Maybe the Wizard of Oz has a Spare Heart

The post about my husband is being superseded by a post about the final book in The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins. Somehow I don't think he'll mind, since he's sprawled out next to me with his nose pressed up against Catching Fire.

I would love to see what everyone else thought of the book. That's the point of this post. Leave your comment below and we can all respond to each other. I just ask that everyone be respectful of other's opinions. Be Christlike, everyone.

First of all, let me start of by warning you of a big fat SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!

I'm blowing this baby wide open, because it irked me to no end. I'm sure you're shocked because usually I like what everybody else likes, but let me preface this post by telling you that I'm not that into the Hunger Games like everyone else. I'm pretty shallow in that I only like stories about love. Not necessarily romantic love, but some kind of love. Any kind of love. Love between a girl and boy. Love between a mom and her daughter, or a father and son, or a brother and a sister. Heck, I even like stories about dogs who love their owners. But there has to be love. You maybe argue that there is plenty of love in this book, but I completely disagree.

With that said, let's get started.

I won't even try to argue that Suzanne Collins can't write, because we all know she can. She can weave one heck of a story. And the whole idea behind the Hunger Games is phenomenal. She's amazing at action, suspense, and all that kind of stuff.

One of my writer friends believes, that for her, a story is all about the main male character. If she likes him, she's going to like the story. I used to agree with her wholeheartedly. I mean, why does everyone swoon over the Twilight series? I can promise you it's not because of Bella. She's kind of whiney, and way too clutzy, and definitely too clingy. I think we all know we read those books because we love to picture Edward's perfectly chiseled jaw, or (I seriously almost wrote Taylor) Jacob's ripped abs. But not because of Bella. So like I said, I was right there with her on that theory.

Not anymore.

I liked Gale in the series. He was alright by me. We don't see that much of him, but what we do see, is fine. He's a good friend to Katniss, and an awesome hunter. He works hard to protect those he loves. Of course, I was rooting for Peeta though. I really liked him in the first two books. The kid has compassion, and his life means nothing to him without Katniss. He'd rather die if it meant she would live. Who doesn't want that kind of devotion? So I liked Peeta. He was my guy of choice. But I LOVED Peeta in this book. LOVED. But not for the reasons you guys are thinking.

I loved Peeta because the kid finally grew a spine. He let Katniss have it! For once he wasn't so busy being the Savior figure that he let Katniss walk all over him. He gave Katniss what she deserved. So like I said, I loved Peeta. So in theory, I should have liked this book. But guess what? I still didn't like this book because I did not like Katniss. Let me repeat. I did NOT like her.

She's selfish, and unfeeling. Never once, in all three books does she suck it up and make a choice between these two boys. She just lets whoever is around, be the guy of the moment. That doesn't fly with me. What kind of girl does that? What kind of girl can't even figure out her own mind, or her own heart, for that matter? But I digress. I'm not sure Katniss even has a heart. She casts Peeta off as lost with hardly any remorse. She kisses Gale just to make him feel better, which we all know would really only make him feel worse later. She doesn't seem to care that Gale moves to a different district so she can be with Peeta at the end. She just lets him do it and then she and Peeta 'fall back together.' What is that? Seriously, I read the first two books just hanging on, waiting to see her really fall in love with one of these guys. I sift through hundreds of pages just to get to that really good part of the story line where Katniss realizes she is so darn crazy about one of these guys that she can't live without him. Never happens. I can not tell you how much I disliked this. It was so anticlimactic.

Also, I loved the reunion between Finnick and Annie. BUT, then when Finnick is killed it never once runs through Katniss's mind of what she's going to tell Annie. Would this not be the first thing a person with a real heart would think? It's the first thing that would run through my mind. "What am I going to tell his wife?" Katniss just seems to cast people off as if they're nothing at all.

And what was with all the drugging? We miss all the action because our first person main character is doped up for half the book while the rest of the characters get to do everything. I was ready for Katniss to go in there, guns blazing, make some crazy dramatic speak in front of Snow and then beat him to a bloody pulp. But she doesn't even kill him at the end. What? I read all the way through only to have the dude choke to death in a stampede of people. He died by accident? What kind of an ending is that?

My last complaint. This was a big one for me. Katniss votes to have another Hunger Games. WHAT??? And I'm supposed to like her, and care about what happens to her. Well, I don't. I actually really, really dislike her for that. It just proves my theory that this girl has no heart. I thought the whole point of taking down the Capital was to bring an end to the Hunger Games. I don't care if President Snow's granddaughter would be in the arena, it's just wrong. And I certainly don't feel like Katniss deserves Peeta's love at any point, but especially not after that. If the author had let Katniss end up alone and both guys ended up happily married to other women, it wouldn't have bothered one bit. It would have been fitting. In my opinion, it would have been what she deserved.

Sorry people, I didn't like it. I'll probably never read it ever again. I don't want another single person to ever complain to me about Bella Swan, because at least that girl made a stinking choice. And she stood by her man. Katniss couldn't even do that. She didn't do anything except blow a couple of planes up.

I felt nothing throughout the story. I didn't cry. I didn't laugh. I just didn't care. I did sigh a lot. I could not connect with Katniss Everdeen on any level. As a matter of fact, the only reason I bothered to finish was just so I could find out what all of you thought about it.

Sorry. I thought it was a flop. Too bad too, it could have been really, really good.

Mighty Man Adam

I sat down to post about my husband, and I still plan on doing that in a few days, but right now I HAVE to post about someone else.

I'm sure most of you have seen me post status updates on Facebook about my nephew, Adam. Usually, I don't post names, but he has his own website with his name plastered all over, so I think I'm safe this time.

I'm sure I won't get everything right, and I hope this is okay with his parents (I'm pretty sure it is, so I'm chancing it.) but I'd like to share with you, what a miracle this little boy is.

When my brother and sister-in-law brought Adam down to the farm for the first time, when he was tiny and brand new, I remember thinking what an adorable baby he was. He had a dimple and was so good natured. I wanted to hold him lots, and I did. As he grew he was still enchanting and darling. But then things changed. He wasn't so good natured anymore--he cried and whined and kept them up at night, and I think his mom wondered what had happened to her angel. Months passed and it got worse. And worse. And worse and worse. The weekend before their world was flipped upside down, my whole family was down at the farm. I can't remember much about the weekend. I don't even know why we were there. I only remember that Adam was miserable. His mom said he wouldn't walk, and he'd been that way for a few weeks. She or my brother had to carry him everywhere. He didn't want any of us to hold him, only her. And he was washed out, lethargic and running a low grade fever. Something was definitely wrong. His mom had been taking him to specialists for months, trying to figure this thing out, but no one could.

I think my sister-in-law decided she'd had enough, and she took matters into her own hands. Something had been nagging at her for so long, but she was feeling helpless, I think. So she turned to the internet. One by one she googled his symptoms (brilliant girl) and slowly her nagging turned to panic. Every search had one scenario in common. Leukemia. And then she knew.

She calls my brother on the phone to tell him. Adam is flown by helicopter to the hospital.

I'm sitting at home, making dinner and the phone rings. It's brother Number Three. Usually he's so cheery when he calls and sings out one of his usual greetings like "Hey, Suzie Boozie." But this time he was solemn. He cuts right to the point. "They found out what's wrong with Adam. He has leukemia."

A big gasp and then "No," escapes my lungs. And then I'm crying because I know. I know what's coming. Fear. Fear like they've never experienced. This is not the first time I've seen cancer first hand. The last time, it took my brother in law who wasn't yet thirty, leaving my sister in law widowed with three kids. Number 3 tells me that Brother Number 1 met them at the hospital (I've never been so glad they live kind of close) and he said they were not doing well. I can picture them crumbling, terrified. I'll be honest--I wonder what they'll do if Adam doesn't make it, and then I shove that thought out of my head. I can't even think it. I know how much they love him, because I'm a mom, and I can't stand to even think what that would be like for them. I can't stand to think of my brother and his wife sobbing in that hospital while I stand there and cook for my three healthy kids. And I'm too far away to help them. And I hope they know how much I love them. It's not fair.

I gather my kids and my husband and I tell them the news. My kids prayed everyday for their cousin-probably five times a day. When we visited Adam a few months back my second son is asked to give the blessing on the food. He's only six so his prayers are pretty much the same every time. He has a list he's ticking off in his head. Please help Dad to graduate. Help mom to get her book published. Help us to be a forever family. And in this case, please bless the food. He opens his mouth to say one last thing and I hold my breath. Please don't let Adam die. My son doesn't even blink. He doesn't realize he just said that in front of Adam and his family. My eyes fly open and flash to my sister in law. Her eyes are glistening and she thanks Cole. She is touched. I exhale.

Back to the story.

Adam went through chemo. His older brother was tested as a bone marrow donor, and we all prayed he would be a match since he had the best chance. He wasn't a match. We all volunteered to be tested and my sister in law said we could, but the chances of any of us being a match were very slim. They move into the Ronald McDonald house next to the hospital (with a four year old in tow) for six months, switching off to be with Adam every couple of days. Can you even imagine what it would be like to not leave the hospital for more than a handful of days in that entire time? But then it's finally over and they return home. But the fear doesn't leave and less than a year later, the leukemia returns.

I believe I was making dinner again when I got that call. My mom called that time. She was steady as always, not crying, because she almost never cries in public. All her crying is done in private. But not me. I burst into tears. This time all my kids are out riding bikes in the neighborhood, except for my baby who's somewhere near my feet.

We get off the phone and I'm wondering why I don't feel a crazy amount of panic. Leukemia returning for the second time is a terrible scenario. I squat down and my head falls to my hands. Addy crawls into my lap and I hug her, and then I pray long and hard and fervently. I'm comforted knowing the rest of my family has to be on their knees at that same moment.

I go back to finish dinner and somewhere between serving and eating, I get the craziest good feeling inside. He's going to be okay! And not just okay. He's going to live. He's going to make it! I just knew it. Somehow this kid was going to beat this thing. So I call my sis-in-law and I say, "I hope this doesn't make you mad (you know, since I don't like to tell people I just got revelation for them. I don't make a practice of that kind of thing and can't stand it when other people do that to me) but I have this really good feeling that he's going to be okay." I don't know what I thought--that maybe she would collapse with relief, as if my words were gospel truth. But that's not what happened. I could hear her choking up and she says, "Well, I wish I had that feeling but I don't. Right now I'm just really, really mad at Heavenly Father." And can you blame her? Not only was this child sick and let's face it, dying, but they had also recently found out that their oldest son had Aspbergers, a form of high functioning Autism. I can only imagine how picked on she was feeling. I mean that--I could only imagine. I couldn't possibly begin to understand. But I knew the Savior could, and I was praying she'd let Him help her.

Adam starts chemo and they are back at the routine. The doctor has told my brother and sis-in-law that there is no possibility that they could be matches for Adam for the bone marrow transplant he needs to have, but on a whim they decide to be tested anyway.

Here's the Miracle.

His mom is a 100% perfect match in every single way. I can't get into all the ways that this is just complete and total craziness, but it is. The doctor said is was higher odds than winning the Superball lottery. Maybe they can comment below and explain the coolness of it because I don't think I can get you to grasp just what a miracle that is. Basically, this had to have been worked out generations ago, for my brother and the girl he was going to marry someday to have just the right genetics that she would be this match.

A lightbulb goes off in my brain, and I know that that feeling I had was because of this. It was Heavenly Father showing us that his hand is in everything, and over everyone. How can I ever question that He is there? He is watching. He loves us so much and cares for us so much.

Just minutes ago, I found out that Adam got his one year bone marrow aspiration results back, and guess what? His bone marrow is 100% donor cells and 0% cancer. One year was the time limit the doctor gave for him to be considered cured. I'm sure Brother and Sister-in-law are afraid to let the word 'cured' squeak out of their lips lest they jinx him, and I don't blame them. But I'm hoping you'll join with me the next time you kneel down to pray and just send Him a little thank you for this blessing.

I didn't tell you this to make you think that I believe my family deserves some special miracle when others haven't received such a blessing. We are just normal people who make mistakes, just like everyone else. People die from cancer, heart disease, car accidents and thousands of other things every single day. I'm also aware that some trials are worse than death. And that some just plain hurt. Dealing with addictions of any kind, or not being able to get pregnant when you so desperately want a baby, or getting pregnant but then losing that baby or a thousand other ways that our hearts ache for our plans unraveled. I'm very aware of that, and I ache for my friends and family when these things happen. We've had some of our own pains. I only shared this with you because sometimes it's hard to see past all the hurt and sorrow and trials and exhaustion that can accompany this trial we call Life. And when we feel our lowest I hope we can all remember that He is there. He has a plan. Sometimes His plan intertwines with our own wishes, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes someone else can stick their foot out and trip up that plan, and wreck something that was supposed to be beautiful and perfect. But sometimes. Sometimes, He gives us a little glimmer of His power and His love and we are reminded that there is more to all of this than what we can see right now.

It may not feel like it sometimes, but God really is overAll.

Adam, you are a Mighty, Mighty Man. And you will forever be my hero.

Patatas, alguien?

My husband went to Mexico in January for a three week rotation at the Veterinary school down there. Remember that.

The other night I had a sort of nightmare. I don't get (knock on wood) the terrifying emotions that accompany nightmares anymore, since I'm an adult, but sometimes my dreams can be pretty bizare or awful. Anyway, in this dream, I was sleeping in bed next to my husband (imagine that) when I wake up to realize that someone is in the house. As often happens in my dreams, I can't make the lightswitch come on, but soon enough I realize the person is a woman. A very psychotically angry woman. I'm not sure who she was after, my husband or me, but her weapon of choice was a vegetable peeler. That's right. A vegetable peeler. Can you see the headlines now? Woman is peeled to death in her own bed.

Anyway, finally the light comes on and I'll be doggoned if my husband doesn't know this woman. She's yelling at him in Mexican, and I realize. My stinkin', good for nothing husband (who's usually the opposite of that--you know, when I'm awake) had an affair when he was in Mexico. Remember this is a dream.

But then I wake up in real life when Son number two yells out my name because he's thirsty. I get his water and then crawl back in bed. Husband promptly rolls over and throws his arm around me and I grumble, "Get your hands off me, you cheater!" He mumbles something and I can tell he's not coherent. So I lay there for a while thinking about this dream, getting more irritated and more awake. I force the dream out of my mind and finally return to sleep only to DREAM ABOUT THIS WHOLE SCENARIO AGAIN!!! It's like my mind has turned into a soap opera, starting right where I left off.

So yes, Bryan admits he had an affair with this lady (who wasn't even that hot, by the way.) but not only that, he's not the least bit remorseful. Then when he finds out that she's still crazy (literally) about him, he decides he'd rather be with her and tells me he's leaving me and the kids. The part that made me crazy throughout the whole thing is how unfazed he was. It didn't bother him one bit that he was leaving four kids fatherless, or that we were sealed in the temple and that he was going to get ex-ed from the church.

And then I woke up.

I'm really fuming now. Oh, I am so mad. And how can my husband just lay there next to me and not know how ticked off I am?

I fall asleep again, and you got it--I'm right back in that dream. This time Bryan brings his girlfriend and half the country of Mexico, okay not really, only four of her brothers and her ancient weathered looking grandmother, to our house, because, they need food and since he bought the food in our house he thinks he deserves to take it away for his new Mexican family. I ask him if he's going to Mexico, and he tells me that no, joy of all joys, they're moving here so he can be close to the kids. I tell you what--it took all of my dream-willpower not to go after him and that stupid lady with my own vegetable peeler!

The dream ends with me sitting in church alone with my four kids. The woman next to me leans over and asks, "Where's your husband today?" And I have to tell her. Of course she gasps, and then I wake up.

What in the world?!! Has this ever happened to you? Has a dream ever made you so crazy-mad that you wanted to flog the person in the dream in real life? And why am I dreaming this kind of stuff? Hmmm. I wrote a book about a girl who has to deal with how her dad left their mom for another woman, so maybe that explains part of it. I thought about watching Fools Rush In before I fell asleep that night, so maybe that's the Mexican part.

The most frustrating part about a dream is that you lose control, and I think that was what made me so mad. But isn't that like life too? This free agency thing we all have doesn't always work in our favor. Sometimes we get hurt because of other people's choices, and there's not much we can do about it.

So anyway, it's morning now and those horrible dreams are over. Bryan's alarm is going off and he rolls over and pulls me close, and I'm gritting my teeth. So I kind of let him have it. Just a little though, because it was only a dream, after all. And you know what he does?

He laughs at me, and tells me I'm a nut. And I guess I am. I mean, I'm getting mad over a dream. So I snuggle into his arms and let him hold me. Happy sigh.

It was only a dream.

But really, I just told you all of this to introduce the topic of next time's blog: My husband, who is actually a really, really great guy.

Got a dream you want to share? I'd love to hear it!

Of Mice and Men, and Dos

That's spanish for Number two, (and of course I couldn't continue to call him number two, if you get what I mean. If not, just think about it for a second) if you didn't know, and it's appropriate because this particular brother served his mission in Argentina. But really, that's too hard to type because I'd actually have think in the tiny part of my brain that is holding onto the leftover Spanish I learned in high school. So for the purposes of this post, we will refer to him as Dos.

Two things before I begin on the highly anticipated retelling of the Shooting-of-the-Bus-Window Incident. AndI mean highly. Sis in law has been checking this blog multiple times a day. I know because I finally got Google Analytics.

1. I asked permission from Dos and he gave me this disclaimer: "I suppose it's okay if you point out that the statute of limitations has expired, nobody got hurt, I did my time in the pokey, and now recognize the foolishness of my ways as a youth."

Done.

2. I have to warn anyone reading this, that if you wanted a good cry today, you won't get it, unless it's accompanied by the belly laugh you're about to have. I'm simply out of gush. And truth be told, this brother and I weren't very close growing up, and I'm not sure we've ever shared a close moment. Unless you count him trying to choke me death. Twice. But other than that, probably not.

So without further ado, we will move on to the day that will forever live in infamy in the lives all the descendants of Carl and Lynne Henshaw. Except I can't remember the exact date. Anyways--here we go.

Once upon a time, sometime after Dos had been granted a driver's liscense and sometime before he graduated from high school, our dad purchased an air rifle/bb gun. I believe the reason behind the purchase was to shoot his stubborn cows/bulls in the rearend when they wouldn't go where he wanted. I remember him bringing this gun home. I also remember the excitement of Dos and Number Three. Me? I probably shrugged and wondered what the big deal was. I mean, it didn't even shoot real bullets.

Dos begged Dad to let him take the gun to school to show his friends, because that's a brilliant idea, right? Of course, Dad forbade him. Remember that. Forbade him to take this gun to school. BECAUSE GUN'S ON SCHOOL PROPERTY ARE ILLEGAL!

So of course, he snuck it into the van, and the next day he showed it to his friend, who we shall call Donnie, and they cooked up a brilliant plan. The plan? Dos (with an unknowing Number Three in two) would follow Donnie's bus home after school. Dos would pull out the gun, and aim it at the back of the bus. Donnie would yell, "Hey, look! He's got a gun!" Thus scaring the wits out of every kid on the bus.

On thing you should know--down in the 'Ham' all kids are on the same bus route. There is no separation from Elementary to middle and high school. Interpretation: there were even kindergartners on this bus. Back to the telling.

So that's the plan.

Remember when you were a senior and your English teacher forced you to read that awful book about George and Lennie? That most famous quote fits right here:

The best laid schemes of Mice and Men

oft go awry,

And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

So Dos pulls out behind the bus, waits until he's almost to the back road he has to turn on to head home, and pulls the gun out. He'd checked to make sure it wasn't loaded, so it was all good. When he rested the barrel on the rear view mirror, Number Three yells, "What are you doing?!!!!" I'm not sure if Dos answered, all I know is that he was only supposed to pretend to pull the trigger, but that's not what happened. Let me repeat--THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED.

He pulls that trigger and I'll be doggoned if there wasn't a pellet in there. The bus window crackles so beautifully the way windows are supposed to--like a cool looking spider web. Oh,to be a fly on the wall and see the expression on my two brother's faces. But I wasn't there. And for once I was so glad I'd ridden the bus home or had play practice or cheerleading or whatever had kept me from being an accomplice.

You know if something happened like this now, it wouldn't have turned out pretty for Dos. I don't know at what point he let our parents in on what he'd done, but I smelled a rat that night when I walked into my parent's room to see Dos bawling. Tears streaming down his face, needing to wipe his nose and just heartbroken. The scariest part was that Dad was wearing a similar expression. That's when you know it's bad--when you're parent is crying like the world is about to come to an end. I was puzzled for a second because let me tell you--Dos was not the kind of kid who shot out windows. He was the kind of kid that was in the top ten of his graduating class. The kind of kid on the basketball team. The kind of boy who finished his Eagle Scout, and who had big plans to attend BYU and serve a mission and get married in the temple. But not a juvenile deliniquent.

I'm pretty sure I cried to. I really thought he was going to jail.

I don't know if I had an ancestor who made some covenant with Heavenly Father or what, but Dos didn't go to jail. He didn't go to jail because his principal went up to bat for him, because he knew what kind of kid Dos was. And because, let's face it, this was the 80's. If it had happened now--his principal could not have saved him.

I'm not telling you this story so you can think he only got a slap on the hand. I'm telling you this because sometimes, we are so shocked at our own behavior, whether well intentioned or not, that we don't need some life altering punishment. Sometimes our own remorse is plenty. So Dos did his time--I can't remember exactly--maybe 100 hours of cleaning buses at the bus lot, and similar time reading stories to the kids who'd been on that bus. How would you like to be that teacher? "Okay kids, this is so exciting. Today the delinquent who tried to kill you is going to read to you today. Won't that be soothing?"

Definitely one of those moments that's funnier in hindsight, and not something he would ever want to repeat.

I will give you this much mush--I don't think he's ever done anything truly stupid since. He thinks everything through. And when he had to take a polygraph for his current job, the men performing the test warned him to confess anything that might cause him to fail. He disclosed the incident, and passed the rest of the test with flying colors. As a matter of fact, he was so calm they made him drink a coke so the test would work. That's cleaning living, people. Conscious-free living.

Here's my anticlimactic ending, because how could I top that story. Let's all learn from Dos's mistake. Print this off, add a little solemnity in the retelling and it could be a perfect Family Home Evening lesson on warning your children on the dangers of not honoring thy parents.

Seriously, I love you Dos! You turned out amazingly well. Considering.

Because

I realize that everything in life is not fair. I do. BUT. If I have even the tiniest bit of control over a situation, I feel it my duty to try and balance the outcome if at all possible.

Which brings me to today's post. I'm still waiting on Number Two's permission to blog about certain, ahem, incidents. I wouldn't want to offend anyone.

So we're moving on to my mom.

Brother's Number One, Number Three, and I were all at my parent's farm (see above photo) this past weekend. We started laughing about the aforementioned Toughskins that got torched in the oven--which led to how I had to take two pair of jeans, cut them apart and turn them in to one pair of shorts because right before my junior year my mother said, "Sorry but we have no money for new school clothes." Uh. Sucker punched. A junior in high school who only owned three pair of pants anyway. Then I told my brothers about how, that year, I literally wore the same pair of jeans every single day because (A) they looked really good on me, and (B) that's all I had, until one day when they literally fell apart-- ON MY PERSON. I had to hold them together as I walked to the school's office to call Mom on the phone.

Anyway. We were having a dandy good time laughing about this. And then I looked over at my mom. She has a sick look on her face and says, "Did I do anything right as a Mom?"

Well, of course she did. I'm still alive, right? Which may not have been the case if Dad had raised me alone, or I'd had a different mother. Because let's face it, I was a smart mouth, selfish, bratty teenager, who thought everything should revolve around me.

But not only am I alive. I'm pretty stinking amazing--sometimes. And I give her 99.5% of the credit. Have to give Dad .5% at least.

Every time she came home with some flowers to plant, she'd ask me if I would do it because, "You have such a green thumb, Susan. Everything you plant thrives." Now that I'm older, I snicker at that. It was a great tactic though, because I believed her. If nothing else, I knew I could grow a flower. I was good at something, or at least I believed I was. Because of her.

She made me stick to the rules and even though I kicked and screamed then, now I am very thankful. I made it into BYU--because of my mom. And I stayed at BYU--because of my mom. And I got married in the temple--because of Mom. I have a testimony because of her.

Because of her, I have everything I've always wanted. Well except for a billion bucks. But she'd probably have made that happen too, if she had the power. And she wouldn't have handed it to me. She would have taught me how to get it myself.

Because of you, Mom, I am Me. And I will be forever grateful.

Number One

I know you are all dying to hear about Number Two shooting the school bus window out, but I think to be safe, I'd better get his permission before I tell you how it all went down.

So we're jumping back up to Number One. My oldest brother, for those of you just tuning in.

Have you ever met one of those people who's patient, and gentle, and good, and smarter than anyone ought to be allowed? I think the common word for someone like this is 'Saint.' Well, Number One doesn't quite make that title. I mean, he's a liberal, for crying out loud. But other than that, he's pretty darn close.

Growing up, he was the hardest worker at everything. The farm. Grades. Church stuff. Everything. He always had a book in his hand. And I mean always. And not usually a novel. It was usually a book about airplanes, until he got older and then who knows what those books were about. I'm sure I could understand half the words in them. Which would explain why he's so brilliant. Did I mention that he builds robots that shoot into outer space? Like I said, he's way too smart. Number One read so much that the first time our parents had to stay at church, and he had to drive us all forty five minutes back home--he got lost. I kid you not. All those years of driving to church, his nose was shoved so far up that book that he didn't even know how to get home. We had to tell him. And we've never let him live it down.

I'll let you in on a secret. I used to be really intimidated by this brother, and his wife. I mean, he shoots robots into space, and she--she's just as bad. She was the valedictorian of her graduating class. In college! Then she went on to get a Doctor's of Veterinary Medicine. A master's degree and finally a PhD from Princeton. Crazy, right? This is why they're so perfect together. But the older I get and the more self-assured I become, the more I love them both.

The last time I went to my parent's farm, and Number One was there, we both ended up staying in 'The Little House.' It's the house where Bryan and I lived the first eight years of our marriage, and is now the guest house on the farm. Anyway. Number One, his wife and I stayed up late watching NCIS and talking. Somehow the topic of my mom's fashion sense came up. My mom dresses herself very nicely, but when we were kids, somebody should have clued her in. I think she was too oblivious--caught up in PTA, or temple work--to worry about the scrutiny we children faced from our peers when we went to school every day. We were also poor when I was little. And being that Number One was the oldest, my parent's were even poorer when he was little.

So Number One starts to tell me the most hilarious story. (Sorry, if I've told it before. You're getting it again, because it still makes me LOL. I can't believe I just used that abbreviation. Oh well.)

He starts, "One morning before school, Mom realized that both pair of my high watered Toughskins were wet in the washing machine, and she didn't have time to dry them in the dryer. So she got the bright idea that maybe she could bake them in the oven."

I'm just sitting, nodding my head, wondering what the big deal is.

"Toughskins weren't regular jean material. They're made out of some kind of plastic/polyester blend. So, like I said, she puts them on a cookie sheet in the oven. She pulls them out a while later and hands them to me. I put them on, and they've got half melted holes all the way down one leg inseam. But guess what? I have to wear them anyway because they're the only jeans I have. And not only that, but she makes me wear them every other day for a couple of months before she bothers to get me a replacement pair."

By now, I'm dying laughing, tears streaming down my face. I can picture this poor twelve year old boy walking into elementary school in these jeans, three inches too short with holes down his leg. Oh man. I'm glad I was the last. It was hard enough then.

I hadn't realized my brother was so darn funny. But he is.

But he's also very discerning.

Last story.

When I was fifteen, and Number 3 was 18, we got into a humdinger of an argument. What can I say? He wasn't always perfect like he is now. I don't remember what the argument was about, just that it was bad enough that I yelled, "I hate you!" Slammed the door, sat up against the door in my bedroom and sobbed. Our parents weren't home. Number 2 (I have to come up with a better name for him. Number Two? Ewwww.) was on a mission and Number One had just gotten back. Number One comes in my room, because--Grrrr--I didn't have a lock. He sits down beside me and puts his arm around me. And then he tells me something I have never, ever forgotten.

"When I was on my mission, I had this companion. He was a 'problem' Elder. He'd been with lots of missionaries and finally the Mission president sent him to be my companion." (Remember how gentle and patient I said Number One is? His mission president took advantage of that.)

"He was kind of lazy and every time I tried to get him to go out to work he would get mad. Finally one day, he got so mad, that he attacked me, and choked me."

I couldn't stand to think of anyone treating him this way. It made me cry again.

This is the part I'll never forget. He looked at me with tear filled eyes and said, "And the only place I wanted to be right then, was here, at home, with you guys. But I couldn't. So please don't ever say you hate your brother."

This brother hardly ever gets sentimental so it meant a lot that he took the time to tell me that.

Sorry to be gushy again, but it makes me realize that Heavenly Father sent us to families for a reason. Maybe if one person can't get through our thick skulls, another can. Number One is just one more reason I know He loves me.

Number 3

See my new picture? Well, of course you do. It's gigantic. But it's really beautiful, too. My brother took it. The tractor is my dad's. That field belongs to my parents. And so does the lovely fog. This is the farm where I grew up. Well, it's a picture of the front field where I grew up. But back to that line about my brother.

I have three of them. Brothers, that is. No sisters. I used to feel very ripped off by Heavenly Father for that. But now, I realize He gave me some pretty great girl cousins to make up for it, so I'm over it. Besides, I've got brother Number 3. And with a brother like Number 3, who needs a stinkin' sister. Not me. So, the oldest 2 are great. They really are, and I will blog about them another time. But Number 3, is the Brother of all Brothers. If you don't have one of these, I'm sorry to you. Yes, I meant to. It's something my old roommate in college used to say, and I haven't quite shaken the habit. So, I'm sorry to you.

When we were younger Number 3 would jump on top of me in bed and wiggle all around, making the mattress beneath me shake like an earthquake, and then he'd tickle me and say something like, "Good morning, Suzie Rubies." Or "Suzie Boozie." Or "Suzie Floozie." No he's not mentally retarded. This is just part of his charming personality. It also explains why all my nieces and nephews call me Aunt Sue-Sue. Grrr.

But I digress. Back to Number 3. Then, after I had dragged myself out of bed, and showered, we would sit in the double-sinked bathroom--no I would sit, he would stand--and do our hair together, as he told me funny jokes and stories, and we listened to Def Leppard, or Heart, or one of those 80's/early 90's bands. It usually took at least thirty minutes every morning. He had great hair, and spent ridiculous amounts of time making sure it was perfect that day (which might explain why he's very seriously going bald.) It was a blast!

My two older brothers, though they would probably argue this point (and since they don't read my blog, they won't know I'm saying this) were kinda nerdy. And kind of perfect. Now that they're all growed up, One builds robots that shoot into space, and Two (he was on that hellacious train ride with me) works for the government and has a very cool sounding job. And he's a writer. I don't think either of them ever did anything wrong in highschool, except for Two who shot the back of a school bus window on accident, but I'll put that in my blog about him later. Seriously, other than that--Perfect.

Which made me look very, very bad.

Number 3 is the only reason I don't feel like a complete failure. He had a girlfriend in high school, that WASN'T LDS. And he liked to break curfew occasionally, and get speeding tickets. And he had a gazillion friends-- because every one loves him-- that resulted in him being Mr. Social. And he got terrible grades in tenth grade. Thank goodness for that, since my 3.45 looked pitiful up against One and Two's rockin' GPA's. Basically Number 3 broke in the Parents.

But seriously, Number 3 is the glue that keeps us bonded now that we've all left home. And when I'm feeling a little psycho, he always helps me to see reason. He lives across town from me, and last night he spent over an hour trying to help me get rid of those hideous books that were the temporary background to my blog. When I accomplish something great, he sends me flowers. He takes my introverted husband out to play golf and to the movies. He doesn't get mad when I say stupid things that should hurt, and he loves my kids. He loves his wife, and is the kind of dad most dads will never, ever be.

When I'm upset with a specific person (mom, dad, another brother, hubby) he says to me. "Just love them the way they are." It's hard for me to do that, but I'm amazed that so simply, my brother knows to say exactly what the Savior would say if He were here. And then I try.

I love him. Very much.

_________________________________________

Let me amend this post: Number 3 is very much NOT gay. He fixed his hair every day for the ladies. And let me tell you, they were very grateful. He was a cutie back in the day. Now, he looks a little like Beaker on the Muppet show.

The Magic Farmer

I live in the heart of the Appalachian mountains. My town is all hustle and bustle. There's the busiest Wal-mart you have ever stepped foot in. I promise. A big new twelve theater cineplex. A mall with a Gap store, and an American Eagle. A Target. T.J. Maxx. Old Navy. Bed, Bath and Beyond. Best Buy. We even have a Barnes and Noble. But the cool thing about my town is that you can drive two miles in the opposite direction and you're out in the country. Rolling green hills are dotted with trees, and cows and hay bales. It's amazing. And it has its perks.

When we first moved here, I noticed that there was this magic man. Every Wednesday and Saturday during the summer, he would pull up on the side of the road and BAM!, people would appear out of thin air. It's like Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams. That little voice he kept hearing--If you build it, they will come. This man is the Costner of Corn. Costner was tearing down the corn, and the Magic Man grows it. And then people come.

He must have some magic fairy dust or a wand like Harry Potter because, I'm telling you, his corn tastes like nothing you've ever put in your mouth. And I have eaten a lot of corn in my day. And it's not just his corn. All of his produce is this way. His tomatoes are the size of a grapefruit. And his peaches--I don't even like peaches--but I buy his mainly for my daughter and I find myself snitching a few bites because they are so sweet and juicy. Dripping-down-my-fingers-and-all-the-way-to-my-elbows juicy.

Let me tell you a little about this man. I don't know much but what I do know is this: His skin has wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon. A few of his teeth are missing, and the ones that aren't look like they could use a good bleach kit. His eyes are so clear, I often wonder if he has cataracts, but he must not because he looks right at me, and I know he's seeing me. He's so weathered and old looking that I worry about him all winter when he isn't around to sell his produce. As horrible as all of that sounds, this man is absolutely adorable. Sometimes I wish I could hug him and let him know how happy it makes me to see his truck--which is just as raggedy as him--sitting there twice a week. Something about him comforts me. And I know what it is. But I'll get to that in a minute.

So this summer, I kept driving by his parking spot and he wasn't there. It seemed to be getting later and later (though it just seemed that way, I don't think he was actually any later than any other year), and I wondered as I do every year, "Did he die?"

Then suddenly, one day he was there.

I squealed with delight and pulled in. I walked right up to him to pay for the corn I'd just grabbed (I'm quick, because I'm always afraid he's going to sell out in the thirty seconds it takes me to fill my bag, but of course he never does because that's just ridiculous) and say, "I was afraid you weren't coming this year."

And then he says that thing that makes me completely understand why his food is so good.

"I'll be here as long as I'm not pushing up daisies."

And I say, "I was afraid you were pushing up daisies."

He laughs and says, "I'll always be growing something, no matter where I am."

That is love folks. In the scriptures it tells us to pray over every thing. Our flocks, our fields, and our families. This man must understand that. And so every time I eat his corn, or green beans, or peppers, I feel like I'm eating a little of God's love for this man. Because it's obvious to me that Heavenly Father is blessing this good man for his hard work, his sweat, his toil, and his ability to care for the earth He gave us. And with his harvest, that man is sharing His love with the rest of us.

I hope you have a magic man in your town.