so ya know...

A little lady was kind enough to tell me that my settings on MM were such that only "members" could post comments. For shame! The comments page is now public domain. Type away, Ladies! (And gents - wouldn't want to leave them out, now would we?)

p dot s dot: the same goes for THH. Please stop by!

Lot Rocks

We headed for the Weber just before dusk. It's low on account of the drought. The spring run-off rushing sound was long gone; the calm, tranquil fall flow was music.

We all set off on our own, each escaping to different spots, our minds following our feet as all else but river dashed out. Dad was his usual boy-ish self; the boy who appears only a few places. I think the cabin brings it out in him most, though. He was off down the bank, leaping rock to rock, quickly jumping out of sight.

I began the hunt. I like to try and find the round rocks. They know the river well. They've lived it. They have felt Spring run-offs and fall tranquility, over and over again. I made a small pile a few hundred yards from the bridge. I'd return every so often to make an exchange, tossing back the less-round. I chose a couple for E.

Richard opened up a small hole in a long rock wall that other river-goers had started, letting the trapped water rush through, mightily. Dad put the last touches on his new form of rock art. He pointed it out to me from the top of the bank, quite pleased with himself, the boyish grin on his face bearing witness to the fact.

We entered Weber Meadow View just as the last bit of sun touched the mountains.

Just as all got quiet before we fell asleep on the deck under the stars Dad said, as he always does, "Can you hear the river?"

Wheet-Wheet-Wheet.

You know those people who get into weird things like excessive yard sale-ing, dog shows, or State Fair competitions? The kind who pack up their lives in RVs the size of a mudroom and hit the road for months at a time? They travel here and there; stickers plastered on the back, an iconic time line of their travels. Don't get me wrong. If I had the Winnebago (Airstreem) for it, I'd be first on the groupie list to travel alongside Ben Harper and his Innocent Criminals this Fall. Sure enough! (Josh and Linds would be in, too, right guys?) But Saturday, I found myself with a more rare crowd. A crowd I didn't even know existed. Sheep, ducks, shepherds, Navajos, and dogs. Before you conjure up some sort of questionable Old McDonald-Meets-Chief Nibbling-Rabbit tale, I'll enlighten you. Dear readers, read on...

Saturday morning I awoke to find out that Mom had planned an outing (a what?!) To Heber! To Heber! To see the sheepdogs! (The who?!) She had thumbed through the morning paper and learned that the World's Premier Sheepdog Championship was taking place only minutes from our Salt Lake Foothills, at Soldier Hollow in Midway, Utah. And, we...were going. And why not?! Sheepdogs: I love sheepdogs. (Who doesn't, right? Can I get a "whoof-whoof?")

The only thing that made this outing easier on the tum-tum (I wasn't happy about missing the pool party with Anna and Hill) was the idea that we'd get to meet the Rhondeaus up there in Sheepdog Heaven.

After battling the traffic for Swiss Days, Rich, Mom, Dad and I marched through the gates, under the flags, and up the paved hill towards the arena - a large fenced-off mountain-of-a-course, with evergreens and other indigenous trees and shrubs, and hundreds of people - very quiet people - all eyes on...um...I couldn't quite tell. I was more interested in spotting E & O rather than a sheep or a dog.

It wasn't long before we noticed Steve and his red hat, motioning us towards a smaller venue, explaining, "The duck herding is over here. It's hilarious." Yes, yes. You read right. The herding of ducks... a subject for a post all its own, naturally. Unnaturally, that is.


After lots of "quack-quack-quack!"ings and some rather odd moments of my life I'll never get back nor ever be able to explain (poor ducks) we headed back over to quote-un-quote run with the big dogs. It took a few minutes of watching and reading (the big screen: full of all sorts of stats, including the shepard's name, the sheepdog's name, hometown, and the current leaders of the pack, and the program -the Rhondeaus were kind to let us share theirs. My dad didn't want to fork out the five bucks. I think if he were to go again, he'd purchase for sure...especially if the proceeds went towards, let's say...the ducks - I felt like I had a paw-full of knowledge about sheepdogs and the challenge at hand.

Dog and shepherd would enter the course, front and center. The crowd would give man and his best friend a warm welcome, some coming from places as far away as Sweden, South Africa, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Holland...(the list continues) and then the game would begin. At the sound of a whistle, blown by the shepherd, each sheepdog had 13 minutes to run (dash - these guys were fast!) up the hill (mountain) 'round up five sheep (some of the dumber animals, we quickly decided. Can I get a "bleat! bleat?!") get the sheep to hustle (a word not synonymous with sheep) down the mountain, through three sets of posts (hundreds of yards apart) and back down to center stage, where, right in front of the judge (and the hundreds of very quiet fans. Seriously. SO quiet. This woman's baby started to cry and I thought she was going to roll that stroller right down into the arena. And if she didn't, there were about fifteen major sheepdog fans, all their beady eyes on New-Mom, who would have) that little dawgie had to get all five sheep in the ring, then somehow, and this still has me baffled, get two of the ewe(s?) to step out of the ring. This is called "shedding," if my memory serves me right. (E, correct me if I'm wrong). Then, Lassie, and his lamba-rambas had to "Come Home." Getting all five sheep into the final pen proved to be quite difficult, as no dog we witnessed was able to succeed. Sheep may be dumb, but at least they're loyal. Either that or they're chicken. (No, not actual chicken). They play sort of a "I'm-not-goin'-in-unless-you're-goin'-in" kind of ring-around-the-doggie that is quite frustrating for both sheepdog and shepherd.

A note on the whistling. There was a whole section in the program on whistle translation. If the shepherd gave a "Wheet-Wheet-Wheet" (that's how it was written out in the program) it meant, "lie down," which, if you're talking 'herd, means the dog crouches long and low (you yogies, think downdog, without all the relaxing. Namaste.) and he waits for the sheep to yield. "Wheet-Whoo-Wheet-Wheet," (long, short, long, long) translates to "That'll do." (Pig).

Perhaps now you can understand at least part of my fascination: You take a sheepdog, put it on a course it's never seen, with wild sheep who've haven't spent a minute of their fuzzy little lives around anything close to a canine, and that sheepdog can tame the wild beasts, all by command of a whistle?! Amazing, if you ask me. And the dog from Sweden, "Mist," I mean...not only did she have to adjust to the altitude, she had to translate "Wheet-Wheet-Wheet" from Swedish, cold turkey! These are incredible animals, my friends.

Ask me what I did last weekend. Well, I'll tell you one thing. I sure was sad Monday morning, the day of the championships, when I found myself shopping for furniture with my aunt rather than on the edge of my seat while Molly (the sheepdog), daughter of Britt, grand-daughter of Virginia (I'm serious. All this family tree info was in the program and is therefore taken into consideration by judges, etc.) separated the She-dogs from the He-dogs as she saw her name in lights up there on the big screen at the Soldier Hollow Classic. At least I was doing some sort of genealogy. Thanks, Aunt Karen! That furniture is going to be fab. I give it "Two 'Yips!' and a 'Woof!'"
(Bless the soul who made this clip! I can't wait for Spring '08!)