Framanisco

Square Peg

2009-10-27T23:34:00.003-06:00

I am having this mini-identity crisis lately, which I will have to expound upon later. It's too late for details now, but I wanted to get this post started because it's been rolling around in my brain for a while.

My political misplacement began when we changed our TV subscription to include Fox News because we only had CNN and Glenn Beck was moving from CNN to Fox ans we really wanted to hear what he had to say about the "new day" in government. Little did I know that my favorite commentator was going to slowly get crazier and crazier until he started fitting in with all the other guys at Fox. Lemme back up here and say that in the 90's I was a HUGE Fox News fan. Committed. Loved it. I lived with my grandparents the last 2 years of college, so I would come home to dinner and Shephard Smith and it was all so soothing and delightful. Imagine my horror to find what Fox has become. I dont' know what happened, but there are all these anchor women dressed like they're casino employees rather than journalists. The headlines, teasers, graphics--everything--are so sensational, they offend my sensibilities. The last straw--or straws, I guess--were when Glenn Beck hyped all these "Shocking" revelations, etc. and they turned out to be, well, crap. I'm especially thinking of the time he gave the White House 30 minutes to call and stop him from releasing the news that Van Jones was a 9/11 truther. REALLY? That's all you got, Glenn? 90% of Montana believe 9/11 involved conspiracy...and you're gonna make THAT the big dirt on Jones? I was MAD. Manipulated. Annoyed. I understand how it fits into the big picture, and I agree that Jones (and the whole posse) has ideas dangerous to capitalism and the constitution, but I don't believe in this sensationalist delivery of the information. It's starting to feel like...well, if the National Enquirer could TALK, it would sound like what I am hearing at Fox, in terms of tone. And it's embarrassing. Good info+paranoia+sensationalist delivery=no more Fox for me. Did Murdock do this? What happened?

Also, I've got a pocket full of religious stuff to share, too. I am discovering a whole new definition of Christianty (this is some CRAZY crap, y'all) from reading "Stealing Jesus" and it explains a lot. A LOT. Maybe it's in the water here in Montana, I don't know. I am gonna be in a hut somewhere typing my unablogger manifesto soon. But I just feel like people in so many facets of life are twisting truth to suit their fancy and it's getting on my last nerve. I kinda keep singing to myself, ala All, "Is everybody crazy or is it just me? Everybody's crazy, it isn't just me!" I'll be back to finish this soon, but I might post some uplifting things FIRST, some things I know are real and true and good, just to balance out the crazy. K, so later...

One Small Update

2009-10-04T08:46:00.003-06:00

Oh, I can't wait to blog about conference! But my little Relief Society goals of reaching out, etc., are keeping me pretty busy this weekend. Sister Beck's talk in the Dec. 2005 Ensign has been my inspriation (as well as watching "Julie & Julia") to try to feed spirit & body while building relationships with my family AND my ward family, so I've been cookin' up a storm this week and we're hosting a new family in our ward AND a sister who was recently baptized for conference and homemade pizza dinner. I'm looking forward to all of it.

Anyway, it wouldn't be fair to readers not to mention that my mother sent me a very sweet and apologetic email yesterday between sessions (I knew that the Spirit would work its mojo at some point). While I am grateful the tension has been broken and I could express my love, my resolve to create a different relationship has not wavered. I know that she wrote me because my Aunt told her to, which I think is kind of cute in itself. So I told her that I love her, that will never change, but I am heretofore going to avoid situations that bring up past hurts and I just need time and space to redefine things and to be sure I am putting my family (vs. extended family) first.

For me that means that we have to avoid all situations that involve parenting. I don't want to see how she treats her kids at home and I don't want her disciplining my children. I am ok with her being Nana as long as her role is to make my kids feel like her sun rises and sets on them--that's what Grandmas are for in my book. I'll be the mean mom, she'll be the fun Nana. I don't want to hear about what she has said or done to other siblings and I don't want to have to play along when she's not straightforward with her hubs. So basically, I have to interact with my mother like a (distant) girlfriend to keep it good, and I think that will work.

So I am off to start the breadmaker, y'all. Have a great Sabbath. And hey, won't you come back and share your favorites moments from conference (either here or on the public blog)? I'd love to hear!

What I Am Working Through, chronologically

2009-09-30T17:21:00.017-06:00

Removed but archived

Lessons of 2006: Chapter 2

2007-08-21T00:18:00.001-06:00

Faith and God's Domain

Faith is an interesting concept. Like love, it grows. It means different things to us at different times, and (hopefully) it matures as we mature and leads us to a higher plane of living. It’s kinda like that old song, “And he thought that he knew what love was…” I really thought that I knew what faith was.

When I was called into the Relief Society Presidency for the first time in 1994, Grandma Lyn sent me the book, “Love Is A Verb” by Mary Ellen Edmunds. It was such a nice introduction to the idea that love becomes charity when we DO something. Likewise, belief becomes faith when we take those first steps into the unknown. I have taken a lot of steps into the unknown the past few years and I have been overjoyed at the things I have found on the other side.

One of the things that has helped my faith grow immensely is internalizing the parameters of our agency and God’s role in His plan. As a parent, I am amazed at the restraint Heavenly Father exercises as he allows us to grow and experience this life. I try (and often fail) to keep myself from interfering with the agency of my kids. If I think I can save them some pain or frustration, I want to step in and “fix it.” I try to give them room to learn by natural consequences, but it’s really hard. So really I admire God’s respect for our agency. The only lines he has drawn are around life itself. He has given us specific instructions about how life should begin and how it should end, and there are dire consequences for those who step over those lines. Life and death are His domain---what I do from my first to my last breath is mine.

And so there I was, worrying about my brother Matthew being deployed in Iraq in early 2006. I remember being really particularly upset one day, and having the spirit calmly speak to me: “He will not die until he has accomplished his mission on earth.” Now, I kinda knew that already, but it started to sink in at that moment. We are all here to become like God (remember the Sermon on the Mount? “Be ye therefore perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect”?). We arrive with cracks to fill in our characters, and through the application of the atonement of Christ to our life’s experiences, those cracks are filled and we become worthy of our Father’s presence. And only He knows when that mission has been accomplished and we are ready to move on from this life.

The lesson began to sink in even more as I watched two different TV shows—one was a show about freak accidents on the Discovery Channel, and one was a show about miraculous survival on Oprah. For some reason, watching those shows within a day or two of each other helped me to realize that these were not really “Freaky” or especially “miraculous”—each of these people had a mission in life. For those who died in “freak” accidents: mission accomplished; for those who survived, there was obviously still work to be done.

Suddenly it all made so much sense. I felt totally at peace, not only with Matt’s mortality, but my own and my children’s. While I still take caution and I’m always concerned about their well-being, I have a peace inside me knowing that the best thing I can do for them is to pray for them, and pray for me—that I can help them fulfill their missions and meet their potential so they are ready to meet their Maker whenever that time comes.

And the same goes for me. I am sure, like me, most people suddenly take much better care of themselves, take much more precaution when they become parents. We have a new reason for living—we want to be here for our kids. But I have so much less worry now that I know for sure that as long as we are striving to progress, our lives are preserved until our missions are complete. It’s like the hymn—“And should we die before our journey’s through, happy day—all is well/ We then are free from toil and sorrow too—with the just we shall dwell.”

To me, one of the most beautiful expressions of faith in the scriptures, and the most meaningful to me right now, is 1 Nephi 11:17. Nephi is being shown The Grand Vision, specifically the birth of the Savior, and the angel serving as his tour guide asks him if he knows about the condescension of God. “Condescension” is a big word, and I bet Nephi (Mr. Plain & Precious) was thinking, what? But here is what he said: “I know that he loveth his children, nevertheless I do not know the meaning of all things.”

Isn’t that AWESOME? A prophet of God basically said I don’t know everything, but I know he loves us…and that was enough. And you know what? I think it’s enough for me. I have been a “why?”-asker and truth-seeker and pattern-finder all my life—I want answers!—but Nephi has taught me to chill. I am able to act in faith much more often now because (a) I understand God’s parameters and (b) I know—I feel it in my heart for real—that he loves us and will only guide us in the paths that lead us back to him. We just have to trust, to follow, and quit taking short cuts or our own little roads because his ways don’t seem to make sense from where we’re standing. I’m not sure what’s around the next corner for me, but I have learned from experience that I will be okay and it will be for my good because my Heavenly Father loves me. And he loves you, too.

Lessons of 2006: Equal To My Day

2007-08-07T20:37:00.000-06:00

I became a mother at the age of thirty. I had twelve years of adulthood under my belt by the time my first daughter was born—twelve years of doing what I wanted, when I wanted, and lots of excitement. Within the space of nine months and five days, I had gone from a Professional Single Young Woman to Wife, and then Stay-at-Home-Mom. My busy-yet-organized life of goals and checklists and accomplishments came to a grinding halt.

Good-bye, control freak, hello new mom.

The first out-of-control thing my daughter introduced to me was parental love. I was totally unprepared for the depth of emotion and sense of connection and responsibility I had for her. I was shocked at the heart wrenching sadness I felt when they took her out of the hospital room for a few minutes to do her neo-natal tests. I sobbed when I heard her cries as they stuck her heel. And then I sobbed some more because I knew that old quote about my heart living outside of my body was coming true. What had I done? I had opened myself up for a whole new world of joy and sorrow. As much as I thought I knew what was coming, the love was something beyond any possible description—something I never could have known without experiencing it for myself.

The following weeks and months brought on a slew of things that were beyond my control. After a few weeks, I could no longer remember what it was like to sleep for 8 hours at a time (and I had a relatively mellow baby—it’s just that she ate slow and I obsessed about every little breath she took)—I was thrilled to get 4 hours. What luxury! What utter decadence to sleep for 4 hours! With the sleep deprivation came the slippery slope of “letting myself go.” A shower longer than 2 minutes AND blow-drying my hair became a great indulgence. A really, super-good day included some make up and pants without drawstrings. Oh, and shoes, because on a super-good day, we might leave the house.

While I could often find joy and revel in my new role, I also often felt totally overwhelmed and alone. And then feeling overwhelmed made me feel like a loser. I’d say to myself, “She’s ONE LITTLE BABY! You can’t handle ONE baby? Most of the world does this three or four or five times over and you’re freaking out with ONE?” And of course I thought I was the only horrible woman who wasn’t a natural mother; the only wretch who ever had a hard time nursing, who sometimes cried when her baby cried, and found it difficult to do her wife stuff and housekeeping stuff while trying to figure out the mother stuff.

Eventually I got used to my new life. For two years, I struggled with my new slower pace. My daughter grew into a sweet toddler and I felt like I might be ready for another baby. My second daughter came, and it wasn’t such a terrible adjustment. She slept more and ate faster and life was good. But I had lots more going on the second time around. We were building a house and I was serving in the Young Women’s Presidency and I was carving my niche in a new town and culture. I felt overwhelmed all over again, in a different way.

But even in my stress, I knew that I was trying to do good things. I felt that I was, for the most part, “about my Father’s business”, and that he would help me. A phrase I remembered from Wilford Woodruff’s journals rang through my mind almost everyday. When he was called to be President of the church, Elder Woodruff wrote, “I pray God my Heavenly Father to make me equal to my day” (Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Wilford Woodruff, p. xxx). I started saying that to myself like a mantra. It was my daily prayer, and I began to see that my prayer was answered. I noticed that as long as I gave my honest best efforts, I had enough energy and health to complete the tasks I faced. Like the principle of tithing, when we put the Lord first, there is always enough. I may have been running on three hours of sleep, but I believe God made me able to finish the worthy things on my daily checklist. Somehow, when I put him first, I had just enough time and just enough energy to do His work.

In the few years of my motherhood I have gained a testimony that raising my children is my part in building the kingdom today. I made a commitment at baptism to take upon me the Lord’s name and his work, and I promised over the altar as I was sealed to my husband that we would be fruitful. Although many days and many tasks seem menial, and there is too much on my plate, I remind myself that I am keeping my covenants and God will help me. Even with the testimony I’ve gained I still find myself saying. “Oh, I would die if Heavenly Father asked me to ___,” or, “They better not EVER ask me to do ___. “

Silly me.

That attitude began to change in the fifth year of our marriage when we decided to have a third child. Like the other two times, we decided to have a baby and I was pregnant within six weeks. I remember thinking as I took the pregnancy test, “This is so exciting and so hopeful…I feel so bad for my friends who go through this month after month, hoping, watching for the two lines and only seeing one…or seeing the two lines and then miscarrying a few weeks later…I am so glad that hasn’t happened to me…[and then the old familiar] I don’t think I could ever live through that!” I never felt ungrateful for this amazing fertility, but I guess I was just sort of used to having a baby when I wanted a baby. I really liked having a spring baby, so I was going to do it again and lah-dee-dah. I felt super-blessed this time because I wasn’t even sick—just tired. Maybe it was a boy!

Of course you know what happened. I went in for my 10-week appointment and everything looked great. Everyone was so happy about my pregnancy, great to see the doctor again, let’s do an ultra sound at 12 weeks to confirm the dates. At the ultra sound, the tech said I must have my dates wrong because the embryo only measured 7 weeks. I felt like my heart stopped and I tried to catch my breath. You see, I never get my dates wrong…my body runs like clockwork, and so do our “romantic dates.” So I held it together in the office, but fell to pieces on the way out because something was very wrong. I just didn’t think that the little fishy we saw on the screen was still alive. A week later, my feelings were confirmed and I went through that process so many women go through—an experience that just weeks before I had sworn I would never survive.

But I was made equal to my day. Not only did I survive, but my heart and soul were opened up and strengthened in ways I hadn’t experienced in years. That humbling experience opened me up to so much more teaching from the Holy Spirit that followed that sad week. I remember Rich’s cousin telling me that she, too, had a miscarriage between her second and third children. She said, “It was really hard because were ‘planners’, too, but six weeks later I conceived my last son and he has been the sunshine of my life. He has totally blessed our family.” And guess what? Six weeks after my miscarriage, I conceived a son who lights up my life everyday.

So I am trying to never say never. I am trying to replace the negative “I can’t…” with the faithful response, “with Heavenly Father, I can.” He knows my limitations and where I need to grow and I know that if I let him, he will always make me equal to my day.

Lessons of 2006: The Series

2007-08-06T21:35:00.000-06:00

Introduction

I know, it's been a VERY long time since I updated this personal history blog of mine. I've been dangling by a thread of sanity, white knuckling my way back to where I can make my own priorities. But guess what? I'm back to that place and making my personal and family history a priority again.

There has been a story brewing in my mind for about 10 months and I am just starting to get it out. I want to share my recent growing experiences and especially my testimony with my loved ones and posterity.

Starting with my miscarriage in November 2005, I felt Heavenly Father "cranking it up a notch," so to speak, in my life. For a solid year I could feel the challenges and lessons flowing to me. If my mission had been my spiritual undergraduate work, then my doctorate studies began in November 2005. I spent a year soaking it up and The Test began the week before Christmas 2006 (and the pop quizzes continue). I think I passed, but I need to get this thesis written so I can continue growing and remember what I have learned (there is nothing worse than having to repeat a course, is there?!).

So far I have five chapters sketched out in my journal/notes: “Equal to My Day,” “Faith and God’s Domain,” “Satan Hates Happy Families,” “The Heart of the Matter: Forgiveness,” and Discipleship. I will post the first tonight, and I may add some more chapters from thoughts/lessons that I am currently processing that center around not taking offense (Elder Bednar’s Oct. 2006 talk), not giving offense (Elder Holland’s April 2007 talk), and the Holiness of Hausfrau-hood (Julie Beck’s Dec. 2005 article). So welcome to my inner life!

What I Got Out of Stake Conference (February 25, 2007)

2007-03-20T00:26:00.000-06:00

The past two years, Rich and I have taken turns going to stake conference because we have a toddler who makes the drive to Bozeman, the two hours in the meeting, and the drive home almost impossible. So rather than bringing the whole family home frazzled and un-edified, we just took good notes and talked to each other about the conference. This year, we decided to be brave and go all together, taking all three kids. Of course, our stake has split sessions and our ward was supposed to go at 1:00pm, which was out of the question (we do not mess with nap times around here). We arrived just in time for the 9:00am session and took our seats near the overflow.

The kids weren’t terrible. They were quiet, but consistently a little naughty, constantly distracting me from the speakers. I tried to listen and I did feel the spirit and I waited for something to teach me. Over the din, I listened intently to the final talk from our dear Stake President. His day job is Institute Director, so he is a great teacher, every time he speaks. I had gathered enough from the meeting to know that the theme was the price of discipleship, and that we needed to make a few more sacrifices to get to the temple more often. I counted that as lesson number one—there is always room for improvement in our temple attendance, mostly for the same reason there is room for improvement in our stake conference attendance (getting a babysitter for three kids for at least 7-8 hours is no small feat…but I digress). So President Heap centered his remarks on this scripture:

Luke 14:26-27: If any man come to me, and hate not his father and mother, and wife, and children. And brethren and sisters, yea and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. And whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.

(The footnote refers us to Matthew 10:37, which reads, “He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy
of me.” It also shows a JST that explains the hating your own life thing as “is afraid to lay down his life for my sake.”)

This scripture and the ensuing sermon spoke to my heart in a very current way, and also as a reminder of a sacred experience I had as a missionary.

The current way is this: it’s no secret that I am very close to my siblings. And it’s probably no secret (through reading my blog, anyway) that about half of them have gone temporarily insane recently (and by insane, I mean making choices and justifications that are totally off my personal radar screen and, for some of them, totally out of character). After visiting with each of them over the holidays and New Year, I had quiet spiritual assurances that they would all be okay (and that I and my own family would be okay), and that was nice. But within a few weeks, that horrible chasm that sin creates had come between us. Trust had been broken; lots of common ground was lost. I was a thousand miles away from my dearest friends in every way imaginable: physically, and now emotionally and spiritually, too. And it hurt. It hurt really bad.

One morning in early February, I woke up and could no longer hold it all in. I felt terribly sad knowing we couldn’t all be in the temple together anymore. It felt like some of the joy of being temple worthy and all of the blessings and camaraderie of gospel living had been stripped away from the relationships that meant the most to me (besides those of my nuclear family, of course). I cried. I cried like one grieving the death of a loved one. And I guess it really was a death—a spiritual death, however temporary—and it deserved my grief for a moment. At the same time I was overcome with gratitude for the pure goodness of my husband and the trust I have in him. Each time I thought of my family of origin, though, I felt a profound loneliness. It shouldn’t be so hard to be good, I thought to myself. It shouldn’t be so hard for me, and I wish it weren’t so hard for them. I felt like I was shouting over the chasm and only my echo came back.

Which then reminded me of the mission thing. At one point in my mission, near the middle, I transferred in to what became a small scale “mission scandal.” You know, one of those situations where people get chastised and transferred? My mission president asked me about the situation in an interview and I told him everything I knew. I wasn’t directly involved and our work was going fine, so I wasn’t too worried. President told me he was very concerned about certain missionaries and I should have noticed this or that, and he wondered if he could trust any of us anymore. This shocked and hurt me and I carried the hurt with me into my work the next week. Although I knew I had been 100% honest, and I knew God knew it, I was still terribly shaken by the thought that my President didn’t trust me. I prayed about it one night and fell asleep praying. I had a dream that was long and strange but had a message for me, directly from Christ: “You need to put your trust in me and me alone. You have to stop worrying about what other people think, even your mission president.” Profound and applicable, and easier said than done. It’s something that has become easier, but is still a struggle to this day. And I believe He knew it would be.

I really miss my siblings. There is an enormous part of my life that I can’t share with them. You know, when you’re in it together, you get it, and when you’re not, you just avoid the topic? There are lots of things like that in life—motherhood, marriage, addiction, etc.—either you’ve been there or you haven’t. Pure Religion and Discipleship are in that category for me, and it’s sad. I have felt left out (of taking my covenants lightly, of breaking the Word of Wisdom, the Law of Chastity, of sleeping/drugging away my life) for a long time, but it’s a good kind of left out. The Savior said in Luke 14:26-27 that it might be like this and I have to love him more than anything to be his disciple (and I think I do—I’m trying to prove it). But he also said (coincidentally) in John 14:26-27 he would send me comfort and peace… “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And I’m not troubled or afraid anymore. He kept his promise in a million little ways throughout the month of February. My cup, which felt so empty on that morning I cried has been filled to overflowing with assurances that I am never alone; that God gave me Rich for this exact reason (and a million others); that my siblings will indeed be back here with me, and we will all walk this path together with our families. Until then, I’ll stay the course and pay the price of discipleship. There is no title I’d rather have.

(Thanks, President Heap)

Muriel Webster Layton's Life Story

2007-02-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

Muriel Webster was born in Central, Arizona, the 6th child, to Frank Alva and Maria Forestdale (Della) Adams Webster on October 30, 1913. Five other children, Nettie, Ruth, Lavon, George and Gwen had paved the way before her and were excited to have a new little sister. The oldest daughter, Agatha Pearl died before Muriel was born. Because her mother served diligently in the Relief Society, she often said that her sister Nettie was like a mother to her. She was later to return that gift to her younger brother Art when their parents went to the goat ranch. She and Art were both in school and stayed at home in Central in the house on the highway. Muriel took care of him. He said she would cook for him. She wasn’t the greatest cook at the time, but they got by.

Muriel attended school in Central through the 8th grade and was their valedictorian. Her 7th grade teacher thought she was a smart alec and went to the Webster home about it (I'd like to know how THAT turned out). In 9th and 10th grade, she went to Thatcher schools, then on the Gila Jr. College for her junior year. Her last year was spent in Ft. Thomas schools because Gila would only take Thatcher residents. Muriel loved school and was a good student. She developed into an interesting mixture of curiosity, intelligence and capabilities. She loved to learn and to read. The Webster family had a granary and she would go up the stairs to the top and read. It was the perfect place because she couldn’t hear when they called her. Sadly, Muriel didn’t get to attend her graduation exercises; she got appendicitis. Her father couldn’t afford the surgery, so she had to stay in bed. Later, they had to do the surgery anyway.

The Websters lived on a big farm. Along with the granary they had a barn, with a big pigpen inside. There were also two corrals and a shop with farm equipment and tools. They had a horse named “Whitey” which the kids would ride and a workhorse called “George”. It was about a mile walk to school, so she sometimes rode Whitey.

One thing she loved was their fancy 2-seated buggy. Nettie and Ruth drove and Muriel got to go along. She also remembered the 1-seater buggy, which Nettie, Ruth and Gwen took to school. She got to ride with them. As they clopped along, they would pick up kids on the way. By the time they got to school, there were kids hanging out all over that buggy. Muriel was very proud of her father and talked about the goat ranch and how he was a contractor and built the lower part of the Coronado Trail.

The Webster family had a nice home. Her father made a good living. Like everyone else in town, they had an outhouse. It was quite a distance from the house, so they couldn’t wait until the last minute to go. Unlike most, however, they also had indoor plumbing. They had a well with a windmill pump.

When Muriel was a young girl, she was badly burned. She was always cold and had gotten too close to the fireplace. Her nightgown caught fire. Nettie and Ruth rolled her on the floor to put out the flames. Treatment for burns was much different then. To keep from getting infection, the doctor poured warm wax on her back. Aunt Ollie Webster, who lived close by would come over and help Della take off the wax and dress the wounds. Muriel was very angry because they held her down and the pain was so great.

On June 30, 1939 her brother-in-law, Silas Jarvis married Muriel and Max Layton. She had known Max for many years before they dated. They did much of their courting at the goat ranch. Reece remembered getting on the big old horse and following them around. They made their home for a year in Thatcher next door to Gordon and Bernice Stowell. Then, in 1940, they bought the home on Church Street where she lived until her death. She and Max had three children, Maxine Faye, James Arthur and Gwen Kaye, now deceased. Muriel’s love of family was apparent in the names of her children. Maxine was named after her father Max. Jim was the namesake of Uncle Jim Lyon (Aunt Gwen’s husband) and her brother Uncle Art. Gwen was named after her sister Gwen.

Gwen Kaye and her two daughters, Kliss Ann and Dasha lived with Muriel until Gwen’s death in 1996. In a letter sent to Dasha when Muriel was staying with Maxine in California in 2001, she stated: “I do get homesick, but should be grateful to have a daughter to care for me. She is so good to me.” Muriel was very thankful for Maxine. She often said how much she appreciated her and that she knew she couldn’t get along without her. In April 1990, Muriel had two knee replacements. She wore a brace on her legs after that. Maxine took her everywhere. For a woman who had a hard time getting around, she sure went a lot of places.

One of Muriel’s loves was teaching. She received her Elementary degree from NAU in July 1963 at the age of 49. She taught in Clifton, Safford and Pima. One of her loves was special education. She enjoyed the challenge and rejoiced in every small improvement her students made. She donated time to the Graham County ARC. In 1987 the Association of Retarded Citizens awarded her a certificate of appreciation for nomination as teacher of the year.

Muriel was also a long-time book club member. She enjoyed reading until her eyes refused to let her. You could always find a book or three in Muriel’s bed. If anyone was missing a good book, someone would say, “Have you looked on Grandma’s bed?”

Muriel was an active member in the church and held many positions. Her favorite was that of Cub Scout Leader. She loved the rough and tumble little boys. Max laughingly told the story of how Muriel once hi-jacked a Carnie at the fair. He did caricatures of people. She was quite impressed with this and wanted her Cub Scouts to try it. She approached the man and wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. Max relayed how embarrassed he was, but she wouldn’t give up. Finally the man agreed and showed up at the next Cub Scout meeting. He said that he really enjoy being with the boys and teaching them. Muriel really loved her scouts.

Muriel was also a great auntie/grandma. All the young nieces and nephews loved to visit. Aunt Muriel would take them crawdad fishing over in the college canal. She always seemed to have something planned outdoors. She adored children and passed that down to her own family. Every grandchild and niece and nephew that spent any time with Auntie/Grandma could feel of her love for them. Her friend Leila Branch, who has since passed away told of how Muriel taught her children that to pluralize the word “mouse”, you had to say “meeses” and to pluralize cactus, it was “cacteeses”. I quote, “As you can see, she was a big help to me in the education of my family.” She was also a comfort to Leila when she was pregnant with her first child. Muriel already knew about birthing babies, as she had already had Maxine, so when Leila complained about being so big and uncomfortable Muriel laughed at her and said, “Quit complaining, it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets any better.”

When the name Muriel Layton is spoken, there are two thoughts that come to mind; service and humor. Muriel was always in the service of her fellowman. She would do whatever she could to help someone in need or ease their pain. Her children often watched good food leave the house to benefit others. In Leila’s tribute to Muriel on her 90th birthday, she said that they would sometimes drop into her home unexpectedly. She would make them feel welcome and glad they stopped by. She’d rustle up something good for them to eat or drink. She always treated them with a snack of some kind.

In our family, Muriel was the one to depend on. She was there for any family member who needed help. As Nettie and Ruth aged, she was always there to take them places when needed. Not a day passed that they did not communicate. She loved her brothers and sisters and their spouses. Their children became her own. Muriel was there for every family function imaginable, if at all possible; baptisms, blessings, weddings, whatever the occasion. She had such joy in family and we all felt it. If anyone needed help, it was Muriel that was called. Everyone knew she would be there. One of the last words her sister-in-law, Bea Welker spoke were, “Get Muriel.”

As most know, she loved to garden. Many of us became happy recipients of her green thumb. We were loaded down with zucchini and tomatoes and other yummy things. Her roses were her love. She had beautiful bushes. It was a sad day when she could no longer care for her dear garden. She wanted to keep her thumb in it so bad that for a while, she would have someone come over and water and pick the vegetables for her.

As a young girl, she was allowed to cook a few times on the cook wagon for the workers on the ranch. She didn’t start out too well. Once after she had made something, a work hand told her not to worry. She’d get better when she got older. He was right. She did. Muriel could make the best lemon meringue pie on the planet. Another one of her joys was making candy. She and her sisters would get together at Christmas time and make tons of fudge, peanut brittle, divinity, caramels, Boston Creams, taffy and who knows what else? It was fun watching them dip chocolates. They turned out beautifully with a little swirl on the top. Many years ago she and Nettie came up with a pecan log where they made a divinity roll, wrapped it in homemade caramel, dipped it in chocolate, then rolled it in chopped pecans. They then sliced it in rounds. It was heavenly.

Muriel served her friends and neighbors. Leila wrote that she had a keen sense of knowing when someone was hurting inside privately. Without prying into the why of it, she found a way to talk to that person and help them understand what they could do to feel better. She had a strength inside that she was able to communicate to others.

Muriel outlived most of her friends, as well as the neighborhood. She lived in the only inhabited house on the block. One of her dear friends is here today, Vivian Lambson, who is only a year younger than Muriel. They have been friends almost since birth and lived down the road from one another. She said she didn’t know what her friend loved more, making fudge or playing bridge. She also loved to indulge in ice cream and drink Dr. Pepper.

Everyone who knew Muriel knew of her fun sense of humor. She loved to laugh and make others laugh, too. She always liked a good story. She would make fun of herself and her inability to see, hear, walk or remember. Muriel loved to take baths. One Wednesday afternoon she filled up her tub for a long hot soak. When she tried to get out, her legs would not let her. She finally gave up, knowing that someone would eventually come. When she got pruney, she drained the water and put towels over herself to keep warm. When she got too cold, she would fill up again. It was a nice system she had going. Finally, on Friday afternoon, Kliss came home and could not get in. After breaking into the house, she heard Grandma call. She ran to the bathroom and there she was, still resting in the tub. Kliss called the home teachers who came and got her out. She was asked, “Are you OK?” She replied, “Yes, I’m kind of hungry, but not very thirsty.”

One day, when she was at Walt and Jenene’s, still using a walker she walked through the family room, to get to another room on the other side. Her vision was poor, especially in dim light. When she got to the doorway to go through, she didn’t see the 6” step down and fell through to the hard floor. Chuy, a young man who was living in our apartment at the time, and Walt, jumped up to help her. They picked her up, got her on the couch and began cleaning up the places that were bleeding. Aunt Muriel said, “Boy, if I’d known I was going to get this much attention, I would have done this sooner.”

Everyone who knew Muriel has a story, or remembers some funny thing she said or how she made them laugh. Leila’s son Steven once said something that quite up sums Muriel Layton: “Aunt Muriel has such a laughing noise that it makes me feel like happiness lives inside of her and of me, too.”

In conclusion, one story Jim said she liked to tell, though it wasn’t about her, was when her parents owned the goat ranch out at Hot Canyon, which, I believe, is now part of the Apache Indian Reservation. They would sheer the goats, load it on mules and a worker would bring them out to Central or wherever the drop off place was. After that, they would just turn the mules loose and they would find their way back home to the ranch. They didn’t always make it back, however, because some of the good neighbors along the way would catch the mules and pen them up and try to find out who they belonged to. This held up business because Frank would have to go out hunting his mules. He finally got tired of it. The next time the mules were seen wandering home, there was a big sign draped over the lead mule, which read: LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M GOING HOME.

So, for you Auntie/Grandma, we will love you and keep you in our heart’s fondest memories. Thanks for the great examples of love, compassion, humor. We are all better for having known you. Now, we will leave you alone and let you go home to your family and loved ones, knowing that one day we will see you again.

--From the Life Story given by niece Jenene Maybury at Granma Muriel's Funeral

Friday, February 16, 2007 at the Thatcher Stake Center, Thatcher, Arizona

Photos: (1) Three Little Websters--George, Muriel, & Art, circa 1916; (2) Max T. Layton; (3) Lovely Muriel at age 28 with Baby Maxine, 1940 (4) Little Jim- James Arthur Layton, age 9, 1953; (5) Jim Layton's marriage to Lyndi Elrey--Bill & Lyn Elrey, Lyndi & Jim Layton, Muriel & Max Layton--1970

I Was All Remembrance Until the Words Got Tired

2006-11-03T00:28:00.001-07:00

I've been merrily humming along in my life for the past few months with very few emotional bumps, except, of course, the high of giving birth to and bonding with my new baby son. So it was a bit like getting broadsided when a dear friend, my same age, cornered me at church and asked for help with her 15-year-old daughter (who I had taught for 3 years in Young Women). When she first asked, my heart sank and alarms went off as I prayed, "O, God, don't let her be pregnant! Not her! Not her!"

I breathed a sigh of relief when she said the daughter was just acting out because of some family problems. And then she told me the family problems and my heart sank again (but not as low). The dad has had an affair and been ex-communicated from the church ( he is still coming to church, thank goodness), but the parents have decided to stay together and the daughter is furious at her dad doesn't respect him at all anymore. "She's also mad at me for staying with him," the mom explained further, "and she's just saying and doing things that hurt us and herself. I thought maybe you'd understand and you could just talk to her--she adores you."

Understand? Sister, I am SOOOO feelin' ya. This little incident sent me into a tailspin for about 36 hours (I mean a tailspin in my mind--I continued to function normally and care for my family). It was like those jokester cans of peanuts or whatever, where you open the lid and the snakes go flying everywhere. I thought I had forgiven AND forgotten and healed up all the deep emotional scars from my parents' breakup nearly 18 years ago. But alas--with the right stimulus, the scars can feel like yesterday's cuts. Like the Tanita Tikaram song says, it all came back today (please click on this link and read the lyrics--they are beautiful).

Which begs the question: if the hurt and anger can feel so fresh, have I really forgiven? When I asked myself this, I felt pretty certain that the answer is yes. So the next question is, then why haven't I forgotten? In my understanding of the atonement of Christ (captured eloquently here, and here, and here), he "swallows up" not just the suffering for our own sins, but for the hurt and pain we experience sometimes as a result of someone else's sin. How can the hurt be so ingrained in my "muscle memory" that I cry about this incident as if it had happened in my own family all over again?

[ASIDE--I thought the answer might be this--as explained by Dr. Phil on his show the very next week:
"She will never, ever, ever get over it unless and until she fully and completely believes that you understand what it did to her when you did it. Unless and until she knows that you get it--that you totally understand what it did to her self-esteem, to her heart, to her dreams, to her focus of what life was going to be" (Dr. Phil 11/02).
Part of my problem, I know, is that my mom really doesn't "get it," but now that I am a mom I understand why--if you hurt your kids and then actually thought about it, it would probably kill you. Seriously. One day she will know it and feel it, and she will finally understand why her children have made certain choices---understand that it is a long, long chain of poor choices and emotional damage. But I like my own personal answer even better. Keep reading.]

I took this Young Woman out on a drive after I got my own family settled that Sunday night. We just talked about life in general, and then our families, and then I told her I know how it feels and if it gets to be too much, my ears and my arms and my home and my heart are always open for her. I also told her that this is a time when she can learn to stand on her own two feet as far as what she believes in and how she wants her life to be. One thing we can all learn from stuff like this is that, no matter what we tell ourselves in moments of weakness, our poor choices always hurt the ones we love.

So I got home and was pondering the questions in the previous paragraph, brushing my teeth with tears in my eyes. Then I looked in the mirror and the answer came to me: You haven't forgotten because you needed to remember for this moment. You needed the experience to keep your heart soft and to be empathetic in a moment of need. And then it all tied together with the movie I watched at Temple Square last weekend. When Joseph Smith stands at looking out the tiny window of the Liberty Jail and wonders why he is there, why his wife and family and people are suffering alone on the outside and he is struggling on the inside, why he feels forsaken, he gets THIS answer: these things shall give thee experience and shall be for thy good.

And you know what? They have. That, my friends, is what the remembrance is for.

Playing Outside

2006-07-08T10:53:00.000-06:00

My question for this week is “Did it snow where you lived as a child? What did you do in the snow? Describe some other outdoor play.”

Well, you know by now that I grew up in Tucson, Arizona, so the answer to that is a big fat NO!! Although the handful of times it DID snow were so magical (and it melted by 10am), we put tube socks on our hands and had snowball fights, sledding, and built tiny, skinny snowmen.
I remember when I was 7, my Uncle Matt and his friend brought down a big truckload of snow from Mt. Lemmon and dumped it in our yard so we could have a snowball fight and build a snowman. THAT, my friends, is the way to play in the snow. It’s 60 degrees outside, but you’re wearing gloves to play in the snow as it melts into the lawn. We always got excited about snow, but it was mostly in theory. Anytime I actually have to BE cold (and live the snow lifestyle), I get furious. I am not now, nor will I ever be, a skier, a sledder, a snowmobiler, or even a fun mom who plays in the snow with her kids. My arctic in-laws or husband have to take the girls out in the winter now—I stay in and make the hot cocoa! All that said, I love to LOOK at snow. The winter gets so dreary when the fresh snow is gone.

We did play outside in Arizona. In the summer it was too hot for anything but water play—swimming pools, sprinklers, stock tanks, or—my personal favorite—the monsoon rain. In Tucson and most of SE Arizona, around mid-July, the rains starts and lasts through September. Here’s how it goes: the sun comes up and starts frying the earth—it’s 90 degrees by 8am, so you’d better have the lawn mowed (or what ever you need to do outside) by then. The air gets terribly hot and people either (a) stay inside in the air-conditioned comfort, or (b) get in the pool. But then, about 3pm, the storm starts to brew. Tall dark clouds build up to the southeast and the wind starts to blow. Then come the lightening and thunder, and if you’re in the pool, they usually make you get out lest you get struck by lightning and the pool becomes People Stew. But if you’re not in the pool and you’ve been waiting for some outside fun, now’s your chance.

The clouds break loose and rain pours for an hour or so (it’s especially cool if the sun is still shining from the west and you’re getting doused on the eastside; and the smell—oh, the smell! Sage, Creosote, Mesquite, wet sand---I wish they could bottle it!). Tucson has an intricate system of washes, or arroyos en espanol. They are basically drainage ditches that pour into big river-sized washes, and eventually into the Rillito or Santa Cruz “rivers.” There is some technical reason these things are called rivers, but there is rarely water in them. They are, however, a great place to ride ATV’s and have bonfires (NOT during flood season, though). Anyway, most streets have a small wash where the rainwater flows to drain into a bigger wash. The water usually gets about 2 feet deep in there and it’s so much fun to wade in there as the rain falls and the weather cools. I remember the summer before I turned 11, I had a cast on my leg and I even Duck taped a trash bag around my cast so I could go wading with my crazy siblings.

Of course, six months of the year, the weather is perfect for just about anything else you want to do outside. There’s lots of hiking, climbing, and rappelling, there’s golf and mini-golf, horseback riding, biking, walking, and pretty much any sport. My mom loved softball, so we played that a lot, and volleyball, too. We did a lot of general playing in the park—running around, playing in the playground. Being the nerd I am, I played inside the house a lot, too, mostly playing school or house or something that involved all my siblings having an imaginary adventure (like Shark—we scattered every pillow in the house on the ground and if you touched the carpet, you got devoured by sharks).

Now that I live in Montana, I understand why people up north get so excited about summer. All the things we did for most of the year in AZ can only be done between Memorial Day and Labor Day (and even some of those days are too cold!), so people really pack in all the fun before the harvest and the winter. It’s really cool having 4 distinct seasons—a totally new experience for me!

Winning & Losing

2006-06-25T20:48:00.000-06:00

I am back from a long hiatus (vacation in Missouri). Tonight’s journal jar question is “How do you feel about winning? Losing?” Very interesting.

I have kind of weird views about winning, losing, and competition in general. I know I am not a good capitalist when I say that mostly, competition offends my sensibilities---it always has, whether I am a “winner” or a “loser.” So few things in life are truly absolute and fair and lacking subjectivity, I just hate competition. I hate that someone, somewhere has to lose.

I think it’s absolutely necessary in life to compete with yourself—that is, constantly seek improvement, to do better than last time and not rest on your laurels. Life is about growth and progression, so besting yourself is great. It’s just unhealthy to take off your blinders and compare yourself to others.

Rich and I were playing Cranium with my brother and sister-in-law a few months ago and we had a little winning stretch. When we got our third or fourth straight right answer and got close to the finish line, I said, “Aw, dang it!” Willy thought that was weird—“Why are you upset? You’re gonna beat us!” I said, “That’s just it—I don’t want the game to be over and I want the finish to be close and fair!” He and Audrey just laughed at me, but I think that captures my whole philosophy. Winning isn’t my thing—having fun, playing fair, doing my best, and maybe helping somebody else win (somebody who cares about winning) are the things I enjoy.

In a more general, spiritual sense, I believe competition is not good for our souls or our mission in life. In the May 2002 Ensign, Jeffrey R. Holland talked about some lessons we can learn from the story of the Prodigal Son—except he focused a lot on the reaction of the “good brother.” Holland says of the brother’s jealousy and competition with his prodigal brother: “Who is it that whispers so subtly in our ear that a gift given to another somehow diminishes the blessings we have received? Who makes us feel that if God is smiling on another, then He surely must somehow be frowning on us? You and I both know who does this—it is the father of all lies. It is Lucifer, our common enemy, whose cry down through the corridors of time is always and to everyone, ‘Give me thine honor.’”

He continues: “But God does not work this way. The father in this story does not tantalize his children. He does not mercilessly measure them against their neighbors. He doesn’t even compare them with each other. His gestures of compassion toward one do not require a withdrawal or denial of love for the other. He is divinely generous to both of these sons. Toward both of his children he extends charity. I believe God is with us the way my precious wife, Pat, is with my singing. She is a gifted musician, something of a musical genius, but I couldn’t capture a musical note with Velcro. And yet I know she loves me in a very special way when I try to sing. I know that because I can see it in her eyes. They are the eyes of love.

“One observer has written: ‘In a world that constantly compares people, ranking them as more or less intelligent, more or less attractive, more or less successful, it is not easy to really believe in a [divine] love that does not do the same. When I hear someone praised,’ he says, ‘it is hard not to think of myself as less praiseworthy; when I read about the goodness and kindness of other people, it is hard not to wonder whether I myself am as good and kind as they; and when I see trophies, rewards, and prizes being handed out to special people, I cannot avoid asking myself why that didn’t happen to me.’ If left unresisted, we can see how this inclination so embellished by the world will ultimately bring a resentful, demeaning view of God and a terribly destructive view of ourselves. Most ‘thou shalt not’ commandments are meant to keep us from hurting others, but I am convinced the commandment not to covet is meant to keep us from hurting ourselves…. Brothers and sisters, I testify that no one of us is less treasured or cherished of God than another. I testify that He loves each of us—insecurities, anxieties, self-image, and all. He doesn’t measure our talents or our looks; He doesn’t measure our professions or our possessions. He cheers on every runner, calling out that the race is against sin, not against each other.”

So there you have it. One of the best pearls of wisdom I have ever encountered...I want to cheer on every runner, too.

Auntie M

2006-05-28T20:38:00.000-06:00

Aunt Marti & Heidi, May 30, 2004

My journal jar question for today is “Describe a favorite Aunt.” Now, I hate to choose favorites, especially when I have had so many good experiences with all of my aunts. But the Auntie I am closest to (the one I’ve had the longest) is my Aunt Marti, my mom’s younger sister.

Maybe our closeness started when I was born on her 17th birthday. Maybe because we had a few years together before she had her own kids (I know how great it is to be the single, “fun” aunt). Anyway, we bonded and have done lots together over the past 35 years.

For my blessing day in October 1971, she bought me a beautiful christening dress—three layers of fluffy white with the most beautiful embroidery and matching bonnet. It was so special to put that dress on Addie for her blessing day.

Aunt Marti has earned several nicknames, the most popular being “Auntie M,” “Aunt Party,” and my nephews even used to call her “Aunt Mommy.” She’s called Aunt Party by Willy and me because we always had a party at her house and our friends were even welcome there. We were much older than her kids, but we used to hang out there and torture my little cousins and it was always a fun get-away.

Aunt Marti’s personality is intense. Sometimes I chuckle when I imagine her and my mother as young girls because they have two very big personalities (like my girls)—I imagine lots of drama and fun, just like my house! She is very serious about living the gospel, but also about having fun, doing things right, being honest, getting to know and help other people. She is also humble, though, and has been as willing to learn from me as I have been to learn from her. That always makes her more comfortable to be around—a friend as well as an Aunt.

On my 29th birthday, she called me and said, “We’re finally the same age!” Heh, heh. And we will be now, forever!!

I always appreciated Aunt Marti’s interest in my life. Now that I am a mom with a home and kids to care for myself, I know what a sacrifice it must have been for her to wait up for me when I came to visit and to stay up late and talk. I know it must have been hard to watch me grow up and make stupid mistakes and still be one of my greatest fans. I have learned so much from her example as a woman, mother, and friend, and from her and Uncle Ralph as parents. They showed me that if you set a family standard and goal and never waiver, eventually all your kids will come around and be really decent people. My Mayberry cousins are all really cool and so much fun to be around. I hope I can be the kind of mom who raises that kind of family. I hope I can be the kind of friend, daughter, and Aunt the she has been. I hope we get to spend lots more of our birthdays together, even though we’re almost 1400 miles apart these days.

Books and Me

2006-05-14T18:19:00.000-06:00

My journal jar question of the day is "What is your favorite book? What do books mean to you?" Well...let's start with one of the first books I ever bought for myself from the little book orders we got in kindergarten. My mom is probably freaking out seeing this book because she had to read it to me so many times. I was obsessed, and I think the obsession started with the rich illustrations--they are beautiful! I studied each page and memorized all the little things on Margaret's ship. And then I imagined them while playing "Maggie B." with my poor unsuspecting little brother, Willy. I loved this book so much that, on Rich's first Father's Day when we were expecting Addie, I bought him this book to read to her, along with his favorite book (There's A Monster At the End of This Book) from childhood.

I read lots of books in school that I loved and re-read, but none so much as this one by Annie Dillard (except maybe Pilgrim at Tinker Creek). The only thing I can say to describe why I love it so much is that maybe we are kindred spirits. She is FAR more eloquent and well-read than I will ever be, but her thought processes--the way she connects bits of information, observations, memories, etc., are familiar to me. The first piece I ever read by her was an essay called "Seeing,"--part of Pilgrim now--and I was blown away about how she connected her observations in nature with her childhood memories, art training, faith, etc. I was amazed to read about some one who thinks like I think. Or thought like I thought as a child. So this memoir of her childhood--a pretty happy childhood-- was so much fun to read. I love the things she remembers and the way they affected her adult life. Here is a review of the book from amazon:

Annie Dillard remembers. She remembers the exhilaration of whipping a snowball at a car and having it hit straight on. She remembers playing with the skin on her mother's knuckles, which "didn't snap back; it lay dead across her knuckle in a yellowish ridge." She remembers the compulsion to spend a whole afternoon (or many whole afternoons) endlessly pitching a ball at a target. In this intoxicating account of her childhood, Dillard climbs back inside her 5-, 10-, and 15-year-old selves with apparent effortlessness. The voracious young Dillard embraces headlong one fascination after another--from drawing to rocks and bugs to the French symbolists. "Everywhere, things snagged me," she writes. "The visible world turned me curious to books; the books propelled me reeling back to the world." From her parents she inherited a love of language--her mother's speech was "an endlessly interesting, swerving path"--and the understanding that "you do what you do out of your private passion for the thing itself," not for anyone else's approval or desire. And one would be mistaken to call the energy Dillard exhibits in An American Childhood merely youthful; "still I break up through the skin of awareness a thousand times a day," she writes, "as dolphins burst through seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive."

I am hoping to be able to remember and record some of my life experiences with half her wit and eloquence!

The only book I have read more than An American Childhood is The Book of Mormon. During my collegiate and childless days, I read it 2 or 3 times per year. Lately, it's just been once, but I always learn something new from this book. Last time (over the fall), I noticed how so many stupid little things would lead to the fall of a people or nation. Things like "costly apparel" and abundance. The Book of Mormon applies to us today in so many ways, so clearly--I am so thankful it's a part of my life.

The other part of the question--what books mean to me--well, that;s a weird one. I guess books will always be part of my life because I love to learn things. I read non-fiction almost exclusively--most fiction bores me to tears, and history and biographies have so much to teach us! I love the internet for this same reason--for all the foul content, there is a lot of informative, inspiring, interesting stuff! But reading from this screen will never have the comfort and feel of snuggling up with a good book--whether it be on my couch or bed with my "nappy"(a blanket my Gram gave me whenI left for college in 1989), or in my totally awesome jetted tub (a favorite guilty pleasure of mine--in case you ever wonder why the pages of my favorite books and mags are warped). So I pose the question to you--what are your favorite books and what do they mean to you? Answer in comments or on your own blog...

More Seventy-Four

2006-05-07T19:37:00.000-06:00

Sept. 1974: Mom & Me with my third birthday sundae at Farrell's Ice Cream in El Con Mall in Tucson...
Grandma Lyn, Willy, Mom, Me, Aunt Marti, and Grandpa Bill on or around my third birthday.
This is more like 1973--me, mom, and Willy
This is a newspaper clipping from the scrapbook my mom kept for me from birth to age 5 (most of these pix come from the scrapbook--that's why they are funny-shaped). This is probably summer 1973 in Pima...Pima is just up the road from my Dad's home town of Thatcher, home of Eastern Arizona College where we took swimming lessons (click to enlarge).

Earliest Memories

2006-05-07T18:23:00.000-06:00

I started doing my journal jar questions today—FINALLY (it’s a jar of folded-up pieces of paper with questions on them—you draw one and start writing or recording your answer as a way of recording your personal history. Let me know if you’d like the list of questions via email). It’s hard, though because a lot of the questions ask you to describe your childhood house, neighborhood, school, etc…and I had SO MANY! So many schools, siblings, houses, parents...it gets overwhelming and I just stop writing.

BUT! I will talk about my earliest memories and how they relate to where I lived. The place my parents lived when I was born was like a student housing trailer court on Prince Road in Tucson, if I remember correctly. I have no memory of that place or even going back to visit it later. I am sure I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, though, and they still live in that same house, though it has been through many transformations. I’ll talk about my memories of that house, too, in chronological order.

My earliest independent memories (not induced by photographs) begin when I was about 3 years old and we lived in Pima, AZ. I remember the rough shape of our house—that is was white with brown trim, that there was a living room (sunken?) and a hallway with bedrooms (tiled?) and at the end, a bathroom with blue tile. I remember the blue tile from a memory of racing down the hall to throw up in the toilet because I didn’t want to make a mess and make my mom sad (she was probably pregnant with the twins then). I remember a kitchen/dining area behind the living room, and it had a pocket door. The pull for the door was at my eye level and it had a little round indentation for a finger, which I loved to stick my finger in. I played with the little latch a lot, too. I remember eating tomato soup there. I remember a friend named Cody whose light skin and hair were almost the same color, and a friend named Kendall whose name made me picture a candle in my mind, and a friend named Timothy whose name made me picture a small, square scribble of brown crayon.

I remember in that house, my mom used to rock me to sleep sometimes and I made her sing “The Brady Bunch” theme song and “Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang” to get me to sleep (I also had the delusion that I WAS the girl on Chitty-Chitty-Bang- Bang--I was always trying to remember back to when I lived there and did all that stuff). We lived there when the twins were born and my dad moved to Idaho to work and find us a house. It was while we were living there that I began to feel an unexplained anxiety about not having my dad around, a foreshadowing of the divorce that would come two years later and turn me into the nervous wreck we all know and love today.

I remember the twins coming home to Grandma’s on Christmas Eve (Willy and I went to stay with Grandma when the twins were born, although I don’t remember that at all). Santa came and brought me The Sunshine Family dolls—an all-time favorite toy, for sure—but nothing could beat Willy and me each getting our own baby sister for Christmas. I can remember my mom’s face as she opened the door, carrying a baby, wearing a brown coat (I think). I remember I devised my own way to tell the little newborns apart—Lisa had a small round head and Laura had a square head. Funny thing is, my girls have the same heads! Addie’s was square and Heidi’s was round!

More memories to come...

2006-05-07T18:16:00.000-06:00

Christmas Eve 1974: That's me freaking out about the Sunshine Family
Christmas Eve 1974: Jamie, Santa, Willy
Christmas Eve 1974: Me & My Dad & my new baby doll
I guess I don't have any pix of the twins coming to Grandma's Christmas Eve--shucks! But here's one of Willy, Lisa, and Me a little later.

Mis Padres

2006-04-09T20:54:00.000-06:00

My mom’s name is Bilynda Elrey Drews—she goes by Lyndi. Her name is a combination of her parents’ names, Bill & Lyn Elrey—clever, no? She was born August 15, 1951 in Monterey Park, California. She is the oldest of 4 siblings: Lyndi, Sam (11/28/52), Marti (9/24/54), and Matt (4/2/57). It’s easy for me to remember the birth years of my mom, aunt, and uncles because they are all exactly 20 years earlier than the first 5 kids in my family. In fact, Addie’s birth made four generations of first-born girls born in years ending with a “1” (Grandma Elrey-1931, Mom-1951, Me-1971, Addie- 2001…of course I broke the 20-year pattern and waited until I was 30 to have my first baby!). She only lived in California for a little while; her parents relocated to Phoenix, then Tucson, back to Phoenix, and finally settled in Tucson—they still live in the same house—in 1965.

My dad’s name is James Arthur Layton (Jim). He was born November 13, 1944 in Thatcher, Arizona. He is a direct descendant of Christopher Layton (“The Great Colonizer’) and his 8th wife, Hannah Maria Septima Sims. Dad is the middle child and only son of Max Thorwald Layton and Muriel Webster. He has an older sister, Maxine, and a younger sister, Gwen, who died in 1996. Dad grew up in Thatcher, then attended the University of Arizona, where he met my mother. They lived in Tucson, then moved back to the Gila Valley briefly (Pima, AZ, near Thatcher), then to Pocatello, Idaho. Dad has lived in Pocatello for the past 30 years and has worked for Simplot most of that time in the chemical lab.

My “other” dad and legal father is James Ernest Post. He was born February 21, 1950 in Tucson, Arizona. His parents are Ernest Eugene Post and Sine Olive Scharling. He married my mom in August 1978, just before I turned 7, in the Arizona Temple. He is the third of seven children—two older sisters, Barbara and Iva, and a younger sister Dorothy, twin sisters, Jeanne and Jayne, and a baby brother, Matthew. He lived in Tucson all his life, and grew up in a house my Grandpa Post built in the Binghampton area of Tucson. He has a rich pioneer heritage, as does my Dad Layton, so I never missed out on the feeling of having something to live up to.

My stepdad, Mark Drews, was born August 26, 1952 in Akron, Ohio, to Betty and Jack Drews. He is the oldest of four children—Marty, Marsha, and Mike. He was raised Lutheran and joined the LDS church after he married my mom in 1989.

My stepmom, Becky Tew, was bornn May 16, 1954 in Firth, Idaho. (I need more info about my step parents! Leave comments and fill me in!)

First Entry, Third Blog

2006-04-08T14:35:00.000-06:00

I decided to create this blog for the sole purpose of personal & family history. Making a record has been a goal and a project of mine for a while now, but I haven't been very good at blogging it all like I promised my self I would back in the fall. It seems a little "non sequitor" to mix my history blog with my regular blog, so I'll keep 'em separated.

I have a list of questions to answer--one answer per entry, generally, but I would like to lay the groundwork of my family history by posting the info about my generation--our parents and children. It gets complicated, so I will post it in graph form.

2006-04-08T14:31:00.001-06:00

This is a graph of my family of origin (CLICK TO ENLARGE). It feels much less complicated than it looks--especially since all of my siblings are really cool and we have a ton of fun when we get together.

While we're on the subject of siblings, let me list their families now (I know, I know...it keeps getting more complicated!):

Jamie (me) m. Rich Melin 2/17/2001 in the San Diego Temple; 2 daughters--Adeline (11/21/01) and Heidi (04/15/04), and we expect our third and last in September 2006 [James Ole Richard (9/5/06)].

Willy Post m. Audrey Anne Rasmussen 11/18/94 in the Arizona Temple; 3 kids--Melanie (08/06/98), Liam (01/11/01), Spencer (03/02/04), and they expect their fourth in November [Maeby Lynn Post (11/03/06)].

Laura m. Darrin Lehman 07/03/97 in Akron, Ohio; 2 sons-- Gabriel (05/10/94) and Jared (03/10/01).

Lisa (kinda complicated... div. Joe Oslin 2001(?); partner of 2 years Chris Calhoun); 2 sons--Cody (07/20/93) and Tyler (10/08/94).

Sam Layton m. Kristen Dever 12/30/2005 in the Arizona Temple; [Owen Elrey Layton (2/25/09)].

Dana Drews (div. Eric Duckett); 2 kids--Evan (10/18/00) and Leanne (01/29/03) and Lizzy (01/19/09).

Jill (Sine Jillene) m. Drew Petersen 12/19/98 in the San Diego Temple; 4 kids-- Alice (12/06/99), Isabelle (07/12/02), Jack (04/26/04), and Benjamin (11/17/05).

Matthew Post m. Amie Zauss 11/30/02 in the San Diego Temple; 2 kids--Jake(03/01/04) and Sam (02/21/06) --[Baby Sam was born on his Grandpa Post's birthday...I think that's special!].

Sara m. Rob Hamlin 09/01/01 in the San Diego Temple; 2 kids--Raef (06/20/02) and Brady (08/28/04) [and Kathlyn/K-lee (4/20/07)].

I haven't seen the kids on my Dad's side for quite a while, except my step sister Kaycee, who has a great husband and daughter, Becca, who just turned 2. I know my half brother Ryan has a son, Gavin (I think he is 5) and a daughter. My half sister Rhonda Mullins expects her 4th baby in November 2009, and Erin has Kennady and Max, and my step sister, Kelly, has 2 sons, Tyrell and Mason. They are great pals with my dad and my dad has even brought them up to visit me during our town's Summerfest. In case you're keeping a tally, that's 19 [24 now] grandkids on my mom's side or 16 [20 now] on my dad's side, or a total of 26. It's getting pretty numerous and it kind of reminds me of our Old Testament studies this year, except replace all the birthright swaps and handmaidens with divorces and adoptions!

My next entry will be about the three generations before us. I'll try to gather some photos and post them as a Sunday evening activity.