SO, my little brother Josh decided to come visit from Chicago. His traveling companion is his adorable girlfriend, Marzjena (sp?), which my boys have decided they are all in love with. Watch your back Uncle Josh. Josh was here to see Kati's new little baby girl, and even had a spare day to come visit us in the land of the holy of holies, Saratoga Springs. I guess their original plan was to go to Zion for the day, but I suggested maybe all of us could go to Mt. Timpanogas instead. "SURE!" says Josh. He, like myself, had never had the experience of Mt. Timpanogas Cave. In the 21 years I grew up in Utah, I always knew it was there, but it was never on my parents radar so we never went ... by about mile .25 the reasoning was clear. Mt. Timpanogas, not unlike brussel sprouts, was something we never had/did at our house for a reason... gross.
My job was to research the situation making sure it wasn't to long of a hike to the cave, etc.. From the website:
"The only access to the cave system is by walking a strenuous 1 1/2-mile-paved trail, which rises 1,065 ft to an elevation of 6,730 feet above sea level. The round-trip hike and tour of the cave system takes about three hours. Mid-summer temperatures on the trail can reach 100 degrees F. However, temperatures in the caves average 45 degrees, so a sweater or light jacket is recommended. Hiking shoes, water, flashlights and sunscreen will make your visit safe and enjoyable.
Because of the steepness and incline of the cave trail, strollers and other wheeled vehicles are not allowed. Visitors may bring a baby backpack or carrier for hiking to the caves, but they will be asked to leave their baby carriers outside while they tour the caves infants in arms. No pets are allowed on the cave trail or in the caves.To tour Timpanogos Cave, our 70,000 visitors each year must hike the 1 1/2 miles trail to the caves, gaining over 1,100 feet in elevation."
MY translation: Okay, Josh can't take his dog Meeka, I can't take a stroller, no biggie I will get one of those Bjorn carriers and carry Bennett up the hill, 1.5 miles of hiking no biggie, 100 degrees will never happen the weather is cool tomorrow, the hike is so short all we need is water and maybe a bottle for Bennett and sunscreen for the rest of us. Simple. I apparently ignored the word, "strenuous, incline, and gaining 1100 ft. in elevation.
We entered Uintah state park, $6 please. Nice, $6 to drive to the Timpanogas visitors center. We then went to the visitors center to get tickets. Three adults, three kids (baby was free, that was thoughty of them) $37. Gheesh. This better be one nice cave. Instructions from the rangers, "here are your tickets, make sure you hang on to them so you can give them to the ranger when you reach the top of the hill, you can't get into the cave without these tickets. The trail starts there, don't start hiking until the ranger says you can go." My response, "wow, this hill looks a little steep, " as I stared at my 3 year-old and infant already squirming in his first "Bjorn" experience. "Oh yeah, but it is soooooo worth it!" They were rangers, apparently nature lovers, look who I was asking.
Trail head. We got a 10 minute lecture on the following: if you see a red line on the trail, don't stop hiking, it's a rock fall area, if rocks fall throw yourself into the side of the mountain and put your hands over your head, if you're under 16 stay with your parents, we're a national park, touch nothing, not even grass or leaves. Don't take said grass, leaves, flowers or the like out of the park. There are very steep areas, Stay away from the edge. Don' touch the cave walls. If you're carrying anything that has ever been in another cave, take it off. We're trying to avoid (some bat something or another that is killing the cave). Have fun."
I felt dumber for listening.
Let the hike begin. Everyone seemed in pretty good spirits, the incline wasn't horrible, there was a nice breeze. Bennett was getting a little squirreled up in his Bjorn, but not totally uncontrollable. Drew was bitching (nothing new, it's his new 13 year-old mantra, bitch until your parents tell you to stop). Bradyn was keeping up, Josh seemed part billy goat, and Marzjena was adorable holding Caden's hand. Then we hit about .25 miles ... after just having passed the, "the trail has a (whatever feet) incline from here on. If you have a stroke, heart condition, etc. stop now". This sign was obviously for the weak and frail. We moved on... 500 feet.
At this point Caden started complaining, which led to whaling, which led to him kneeling on the side of the trail insistent he could not/would not be hiking anymore. We all coerced him into "going on" and he crawled (yes crawled) 10 feet, got to his feet, walked 20 feet, at which point Uncle Josh took him by the hand and eventually put him on his shoulders. Caden was apparently a great motivator riding Uncle Josh's shoulders informing him to, "go faster," and "you can do it Uncle Josh". All 42lbs of him.
Bennett was now swinging into full on "bite my ass" mode. He was sweating, he was miserable, and this whole Bjorn nonsense was not going to work. Josh suggested we lose the Bjorn and strip Bennett down to get his sweating to go down. So, we strip him down to diaper and t-shirt, and lose the Bjorn. This meant that, yes, we were now carrying him up the trail. Josh took a turn with Bennett, Caden was on his own with Marzjena's hand. About 1000 ft more, Caden now falls to his knees, then in a complete Tony winning performance, sprawls tummy down, head in the dirt, right smack in the middle of the trail, "I caaaaaaan't do it ... gooooo without meeee!" I imagined our pioneer ancestry for a moment and realized if my crew had to "head west" we would still be stuck somewhere mid Nebraska being eaten by wolves.
We tried to goad and coax Caden to, "get up, get up now". People were walking over him now and a little embarassed does not quite accurately define my feelings. It was one of those moments resebling when Bradyn and Drew start acting like idiots at Walmart, or any other store, and I act like I don't know them and simply leave them 3 aisles back. They search for me, and I keep shopping. I only wished I could leave this kid on the trail. Josh finally tookd drastic measures. He took a dollar bill from the backpack and said, "hey, Caden, come get the dollar." Caden looked up, crawled 10 feet (again) rose to his feet, and as Josh dangled the dollar, Caden started to follow him screaming, "giiiiiiveee me my doooolllllar Uncllle Joooooosh!" I was trying not to pee my pants laughing. Fortunately Marzjena took a picture of Caden on the ground, (multiple times up the mountian) and the dollar chasing incident. The dollar chasing lasted about 1000 feet. The longest stretch yet.
At this point Drew and Bradyn were at their wits end. We were all tired, and admittedly, I wanted to cry and fall on my face mid trail with Caden. This was no slightly inclining periods of flat lands trail ... this was a straight up kill me now slice of hell with massive switchbacks. Poor Josh alternated between carrying Caden and Bennett when I was at the end. Bennett lost his cool 1/4 of the way up and started screaming. I mean really screaming. I was about 500 yds back and Josh had Bennett. All of a sudden I hear this scream! Seems Josh wanted to "cool off" Bennett so he dumped some water on his head and down his shirt. Let's remember Bennett is 4 months old. Bennett was not impressed by this trick.
The screaming alone was exhausting, the trail was from hell, and getting to the top all I could think was, 'this better be one hell of a cave." We FINALLY got to the entrance and Bennett was at his end. I managed to get his diaper changed, get him back in the Bjorn, and a bottle in his mouth. He seemed a little appeased so we could do this while cave tour. The cave was cool, interesting, etc. but the interest and cool of anything loses both when your 4 month old starts squeeling. I tried to either stay back or in front of our group of 12 (you are taken in by a ranger in specific groups) but the ranger was a little testy. Seriously lady, I'm not going to go running through the cave without ranger permission. She scolded me a couple times and told me to pease stay with the group. I finally said, "I am trying to let the group her your schpeel and that WON'T happen if they are listening to my screaming child."
The cave. I had imagined a cave. A cave with high walls. There were sections of high walls, then there were sections where I had to duck, and even partially get on my hands and knees (please, picture this with me, the screaming baby stuck in the bjorn stuck to the front of my body). The best part was I had an Ansel Adams wannabe right in front of me who with his gazillion dollars of photo equipment decided each piece of the cave was a moment to capture. No matter if I was on my hands and knees with a stalagtite sticking out of my head while he stood straight and tall in the next portion of the cave. It was all I could do to say, "hey, Ansel Adams, let's get moving here okay?" I maintained.
Finally, I hear Bradyn yell, "I see a light at the end of the tunnell!" Sweet relief. Bennett almost immediately stopped crying and fell asleep ... of course. The hike up was over, the cave was over, and now all was left was the 2 miles down. I walked down that mountain, the kids didn't complain, it was downhill, my little 17 lb extra load in the Bjorn strapped to my chest? He added a special stress on my thighs and subsequent knees as I trekked down the steep trail. Midway down my legs were shaking and I couldn't feel my knees, but I pressed forward. This was almost over. Mid cave I do remember looking at Josh and saying, "I think it's clear why our parents never brought us here."
We finally reached the bottom. I was sore, a little sunburned, alot grouchy, and my kids were rather quiet knowing at any moment one of the three adults in the car might randomly lose their cool. But, we did it. There were not t-shirts at the end ... and I think there should be. I survived Timpanogas ... with all 4 kids ... and I'm still here ... suck it.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Not enough room on the blog ... family bands ... friends ...
Jon and I decided it was time to get serious about making some friends in our new neighborhood. The new neighborhood is in Saratoga Springs, Utah County, Utah. For those of you that know me, the word Utah uttered twice along with my name in the same sentence might now have you in hysterical fits of laughter. Please get up off the ground and pull yourself together long enough to read about my time here in Utah. I need friends in cyberspace and the 6 people that read my blog to commisserate with my situation (even though some of you live in Utah, you KNOW you aren't offended, and you KNOW you have seen all that I speak of ... there just wasn't blogspot available at the time).
I digress, new friends, new neighborhood. We got some tattered piece of paper shoved in the door last week about a "neighborhood party". It was handwritten, and I ASSUMED a thank you letter in response to the 6 batches of cookies I had the kids deliver all over the nighborhood last week with MY handwritten cards introducing myself, the kids, and pretty much humiliating myself to have said cookie eaters to please call me and be my friend. Yes, that desperate. Back to the note. It was NOT a thank you note, rather scrawling bits of arranged times and events occuring this Saturday (okay, your last Saturday) including pie eating and hot dogs. The next day we started seeing cardboard signs going up all over the development about this neighborhood party. Jon and I decided this would be a golden opportunity to find at least one friend since the cookies apparently bombed.
We inadvertantly discovered that the neighborhood party was really a ward party in disguise. Okay. No biggie, we're hunting for friends. I made sure the kids were shined like new pennies, and I changed clothes 4 times I was so nervous. Jon threw on a pair of flip flops and considered himself more dressed up than he thought need be. The ward/disguised as a neighborhood party was in the neighborhood developments park. Side note: We've been fortunate, even in Colorado, to live in these planned communities with parks inside of them. Awesome for the kids to make friends, Bradyn always comes home with a possy within a day.
We walked over to the park and I couldn't help but notice the 14 or so covers (like tents wihtout the sides, I can't think of what they are called) spotted in and around the park. The first one I noticed was blue emblazoned with BYU and a giant cougar. I should have taken a picture for my proud alumni mother ... but I realized she might want one of her own and then we would have to sit under the thing in public events. We turned the corner and saw at least 100 people (including their tribes of children, but we have four, so I can't say a word about large families). There were men gufawing at their manliness as they grilled hot dogs/burgers on the giant BBQ's under said BYU tent, a bouncy house, and tables set up on the other side of the park with "local vendors". I looked at Jon and all I could muster to say was, "I'm going to have to set up another blog page ... because there is no way one blog can hold all of this raw material."
Local vendors was written on the hand scrawled letter I received days earlier, but I didn't realize local vendors meant every pampered chef, scentsy candle, amway carpet cleaning, etc. home business vendors. Every one of them was selling something ... including you having to fill out a card with all your information so they could hound you the next 3 years about having a party at your home. Under another tent there was a "family band". I have only ever seen one family band that was worth watching. We'll call them the H family. H family fiddled and banjoed and sang well. They were talented. And they knew when to stop playing.
This family band, the P family (honestly, if I told you their name you would fall back on the floor laughing) had ALOT of band equipment and TOO many microphones. P family was belting out some tunes and my ears started to bleed. They were really bad. I mean really bad like someone should have told them in High School to stop it before they took their show on the road bad. In between songs they would say things like, "you have to forgive us, we're pretty selfish and we like to trade instruments and play everything for each song." Huh? It was all I could handle when they started to perform "orginal material". I immediately took my cell phone out and recorded a piece to IM to my sister for proof this band existed, and to get her take. She told me to stop being a bitch and go make some friends ... and that the family band was awful.
Okay, stop being a bitch, make some friends. I took a deep breath and went to the "food table". Now, some of you that know me are aware that with time I have developed a bit of a germ phobia making anything "buffet" give me panic attacks and sometimes hives. Old Country Buffet is like my hell, ward parties disguised as neighborhood parties with an assortment of foods from different homes across the nieghborhood, homes that might be nasty filthy, homes where the kids could have possibly put their hands in their mouths, up their butts, who knows, but then into the home baked goods and salads, is the stuff of nightmares. But I was NOT going to be a bitch, I put my hand into the communal (gross, everyone else touching them) hot dog bun bag and fished out buns for the kids and me. Next, a dollop of some macaroni looking salad. I was trying desperately not to puke or fall into anxiety ridden hysterics as the noodle looking macaroni openly seemed to mock my anxiety.
Over to the testosterone tent for a hot dog, then off to the grassy hill to sit with the family and eat said communal delights. I could't touch the macaroni dollop, not enough courage. I managed to get a hot dog down convinced the sheer heat of the grill had to of killed any gross germs that may be lurking. Bradyn and Caden immediately hit the line for the bounce house. Jon looked at me and said, "uh, those kids just cut in front of Bradyn and Caden, PLEASE don't let Caden call them a bitch." Yes, you heard correctly, it was not a typo, bitch.
Caden, the rather bossy opinionated sometimes mean as hell three year-old, has decided he will casually let "bitch" fall from his lips. He honestly has little to no idea what he is saying, he never says it in anger, and it is sometimes followed up with a damn. As in when he was at my 80-something very proper southern lady who got mad at us when we said the word "stupid" or "shut up" growing up grandmothers house, and he shoved her beloved teacup poodle off the couch while saying, "move, you damn dog." I wasn't there, my sister told me about it, apparently she laughed and Grandma sat in stupified horror. Yes, we have done the soap thing, but he's starting to like it and prefers particular flavors of the pump soap. Guess he has to grow out of this one.
Anyhow, Jon and I were a tad concerned, but we didn't see the kids turn around and notice Bradyn or Caden so we assumed Caden had kept his cool. Drew, Bennett (the baby), Jon and I sat on the grassy hill, ears bleeding listening to the "family band", and waited for friends. Yes, we were literally trolling for friends hoping that by sitting on the hill, and obviously strangers to the neighborhood, we would somehow incite someone, anyone, to say hello at which point we would drag them down to the ground and beg them to be our friends. Not a bite. I mean not a single bite.
I confirmed one thing. Our neighborhood is full of 20-somethings, a smattering of 30-somethings, little to no 40-somethings, I think one 60-something (and according to the guy up the street, who works at the prison, 60-something is a sex offendor, awesome) and all with rightous indignation about the how and why's of life.
I don't like 20-somethings for the most part. It's the same reason I don't like 80-somethings. One end of the spectrum doesn't have enough life experience to settle down and relax, and the other end of the spectrum has to much life experience to settle down and relax. By settle down and relax, I mean to open your eyes to possibilities. Life isn't lived in a vaccum, it isn't always predicable. It can be messy, frustrating, and wonderful all at the same time. If you don't open your eyes, settle down with what you think you know, and imagine who/what you could know, then you might possibly miss out on some really great people and experiences.
Jon noted that most of the guys looked rather "dorky", and their wives seemed kind of pretty and mismatched to their husbands. I noticed the same thing ... but it wasn't unfamiliar to me. "Welcome to my high school hell," I responded. The high school hell where the "dorky" looking guys were chased around like a dog chases filet mignon by some really rather pretty girls. I didn't date much in high school because I could never figure out the talent of twirling my hair and laughing at idiocy. My sisters had the same issue. Guess we were raised a bit more progressive. If you leave the state lines of Utah, you fast discover that the filet mignon of high school was really just a bunch of hot dogs. No worries, we all managed to find husbands after high school.
So here I sat, surrounded by hot dogs with their cute wives, feeling rather old at 37-years of age, but still hopeful. No hot dogs and no cute wives even said "hi". After over an hour of being worried my 3 year-old might call somebody "bitch", and my husband incessantly commenting on how couples seemed mismatched, it was time to go. Fortunately, Bradyn HAS managed to make friends and with friends come parents. God in his infinite wisdom took pity on our souls and one set of parents finally came over to meet "Bradyn's mom and Dad" that afternoon. They are settled down 30-somethings, had been to the "family band" fiasco (apparently an annual event) last year, felt our pain, and best of all ... they, like us, were friendless. They confirmed our worst fears ... we have apparently moved into a grown up version of my high school. We tried desperately not to sound to eager when we told them we would be their friends.
I digress, new friends, new neighborhood. We got some tattered piece of paper shoved in the door last week about a "neighborhood party". It was handwritten, and I ASSUMED a thank you letter in response to the 6 batches of cookies I had the kids deliver all over the nighborhood last week with MY handwritten cards introducing myself, the kids, and pretty much humiliating myself to have said cookie eaters to please call me and be my friend. Yes, that desperate. Back to the note. It was NOT a thank you note, rather scrawling bits of arranged times and events occuring this Saturday (okay, your last Saturday) including pie eating and hot dogs. The next day we started seeing cardboard signs going up all over the development about this neighborhood party. Jon and I decided this would be a golden opportunity to find at least one friend since the cookies apparently bombed.
We inadvertantly discovered that the neighborhood party was really a ward party in disguise. Okay. No biggie, we're hunting for friends. I made sure the kids were shined like new pennies, and I changed clothes 4 times I was so nervous. Jon threw on a pair of flip flops and considered himself more dressed up than he thought need be. The ward/disguised as a neighborhood party was in the neighborhood developments park. Side note: We've been fortunate, even in Colorado, to live in these planned communities with parks inside of them. Awesome for the kids to make friends, Bradyn always comes home with a possy within a day.
We walked over to the park and I couldn't help but notice the 14 or so covers (like tents wihtout the sides, I can't think of what they are called) spotted in and around the park. The first one I noticed was blue emblazoned with BYU and a giant cougar. I should have taken a picture for my proud alumni mother ... but I realized she might want one of her own and then we would have to sit under the thing in public events. We turned the corner and saw at least 100 people (including their tribes of children, but we have four, so I can't say a word about large families). There were men gufawing at their manliness as they grilled hot dogs/burgers on the giant BBQ's under said BYU tent, a bouncy house, and tables set up on the other side of the park with "local vendors". I looked at Jon and all I could muster to say was, "I'm going to have to set up another blog page ... because there is no way one blog can hold all of this raw material."
Local vendors was written on the hand scrawled letter I received days earlier, but I didn't realize local vendors meant every pampered chef, scentsy candle, amway carpet cleaning, etc. home business vendors. Every one of them was selling something ... including you having to fill out a card with all your information so they could hound you the next 3 years about having a party at your home. Under another tent there was a "family band". I have only ever seen one family band that was worth watching. We'll call them the H family. H family fiddled and banjoed and sang well. They were talented. And they knew when to stop playing.
This family band, the P family (honestly, if I told you their name you would fall back on the floor laughing) had ALOT of band equipment and TOO many microphones. P family was belting out some tunes and my ears started to bleed. They were really bad. I mean really bad like someone should have told them in High School to stop it before they took their show on the road bad. In between songs they would say things like, "you have to forgive us, we're pretty selfish and we like to trade instruments and play everything for each song." Huh? It was all I could handle when they started to perform "orginal material". I immediately took my cell phone out and recorded a piece to IM to my sister for proof this band existed, and to get her take. She told me to stop being a bitch and go make some friends ... and that the family band was awful.
Okay, stop being a bitch, make some friends. I took a deep breath and went to the "food table". Now, some of you that know me are aware that with time I have developed a bit of a germ phobia making anything "buffet" give me panic attacks and sometimes hives. Old Country Buffet is like my hell, ward parties disguised as neighborhood parties with an assortment of foods from different homes across the nieghborhood, homes that might be nasty filthy, homes where the kids could have possibly put their hands in their mouths, up their butts, who knows, but then into the home baked goods and salads, is the stuff of nightmares. But I was NOT going to be a bitch, I put my hand into the communal (gross, everyone else touching them) hot dog bun bag and fished out buns for the kids and me. Next, a dollop of some macaroni looking salad. I was trying desperately not to puke or fall into anxiety ridden hysterics as the noodle looking macaroni openly seemed to mock my anxiety.
Over to the testosterone tent for a hot dog, then off to the grassy hill to sit with the family and eat said communal delights. I could't touch the macaroni dollop, not enough courage. I managed to get a hot dog down convinced the sheer heat of the grill had to of killed any gross germs that may be lurking. Bradyn and Caden immediately hit the line for the bounce house. Jon looked at me and said, "uh, those kids just cut in front of Bradyn and Caden, PLEASE don't let Caden call them a bitch." Yes, you heard correctly, it was not a typo, bitch.
Caden, the rather bossy opinionated sometimes mean as hell three year-old, has decided he will casually let "bitch" fall from his lips. He honestly has little to no idea what he is saying, he never says it in anger, and it is sometimes followed up with a damn. As in when he was at my 80-something very proper southern lady who got mad at us when we said the word "stupid" or "shut up" growing up grandmothers house, and he shoved her beloved teacup poodle off the couch while saying, "move, you damn dog." I wasn't there, my sister told me about it, apparently she laughed and Grandma sat in stupified horror. Yes, we have done the soap thing, but he's starting to like it and prefers particular flavors of the pump soap. Guess he has to grow out of this one.
Anyhow, Jon and I were a tad concerned, but we didn't see the kids turn around and notice Bradyn or Caden so we assumed Caden had kept his cool. Drew, Bennett (the baby), Jon and I sat on the grassy hill, ears bleeding listening to the "family band", and waited for friends. Yes, we were literally trolling for friends hoping that by sitting on the hill, and obviously strangers to the neighborhood, we would somehow incite someone, anyone, to say hello at which point we would drag them down to the ground and beg them to be our friends. Not a bite. I mean not a single bite.
I confirmed one thing. Our neighborhood is full of 20-somethings, a smattering of 30-somethings, little to no 40-somethings, I think one 60-something (and according to the guy up the street, who works at the prison, 60-something is a sex offendor, awesome) and all with rightous indignation about the how and why's of life.
I don't like 20-somethings for the most part. It's the same reason I don't like 80-somethings. One end of the spectrum doesn't have enough life experience to settle down and relax, and the other end of the spectrum has to much life experience to settle down and relax. By settle down and relax, I mean to open your eyes to possibilities. Life isn't lived in a vaccum, it isn't always predicable. It can be messy, frustrating, and wonderful all at the same time. If you don't open your eyes, settle down with what you think you know, and imagine who/what you could know, then you might possibly miss out on some really great people and experiences.
Jon noted that most of the guys looked rather "dorky", and their wives seemed kind of pretty and mismatched to their husbands. I noticed the same thing ... but it wasn't unfamiliar to me. "Welcome to my high school hell," I responded. The high school hell where the "dorky" looking guys were chased around like a dog chases filet mignon by some really rather pretty girls. I didn't date much in high school because I could never figure out the talent of twirling my hair and laughing at idiocy. My sisters had the same issue. Guess we were raised a bit more progressive. If you leave the state lines of Utah, you fast discover that the filet mignon of high school was really just a bunch of hot dogs. No worries, we all managed to find husbands after high school.
So here I sat, surrounded by hot dogs with their cute wives, feeling rather old at 37-years of age, but still hopeful. No hot dogs and no cute wives even said "hi". After over an hour of being worried my 3 year-old might call somebody "bitch", and my husband incessantly commenting on how couples seemed mismatched, it was time to go. Fortunately, Bradyn HAS managed to make friends and with friends come parents. God in his infinite wisdom took pity on our souls and one set of parents finally came over to meet "Bradyn's mom and Dad" that afternoon. They are settled down 30-somethings, had been to the "family band" fiasco (apparently an annual event) last year, felt our pain, and best of all ... they, like us, were friendless. They confirmed our worst fears ... we have apparently moved into a grown up version of my high school. We tried desperately not to sound to eager when we told them we would be their friends.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Independance Day ... Cherry Days ... potato potaato
As we approach our annual festivities to celebrate Independence Day, I would like to share with you a North Ogden , Utah
Cherry Days is very similar to Tilton/Northfield Old Home Days. The town gathers, local and new, we eat an overpriced early morning breakfast sponsored by the local Kiwanis. The Kiwanii (plural for more than one Kiwanis) of the North Ogden Chapter are a testy bunch. Imagine veterans from every era gathered in one location. Kiwanni are assigned "stations" at the annual breakfast. These stations are not given to just anyone, they are inherited as fellow Kiwanii die. Dad was a Kiwanii for a short time and he inherited being in charge of the eggs one year because Earl, who had been doing the eggs for about a billion years, died suddenly. As next on the list of most able-bodied Kiwanii, Dad inherited being in charge of the "eggs station". The whole family shared a proud moment as we watched Dad scoop pile after pile of runny, half-cooked eggs onto paper plates at 6 a.m. Yes, I said 6 a.m. Everyone in town has to eat fast, because at 8 a.m. the parade begins and only the rookies have not already laid out their lawn furniture the night before to save a “spot” on the parade route.
The children's parade precedes the actual parade. All kids have to make sure their bikes, wagons, roller skates/blades, tough wheels, scooters, and/or any other child riding paraphernalia is set and ready for their debut down main street. Assorted riding devices come complete with children in costumes (bearing pictures of cherries and patriotic themes) lovingly made by mothers with to much time on their hands. These same mothers coordinate their child’s clothes with the attached balloons/streamers, and electric battery powered flashing lights literal months in advance of the Cherry Days children's parade. I have been in the children's parade, many, many times and have suffered the indignation of the news that I was too old to continue one more year. It was very sad ... no one could tell me that I was too big to dress up my baby blue, flowered banana seat bike, complete with streamers woven carefully throughout the wheels that I was too old to ride. Think suburban Harley Davidson’s. What a rush … the parade starts at the top of the "big hill" in town and continues down to the valley below. You ride your bike, streamers screaming in the wind behind you, and make sure you turn towards your parents and their awaiting cameras as you hiss by in a blind streak powered only by your own racing heartbeat and a super charged adrenaline high at being in THE Cherry Days Parade! Kids finish the parade route, then ride back to Mom and Dad to watch the official parade ... which is always the same, every year.
The parade begins with "Little Miss Cherry Days". This is always some 6 year-old snot with really big ratted hair ... usually the by-product of the head cheerleader and local football legend from High School. Their grinning little one's tooth optional smile further enhances itself by to much blue eye shadow and ruby red cheeks and lips. The name of "Little Miss Cherry Days" was changed a few years ago to "The Self-Esteem Pageant", so that our town appears politically correct. Every other snot with big hair is the Queen’s "court", and they all sit on their "throne". The throne is the back end of daddies brand new triple cab 4X4 with the "slamming sound system" pumping tunes from their High School glory days. The older, "Miss Cherry Days" winners from the pageant held a few days before the parade, stands on her "throne" flanked by her two runner-ups in "push the envelope between white trash and prostitute" dazzling, form fitting gowns. This "scholarship pageant" is held annually at the local High School. I have only ever seen a couple of Miss Cherry Day queens that deserved the scholarship or the title. Let's be honest, a classical pianist being ousted for the crown by a former drill team dancer who was spot on in her interpretation of the 1988 Michael Jackson's "Thriller" dance moves (yes, moonwalk included)? The classical pianist had to drown her sorrow in the free ice-cream for a year at Country Boy Dairy runner up prize.
The High School band plays followed by about a hundred 4x4 trucks and truck beds filled with teenagers wearing matching shirts. North Ogden Junior High Student Body Officers! North Ogden Junior High 7th Grade Officers! Weber High School
There is always a very old "belly dancing shriner" of the “Shriners Band”. He not only shakes his maracas, he leads the 12-man band sitting on some old flat bed (pulled by said 4x4) with wobbly chairs and music stands, AND the same homemade banner they have been using for 40 years. No matter how many years you have been to the parade, one still stares in awe watching the band follow their leader's girating hip movement to some random beat of music. He is a heavy set fellow, and we all cheer, not sure why, perhaps because we have been cheering for the same fat man shaking his bon-bon in a bejeweled belly dancing outfit for as long as we can remember. The non-musical shriners ride around in little motor powered "clown car" type things. One year a car tipped over right in front of us. I think the Shriner was celebrating the Cherry harvest before the parade with a little homemade cherry wine.
My favorite is the local nursing home "float". Their float is quite fancy. It is a short bus from the nursing home used for "outings". Inside the short bus are select privileged residents of the nursing home. aka: it's their day "out" that day. Some are quite entertaining, (I think these are the dementia patients) with large hats and even more colorful fashion faux pas disasters. Others have to sometimes be sedated and told by the white coated staff that they will not have parade privileges next year if they can't stop flipping off the public and screaming that they want to exit the bus and die. Most of them smile, I am certain heavily medicated, and go to the happy place as they are carted down main street in their bus posing as a parade float. The nursing home float precedes the local mortuary owner that drives some horse driven antique casket hauler decorated with streamers. Yes, the irony is staggering.
The cheer leaders from the Junior High, High School, and local drill teams all show off their new outfits for the fall ... and the fact that they were chosen to be a cheerleader and/or on the drill team at the prior spring try-outs. Trust me, this is huge. In a High School with graduating classes boasting numbers over 2,000, being one of the precious chosen "few" into this elite circle of cheering and dancing is of the utmost social climbing status symbols. Mothers prepare their sweet little daughters (mostly contestants from Little Miss Cherry Days) to be cheerleaders/drill team from infancy with dance lessons, cheer lessons, gymnastics, etc. Tryouts are rigorous, making Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders tryouts look like child's play. We don't cheer for them, we mostly make snide comments. So, horsey's are last, followed by the pooper scooper. Then, and only then, you know the parade is over and you follow your fellow chair/blanket toting parade goers back to North Ogden park. This is when we spend way too much money on overpriced booths and games and listen to the questionable local "talent" screech out their favorite show and 80's love/country tunes at the performance tent. It's like prepared Karaoke with costumes, sometimes be-jewled, always special, and performers convinced their talent is just waiting to be "discovered".
At the end of the day, everyone either gathers at the high school stadium for the fireworks where the mayor says a few words about the local Cherry harvest and the Cherry Days "royalty" are re-introduced … again. Of course, in our family grandpa and grandpa were planners to a fault. They built a new home when I was 12 years-old a block from the High School. Planners those two. Our family has the best seats for fireworks planted on the lawn in their front yard, eating "snacks", and all oohing and aahing at the appropriate moments. And, as tradition would entail, listening to grandpa’s comment that this year’s display is much better than last years, because, of course, the city did raise property taxes this year so such a display should be expected with all that extra money.
Now, click on the Cherry Days LOGO and review festivities and dates. The 4th of July is not Independence Day in I have a suggestion ...
Sunday I threw out my back. I guess that's what people call it. Having never had back problems before in my life (besides the occasional pregnancy wo is me), I never knew pain. Saturday I had a sleepless night ... just one of those dream after dream after dream that you have to wake up out of consistently to remind yourself you are not showing up naked on the first day back to school sort of dream state. I was groggy at best when I got out of the bed and suddenly noticed I was bent in half with a "locked" back. Uh, wierd. I managed to "unlock" as it were, mentioned it to Jon, then went on with the morning. Stretched a bit, a little more "locking up", but nothing to write home about.
The laundry. It procreates in the night at the Eldridge household. If you don't stay on top of it 24/7 it will consume the whole house. This day being no different, I was in the laundry room switching from the washer to the dryer. Caden was "helping" putting dirty clothes in the dryer, etc. Before I knew what was happening, as I peered into the washer, I heard a loud, "crack, woosh" sound. I felt this searing lower back pain and was sure I had just been shot in my lower back and buckshot was now filling the area so my legs felt like they were falling from under me. The pain was so intense, I had to take a deep breath for a second to remind myself the neighborhood watch wouldn't tolerate gun violence, so this had to be something completely different.
After a deep breath all I could do was scream, in agony, "Jooooooooonnnn!!!!!" The man actually yelled down the stairs, "what, what's wrong?" If I had more life in me at the moment and wasn't in sobbing hysterics I would have launched a few expletive statements his direction, but alas, all I could scream the second time was, "Joooooooonnnnnn!" Caden was standing by terrified and I tried to console him that mommy was okay. Jon finally managed to remove himself from the bedroom and down the stairs (like slow sludge I remind you) to see me hunched over, hanging off the washing machine, sobbing. Jon's a problem solver, a solution oriented man, and this dillemma was not on his radar as being anything less than "fixable".
Jon suggested I lay down on the floor. I suggested I couldn't move. Jon suggested I try. I suggested Jon go to hell. Jon suggested he could help me to the floor in the front room. I suggested he would have to drag me there. Then the circus began. I can only imagine if I was a fly on the wall what I would have thought. Jon was trying to literally drag me to the front room and Caden was trying to grab one side of my leg to assist in the debacle. Jon told me to stand still and he would help me lay down on the floor. He got behind me and Captain Solutions decided he would grab me under my two arms and lower me, not unlike a human crane, to the ground. "Just relax and fall backwards." Seriously Jon? I tried to do his bidding and felt another more violent seering pain. Seems his "grab me under the arms and lower me" plan cracked a few more places in my back I didn't know existed.
I fell to the floor, mostly in agony, partly in distress that I had indeed done something that could not be repaired to said back. I couldn't lie flat on my back, I could lay on the right side, all I could do was curl up in the fetal postion on my left ... and sob. Jon stared and said, "well if you don't lie flat on your back this won't get better, I've had the same thing happen to me ..." he then suggested various physical therapy excercises I should be doing instead of being curled into said fetal position. Okay, I know someone out there in cyberspace is shaking their head left to right knowing, just knowing that with my viper tongue Jon was bound for a fast trip to a verbal lashing. I suggested Jon was NOT in my body, I don't care how much WEB MD he had read, this was NOT the SAME THING followed by another suggestion that he go to hell and now, because I was a hot mess, I asked for my phone. This was serious, Jon was not helping me, so I needed to call my mommy.
Jon's response? Prepare. Jon was apparently having a stupid day. "Well, if you want to call your mom then you have to stop crying. You can't talk to people on the phone if you're crying, she won't understand a word you're saying." WTF?!?! Are you kidding me Jon? Again, I suggested Jon's now jet engine speed flight to hell. Apparently he was also now afraid, I think for himself, so he called my mom and left a message. She called back, said she would come down to the house to help with the kids, etc (wierd having a relative 1.5 hours away that you can call and they can say they will be right there ... our nomadic lifestyle has never enabled that reality for 16 years) while Jon took me to the urgent care.
Finally, a plan. I could go to the doctor and find out what the heck I had done to myself asap. I tried to maneuver myself into a sitting position in preparation for somehow walking my butt out to the truck. My maneuvering was less than successful. It just led to a rather clumsy crumple to the ground from what I am sure was my spine collapsing on itself. Jon "pittered" away for over an hour while I laid there helpless. Caden asked if I was okay a few times, Bradyn asked me if I was okay, Drew stared at me and said to Jon, "is she okay?" Honestly, life in a house of men. Such pity and concern.
Jon fed the boys, made a diaper bag, managed to dress himself (all of this rather slowly by my standards of pain increasing), and I asked for at least a sweatshirt and some socks so I didn't have to go to the urgent care looking like a complete hobo. Jon threw his enormous sweatshirt from the military (with the giant horse spouting fire from it's nostrils on the back of said sweatshirt) and a pair of socks at my feet then left. What, what? Where are you going? I toughed through the agony and somehow managed to grab one foot at a time to put on my socks and eventually the sweatshirt.
Jon "dragged" me, almost literally, to the truck and we went to urgent care. I forgot that if you go to urgent care its important you tell the front nurse you are having chest pains or painful breathing so you can get to the front of the line. But hey, I figured Jon dragging me in there and me wiht tears down my cheek might get me front row. Uh, no. Apparently at the American Fork, Utah urgent care you go in line, in order, whatever drug seeking loser was in front of me, I was about 5th in line. I couldn't sit, I couldn't stand. Everything hurt. I held onto the front desk.
I finally get to see the doctor who suggested the culprit was anatomy. Anatomy? She then went on to explain to me how humans are built and how it's basically "luck of the draw" to have your back slip out. But a few muscle relaxers, some pain killers, some rest and ice, I'd be a little better. I got a shot of something in my behind, a nasty liquid medicine, and sent home with various prescriptions for a muscle relaxer and narcotics. The rest of the day is hazy with the exception of the fact that the pre-planned BBQ at my house for the holiday weekend still happened. I sat on the couch in a semi-drug induced coma with ice on my back while my Mom, sisters, brother in laws, and all 47 children had a BBQ. If you know me at all, you know that me being unable to entertain in MY way with MY stuff could only have happened if I was sedated. Which I was, so it happened.
Today is day three. It's my first narcotic, muscle relaxer free day, and the pain is rather excruciating, but doable. My only problem now is that I am getting occasional "ticks" on my right extremeties either following or preceding back spasms that shoot all over my spine and into my legs making me feel like a squid for a moment. This all has to be from that Yoga class I took last Wednesday, I know it. High stress people like myself should not take classes that force our bodies to "chill out". It confuses our bodies and they will go exactly 180 degrees the wrong direction and chilax until our spine gives out. Ho-hum. Wo is me. People with back problems - a whole new understanding.
The laundry. It procreates in the night at the Eldridge household. If you don't stay on top of it 24/7 it will consume the whole house. This day being no different, I was in the laundry room switching from the washer to the dryer. Caden was "helping" putting dirty clothes in the dryer, etc. Before I knew what was happening, as I peered into the washer, I heard a loud, "crack, woosh" sound. I felt this searing lower back pain and was sure I had just been shot in my lower back and buckshot was now filling the area so my legs felt like they were falling from under me. The pain was so intense, I had to take a deep breath for a second to remind myself the neighborhood watch wouldn't tolerate gun violence, so this had to be something completely different.
After a deep breath all I could do was scream, in agony, "Jooooooooonnnn!!!!!" The man actually yelled down the stairs, "what, what's wrong?" If I had more life in me at the moment and wasn't in sobbing hysterics I would have launched a few expletive statements his direction, but alas, all I could scream the second time was, "Joooooooonnnnnn!" Caden was standing by terrified and I tried to console him that mommy was okay. Jon finally managed to remove himself from the bedroom and down the stairs (like slow sludge I remind you) to see me hunched over, hanging off the washing machine, sobbing. Jon's a problem solver, a solution oriented man, and this dillemma was not on his radar as being anything less than "fixable".
Jon suggested I lay down on the floor. I suggested I couldn't move. Jon suggested I try. I suggested Jon go to hell. Jon suggested he could help me to the floor in the front room. I suggested he would have to drag me there. Then the circus began. I can only imagine if I was a fly on the wall what I would have thought. Jon was trying to literally drag me to the front room and Caden was trying to grab one side of my leg to assist in the debacle. Jon told me to stand still and he would help me lay down on the floor. He got behind me and Captain Solutions decided he would grab me under my two arms and lower me, not unlike a human crane, to the ground. "Just relax and fall backwards." Seriously Jon? I tried to do his bidding and felt another more violent seering pain. Seems his "grab me under the arms and lower me" plan cracked a few more places in my back I didn't know existed.
I fell to the floor, mostly in agony, partly in distress that I had indeed done something that could not be repaired to said back. I couldn't lie flat on my back, I could lay on the right side, all I could do was curl up in the fetal postion on my left ... and sob. Jon stared and said, "well if you don't lie flat on your back this won't get better, I've had the same thing happen to me ..." he then suggested various physical therapy excercises I should be doing instead of being curled into said fetal position. Okay, I know someone out there in cyberspace is shaking their head left to right knowing, just knowing that with my viper tongue Jon was bound for a fast trip to a verbal lashing. I suggested Jon was NOT in my body, I don't care how much WEB MD he had read, this was NOT the SAME THING followed by another suggestion that he go to hell and now, because I was a hot mess, I asked for my phone. This was serious, Jon was not helping me, so I needed to call my mommy.
Jon's response? Prepare. Jon was apparently having a stupid day. "Well, if you want to call your mom then you have to stop crying. You can't talk to people on the phone if you're crying, she won't understand a word you're saying." WTF?!?! Are you kidding me Jon? Again, I suggested Jon's now jet engine speed flight to hell. Apparently he was also now afraid, I think for himself, so he called my mom and left a message. She called back, said she would come down to the house to help with the kids, etc (wierd having a relative 1.5 hours away that you can call and they can say they will be right there ... our nomadic lifestyle has never enabled that reality for 16 years) while Jon took me to the urgent care.
Finally, a plan. I could go to the doctor and find out what the heck I had done to myself asap. I tried to maneuver myself into a sitting position in preparation for somehow walking my butt out to the truck. My maneuvering was less than successful. It just led to a rather clumsy crumple to the ground from what I am sure was my spine collapsing on itself. Jon "pittered" away for over an hour while I laid there helpless. Caden asked if I was okay a few times, Bradyn asked me if I was okay, Drew stared at me and said to Jon, "is she okay?" Honestly, life in a house of men. Such pity and concern.
Jon fed the boys, made a diaper bag, managed to dress himself (all of this rather slowly by my standards of pain increasing), and I asked for at least a sweatshirt and some socks so I didn't have to go to the urgent care looking like a complete hobo. Jon threw his enormous sweatshirt from the military (with the giant horse spouting fire from it's nostrils on the back of said sweatshirt) and a pair of socks at my feet then left. What, what? Where are you going? I toughed through the agony and somehow managed to grab one foot at a time to put on my socks and eventually the sweatshirt.
Jon "dragged" me, almost literally, to the truck and we went to urgent care. I forgot that if you go to urgent care its important you tell the front nurse you are having chest pains or painful breathing so you can get to the front of the line. But hey, I figured Jon dragging me in there and me wiht tears down my cheek might get me front row. Uh, no. Apparently at the American Fork, Utah urgent care you go in line, in order, whatever drug seeking loser was in front of me, I was about 5th in line. I couldn't sit, I couldn't stand. Everything hurt. I held onto the front desk.
I finally get to see the doctor who suggested the culprit was anatomy. Anatomy? She then went on to explain to me how humans are built and how it's basically "luck of the draw" to have your back slip out. But a few muscle relaxers, some pain killers, some rest and ice, I'd be a little better. I got a shot of something in my behind, a nasty liquid medicine, and sent home with various prescriptions for a muscle relaxer and narcotics. The rest of the day is hazy with the exception of the fact that the pre-planned BBQ at my house for the holiday weekend still happened. I sat on the couch in a semi-drug induced coma with ice on my back while my Mom, sisters, brother in laws, and all 47 children had a BBQ. If you know me at all, you know that me being unable to entertain in MY way with MY stuff could only have happened if I was sedated. Which I was, so it happened.
Today is day three. It's my first narcotic, muscle relaxer free day, and the pain is rather excruciating, but doable. My only problem now is that I am getting occasional "ticks" on my right extremeties either following or preceding back spasms that shoot all over my spine and into my legs making me feel like a squid for a moment. This all has to be from that Yoga class I took last Wednesday, I know it. High stress people like myself should not take classes that force our bodies to "chill out". It confuses our bodies and they will go exactly 180 degrees the wrong direction and chilax until our spine gives out. Ho-hum. Wo is me. People with back problems - a whole new understanding.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)