and God bless the Haruches, Best Buy, and modern technology....

Okay, this is a post done quickly, but I am so anxious to share what I've spent the better part of two days and a sizeable chunk of my paycheck on. Please turn off the music player once you've gotten a taste of Lee Greenwood and then click on the video below. The scene: an LDS ward building somewhere in either Arizona or Utah, in the spring of 1991. The occasion: a guest speaker invited to discuss his experiences in Desert Storm. These are his closing remarks.

Enjoy....

...and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

This past Wednesday was an exceptionally good day at work. While I truly like my job on most days, Wednesday seemed to be a day when everything clicked. The all staff meeting that began the day included free MARTA passes with the promise of continued subsidies for those of us willing to try public transport--something I need to do since my commute time and costs are staggering. My co-workers, including my boss, were especially fun to be around. Our patrons were easy to please and generous in their comments about my knowledge and willingness to help. The last patrons of the day were a group of three elderly ladies that reminded me so much of my Mom--spry and cheerful and thrilled to have my help in finding information on their ancestors. I was riding high.


After closing up the library, I headed downstairs to return a call--one of my volunteers had left a message earlier saying that she wouldn't be coming in that day. I had a feeling she wasn't happy with us, but when I called her back, she let me have it--personally--with both barrels. It seems I had humiliated and embarassed her in front of a patron and my boss; I was always too busy to speak to her; she had an excellent relationship with my predecessor and all my coworkers, but there was something about my personality that she just couldn't stand and she did not think she ever wanted to work with me again.


Well, by the time she finished with me I was in tears and unable to hide it. I never contradicted anything she said, but apologized profusely and repeatedly and offered to put my apology in writing to her, my boss, and the AHC Director of Volunteers (which I did as soon as I hung up the phone). It didn't even faze her. She was every bit as angry with me when we hung up as she was when we started. Having dealt with angry people for decades in a number of customer service-type jobs, I have never failed to win folks over eventually. Not so this time. As far as she is concerned, I was scum, I am scum, and I will always be scum.


One pint of Ben & Jerry's and a Chevy Chase movie later, I was feeling somewhat better, but the very next day I put both my darling daughters on separate planes--one to England and the other to college in Idaho.


One pint of Haagen Das and a Bridget Jones' Diary movie later, I was still blubbering. Which leads me, oddly enough, to the point of this post.


I have, unfortunately, discovered the best kept secret of widowhood. It's what NOBODY ever tells you about being a widow. You can run around like the energizer bunny and have the most smashingly wonderful life imagineable and then you'll have one single, crummy, terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and BAM--it's like you just lost him this morning. You can take trips to spectacular destinations, retail therapy your guts out, but go home to find the washer died and BAM--it's like the funeral was yesterday.


Now, if Randy were alive, would that woman have been able to upset me so? Sure. If he were still here, would the plumbing still explode? Would the car break down? Would I still be unable to finish my thesis or sell the house? Would I still hate AT&T? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and HELL yes! It's just that being alone is sort of like building a house of cards. No matter how impressive it looks on the outside, it doesn't take much to bring the whole thing crashing down.


SO--to compensate, you learn a few things. You learn that music, movies, food, and Excedrin Migraine are acceptable weapons. ZZTop got me through his funeral, "Scrooge" will get me through next Christmas, Ted's Montana Grill will get me through my next anniversary, and a couple of Excedrin Migraine will get me through the Volunteer Orientation meeting next week that my pissed off volunteer may or may not attend.


I'll be okay. I'm a tough old broad. But if you ever hear Jimmy Buffett blaring at the threshold of pain while the kitchen trash is stuffed with empty Sticky Toffee Pudding ice cream containers and I'm spouting lines from "Blazing Saddles," check the computer. It's a sure bet the desktop finally rolled over and died....better hide the Excedrin Migraine....

A woman of many talents....

Sunday is family history day. I look forward to this day more than any other day of the week--I log on to xmradio.com, set the player to channel 4 (40s/big band music) and curl up with my ancestors. It has been said that I have more fun with dead people than with the living and while I staunchly maintain that this is NOT true, I have to confess that it could certainly appear that way. Well, maybe a little. Dead people don't leave dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor or steal other people's cell phone chargers when they can't find their own. But I digress....

Today I'm sorting through papers and photographs that belonged to my mother's mother, whom we affectionately called Dardy. Born Maria Ignacia Robbins in Buenos Aires, Argentina on the 24th of May, 1897, Dardy was a character in every sense of the word. If you looked up "perfect grandmother" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of her there. I've never known anyone with a wider array of talents or a more wicked sense of humor. She was a gifted seamstress--when we shopped together, I would point out a cute dress that I liked, and she would go home and duplicate it. From scratch. Without a pattern. She was a natural musician and could listen to a song on the radio and duplicate it on the piano although I don't believe she ever had a day of formal training. She was a gourmet cook--creating masterpieces from fruits and vegetables that she grew herself. She was a linguist--shifting effortlessly from English to her native Spanish (especially when she didn't want us to know what she was saying!) She was a woman of great dignity--but delighted in sitting on the floor to help me play with doll houses well into her sixties.

In the interest of space and time, I'll keep this post brief and focus on just one of her many talents. She was an artist. I just can't resist posting a couple of her drawings. This first one was torn out of a letter she wrote my mother--there's just enough of the letter left to indicate that this is a depiction of what she imagined the latest potty training session looked like. That's me, by the way, on the commode. In front of the TV. There's also a brief reference to my first visit to the emergency room after ingesting a bottle of Vitalis. For those of you under 50, this would be akin to drinking a bottle of liquid hair gel. Perhaps this potty training session immediately followed that episode, but I can't be sure.




This next is a portion of some drawings I found that are literally disintegrating. Drawn on both sides of a sheet of flimsy brown paper, there are images of a young couple cuddling on a couch, a few images of women in 40s style dress, and then this image of a woman in beach attire. I LOVE these drawings! As you can see from the image at the top of this post, Dardy also loved the beach. She and my grandfather, Colonel, lived in Hawaii during the late 30s and early 40s. She was apparently quite good at the hula. I think she was quite good at everything.

I had seen these drawings before today's family history session. But I did find something today that I had never seen before. Didn't even know I had it. It's a signed letter from none other than Norman Rockwell, written in November of 1955. It reads:



"Dear Mrs. Shutt: It was certainly thoughtful of you to send me an idea for a picture. I have just returned from a two month trip around the world, or I would have written you sooner. Your suggestion is really very good, but I usually paint only my own ideas. Not that they are better than some of those sent me, but because I believe I paint them best. I do greatly appreciate your interest, and thank you for writing. Sincerely, Norman Rockwell."


I'm not surprised that he took the time to personally answer her letter. He has always seemed like a pretty decent guy. I'm just surprised he didn't take her advice. Who knows, maybe my potty training picture would have ended up on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post....

You've been pranked.....

I got fired last month. No, really, I did--in spite of the post title, I'm not making this up. I was tasked with doing some research that required looking through the Atlanta Historical Society newsletters from the 1970s. While doing my scholarly duty, my colleagues and I stumbled upon a picture of my boss' boss, taken when he was first hired by the institution. I confess it was a most unflattering photo--he had a rather goofy expression on his face and he looked about fifteen. We were delighted! And I'm the first to admit that it was me who commented on how funny it would be to put said picture on the side of a milk carton.

WELL--my co-workers (including my boss) egged me on. The next day, a quart size milk carton (complete with black and white cow markings) was the perfect receptacle for the ridiculous photograph and a caption that read something like "Have You Seen This Child? Name: Mikey Rose. Last seen: At the Pig & Chick on Roswell Road. Age: SUBSTANTIALLY older than this photo." I placed it carefully on top of the coffee maker and waited patiently for my quarry to spot it. He did. And then he promptly informed me that I had had the shortest tenure of any of his employees, having held on to my job for less than one week.

This got me thinking. Pranks are a WONDERFUL thing--especially when you're on the pranking end, not the pranked end. A few classic examples spring to mind....

First, the Great Breast Pump Escapade. This is a classic, and brilliant in its execution. Many years ago Randy's mom, Alice, was asked to bring a White Elephant gift to a church party. She chose to bring an old breast pump. Bob Panian, the husband of one of her best friends, was the unfortunate recipient. Now this would be funny enough, but what happened over and over again for years is what brings this particular prank into the realm of genius. At every church occasion for years and years to come, Alice and Bob continued to exchange the same breast pump, each one trying to outdo the other in the method of delivery. One year Alice baked it into a cake--another year one or the other of them had it canned at the local cannery. They got more mileage out of that breast pump, I'm sure, than the baby it was originally purchased for! Classic.

I worked with a gal who's husband received a nearly life size inflatable cow as a gift. (Don't ask why--apparently he collected cow memorabilia and somebody thought this particular object would be a great addition to the kitchen counter). Anyway, my co-worker, the administrative assistant for the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences at a local university, brought the cow to work, blew it up, placed it carefully in the Dean's office chair, and propped the current copy of the Journal of Higher Education in it's hooves. This is the same woman who later encased every single object in the Dean's office (desk, chair, phone, computer, books, etc.) in aluminum foil while he was on vacation. And yes, she's still employed!

But I think the best prank I have ever heard of, I discovered just about the same time I got fired. The Atlanta History Center is the proud recipient of the Olympic torch used for this summer's Beijing games. While doing some research on the whole torch-lighting thing, I stumbled upon this prank--arguably the best I've ever heard of.

It seems that in 1956, during the torch run for the games in Melbourne, Australia, a few blokes decided to protest the ceremony since it actually came into existence at the Berlin games, at Hitler's bequest (a little known fact). Anyway, as it came through Sydney, they decided to run their own version of the torch, which consisted of a chair leg, a plum pudding can, and a pair of underpants. (Yes, I'm quite sure alcohol was involved.)

What happened next is priceless--somehow the real torch runner got waylayed in the crowd and these guys with the flaming underwear were mistaken for the real thing! The crowd pushed them forward to the mayor of Sydney who, not expecting the torch so soon, officially received it for the city! By the time the mixup was revealed, the fake torch bearer slipped into the crowd--and into the prankster hall of fame! For more info on this delightful episode, click here. (scroll down to 1956 Melbourne)

SO--back to the milk carton incident. It turns out that getting fired is sort of a rite of passage at the Atlanta History Center. I was informed that a food offering was required in order to redeem myself. Two dozen carrot cake cupcakes later, I am still employed, and my exploits have been duly noted across the entire campus.

These are my people!

p.s. the photo at the top of the page is Deena Millett. When faced with such a lovely cannon, what else can one do?
p.s.s. if I have any readers, I would LOVE comments about your favorite pranks....

Losing my past

The phone rang last night at 11pm. Since I haven't been sleeping well lately, I wasn't asleep--but figuring that it was BJ, who used to have trouble remembering the two hour difference between mountain and eastern time, I answered it in my best groggy/cranky voice. It wasn't BJ. It was my dear, old friend Mark Fenstermaker telling me that his brother Jared, my high school sweetheart and first love, passed away early yesterday morning.

It's difficult to describe the sense of rootlessness that follows such a shock. Perhaps it's the cumulative effect of losing so many loved ones over the last few years, but I have this inescapable sensation that I'm losing my grip on my past. This feeling blindsided me for the first time a couple of years ago when I reconnected with my dear old high school buddy, Peggy Johnson Wagner. We hadn't talked in years but managed to find each other again and spent the better part of an evening catching up by long distance phone call. When I hung up the phone, my first instinct was to tell somebody about all the changes in her life and the way she has overcome so much adversity. And then it hit me. There was nobody left to tell. My Dad was gone, my Mom was gone, Randy was gone--all the people who knew me best or knew me when Peggy and I were kids--nobody knew about this friendship. Nobody was left who knew that part of me.

So I found myself on the computer, late at night, googling old friends in an effort to find some of the folks I knew in high school and college. And then I got blindsided again. In a search for my first college sweetheart, Mike Farr, I found his name on a list of alumni from Duke University Law School Class of 1983. But his name was at the bottom of the list, under a banner that read "Classmates who are no longer with us." Mike passed away in San Mateo, California, in 1997.

This is not to say that ALL my old friends and family have left me. Although my oldest brother, Mike, passed away in 1995, my big brother Chris is still very much alive and well. But Chris was grown and out of the house by the time I hit high school. As for friends, I'm supremely grateful to still be in touch with Mark, who was actually responsible for setting Randy and me up on our first date--and with Peggy, who was responsible for introducing me to the church--and with Tony Cano, who was Randy's roommate when Randy and I started dating. But they are the only ones who remember me before I grew up--the only ones who knew the person I was in 1973. They're my only links to my Palm Desert past.

SO--I've gotta talk a little about these two fellas who've left us way too soon. I feel like I NEED to, since my friendships with them now exist only in my mind. If THAT's not a scary thought, I don't know what is...

I met Jared when I was just 13. I was gangly and awkward and sporting braces with those gawd-awful rubber bands that tended to catapult across the room at THE most inopportune times. I was, frankly, amazed that he took a second look at me, but he did, and we "went steady" all through high school. To the left is our prom picture--below is his senior picture.

I remember he drove a little green Datsun pickup truck and he loved vacationing in Idaho--I think the desert never really suited him and he was glad to move back north after high school. His family had some land in Anza, a high desert community between Palm Springs and San Diego. It was always cooler up there and we used to drive up there whenever we could and spend the day wandering the property, talking, and snoozing in the back of the truck. It was a peaceful place and I loved being there with him. We were both big John Denver fans and "My Sweet Lady" still takes me instantly back to Anza--it was "our" song. He moved on to greener pastures not long after high school, but long before I was ready to let him go. In fact, I dropped out of college briefly midway through my first year because I was so homesick for him. It wasn't until my second year in college, on semester abroad in England, that I finally realized he wasn't the one for me and then I spent years telling myself he was a lousy boyfriend, which really wasn't true. We were both just young and overly dramatic. I was lucky to end up with a life that was really quite perfect (until recently), but his was much different. He wrote me late last year and described failed marriages and difficult relationships with his children, but he spoke of it all with characteristic good nature--not a trace of self pity. I really wanted to see him again. I'm really sorry that I never will.

After that failed first semester in college, I managed to tear myself away from home the following September and gave BYU another shot. It was a good decision. There was something magical about my second round at the "Y." Almost immediately I found myself having the time of my life with a bunch of kids from my student branch. I don't even remember exactly when I met Michael Don Farr, but my roommate, Jeanine Hagler, and his roommate, Joe Bourgea, and I started spending a ton of time together. No pairing off, just hanging out along with a bunch of other kids from our branch. I think I had a crush on him pretty much right from the start, and by the end of the year we had convinced ourselves that we were serious about each other. We weren't right for each other, but that didn't stop us from having a blast planning our futures as law partners.

(Yeah, like I could EVER be a lawyer!)

We figured we'd call our law firm "Farr, Farr, and Farther." We didn't have an "our song"--when he'd call me on the phone, the first thing I'd hear would be an impromptu falsetto rendition of the "Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I found you" song from Young Frankenstein! It fit our wacky relationship perfectly. The night before my 19th birthday, I got a message telling me Mike was looking for me and to call him back. When I did, he told me he wanted to be the first one to wish me a happy birthday so he took me to a late night movie in Salt Lake so we'd be together at midnight when the new day arrived. It was one of the most romantic things anybody's ever done for me! Here's a picture of Mike sitting on my bed, being his usual goofy self...

We wrote each other faithfully throughout his mission to Quebec, and writing that "Dear John" letter when I met Randy was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. It was the right thing, of course, and we were able to get together again with our respective spouses while Randy and I were at BYU--it was great to see him so happy. Now I often think of his wife and what she went through just a few years before I did.

I miss you guys.

Workin' for a livin'.....

Oh joy, oh rapture--after TWENTY months of unemployment (well, some of that was UNDERemployment, but we won't quibble here...) I am actually gainfully employed full time once again! I am the Reference Manager at the Kenan Research Center which is the archives branch of the Atlanta History Center. To say that I'm thrilled would be the understatement of the year--I get to spend my days helping patrons use our collections for research into such diverse subjects as family history, Civil War history, architectural history, gay and lesbian history and a multitude of other fascinating topics--and I get a paycheck, full benefits, and a ton of paid time off during the year to boot! It really just doesn't get much better than this for a die-hard history geek like me.

I spent my lunch break on Saturday (I work Tuesdays through Saturdays) sitting at a patio table at the back of the museum building, looking out over the acres of spectacular gardens that meander through our campus. You have to understand that the AHC is located in the heart of Buckhead, one of the most upscale areas of Atlanta, and sitting at that table you would never know you were in the center of the city. With the wind whispering through the trees and the birds singing and the faint scent of gardenias on the air, I couldn't help but revel in my good fortune and reflect on other jobs I have had--jobs that were, shall we say, somewhat less satisfying.

One of my very first jobs after high school was working as a ward clerk at Indio Community Hospital in the emergency room. One of our attending physicians was a former MASH doctor who served in Korea and was famous for his good looks and somewhat unorthodox ways. My desk was in front of his and when checking in patients, I often had to bend over my desk to hand them their paperwork. Shortly after one such occasion I remember him leaning over me with a smile as he walked past my desk and advising me in a conspiratorial whisper, "You wave that thing in my face one more time and I'm gonna bite it!"

I remember when Randy was on his first WESTPAC deployment, I worked as a bookkeeper for an auto body repair shop in National City (a suburb of San Diego) where my boss explained that one of the perks of my job was that I could leave the building early enough to get out of the neighborhood before dark. I guess the concertina wire and junk yard dogs provided adequate security during daylight hours. I was pregnant with Benjamin at the time, and while fighting morning sickness it was not unusual to get that "somebody's behind me" feeling while sitting at my desk, and turn around to see a four inch palmetto bug (that's the polite term for a cockroach) crawling up the wall behind my desk. Once, I opened the office refrigerator to put in my morning sickness snack (cucumbers, cottage cheese, and soda crackers) to find the entire top shelf filled with the biggest fish I have ever seen--glassy eyes, scales, and all.

The Georgia State Farmers Market provided another memorable job for me. I worked as a switchboard operator and later as an accounts receivable clerk for a produce house in which I was one of very few women in the building. The fact that I was married with four children didn't seem to faze a number of the warehouse guys, salesmen, and even customers who were, I swear, THE most oversexed bunch it's ever been my misfortune to encounter. The theory was that because they worked six days a week from 5AM til 4PM, there was no time at home for romance so they spent all their working hours thinking about it. That was the theory. I liked them--I found their country boy common sense and southern dry wit really fun. But for some of them I think the "theory" was just a smokescreen for the fact that although God gave them a brain and their most valued body part, He only gave them enough blood to run one at a time. Their brains never stood a chance. I put up with five years of various and assorted good natured suggestions involving my anatomy and the copy machine and the nearest Holiday Inn, knowing that most of them were all talk and no action. It was sort of like working in a college frat house, I suppose, but I never felt threatened and, after all, none of them had anything to offer that was better than what I went home to every night. Here's a picture of me on my 40th birthday, enjoying my toilet-papered desk and "Lordy, Lordy, Sue's 40" decorations.


SO--on Tuesday when I go back to work, open my office door (YES, I have my VERY OWN OFFICE for the first time in 52 years!), and glance at my business cards (YES, I have my VERY OWN BUSINESS CARDS for the first time in 52 years!), I will sit there smugly and I will feel very, very grown up and very VERY grateful! (Oh! and the picture at the top of this blog? That's my Dad, workin' for his livin' at Boling Field in Washington, D.C., in 1947. I wonder if he ever chased my mother around the desk? ;-)

Road Literature 101: Hooters and Humps

I just got back from a most excellent road trip to Utah and Idaho where I was able to reconnect with dear friends, family, visit with my wonderful children, AND get my hands on my youngest grandbaby, Hannah. Is she not the cutest thing you've seen in a long time? You've really gotta check out BJ and Kimberly's blog for more pictures--this one just doesn't do her justice!

Here she is with her proud Mommy and Daddy:

And here is gorgeous Megan with a decidedly different hairdo (yes, Annike, I told her that it's too dark--but the red highlights are really pretty)

ANYWAY, I was lucky enough to make most of the trip by air, thanks to American Express and Delta Skymiles, so I only traveled by car between Salt Lake City and Rexburg--a distance of about 270 miles or so.

As I headed down the highway with Canned Heat playing at the threshold of pain, I found myself thinking about all those looooong road trips by car when my children were small. We traveled a lot and with four kids, a car is usually the cheapest way to get there.

It's amazing what you can learn on a long drive with children. For example, I learned that although a screaming toddler can be kept quiet in his carseat all the way from San Diego to Palm Springs by simply feeding him one raisin at a time for the entire 2 1/2 hour trip, the next several days produce a rather spectacular series of diaper changes best handled in hazzmat gear, goggles, and industrial strength rubber gloves.

I learned that bringing massive quantities of crayons for my budding artists sounded like a great idea, but you'd be amazed at what they do to a rental car's upholstery when forgotten on the vinyl seats in New York City summer heat. Trust me, take colored pencils.

My brother in law, Russell, learned that when his niece says she is feeling carsick after a late night visit to McDonald's, DO NOT tell her to "wait until the next exit" or you'll spend a significant amount of time trying to clean the barf out of a brand new Ford Bronco.

I learned that after offering the older children drinks over ice, at least ONE of them (to this day I'm not sure who, but I'd bet money his name starts with Bry and ends with an) will put an ice cube down the baby's shirt while she's buckled securely in her carseat. She didn't cry, but the look on her face in my rear view mirror forced me to pull off the road since I was laughing so hard I couldn't see to drive.

And I also learned that trying to cram a large economy size package of "nappies" (diapers) into the trunk of a tiny British rental car during a three week tour of England, Scotland, and Wales is an excellent incentive to finally toilet train the three year old they were purchased for.

But aside from the things you learn from your children, you'd be amazed at what you can learn from the things you see as you gaze out the windows of the car. On a Christmas holiday trip to Maryland, we discovered that although it might be politically incorrect to wish the world a "Merry Christmas," it's perfectly acceptable to include big boobs in your holiday greeting.

If the image is too small, let me just point out that the marquee sign between the fake palm trees proclaims "Happy Hooterdays."

We also observed during a trip to Cheddar, England, that the cows there might prefer munching on babies rather than grass????

This particular sign was spotted just outside the entrance to the London Dungeon (note the creepy "snowman" on the wall). This is, of course, a "G" rated blog, but I must say that one could interpret the bottom sign in a couple of ways--either English pelicans have wonderful sex lives or perhaps they resemble....camels?????

And I had to include this one for the Hogwarts lovers among us. Apparently there really IS a platform 9 3/4--can't remember if this is Victoria or Paddington Station, but somebody there has a sense of humor....Harry Potter would be pleased....

And finally, we spotted this one in Rexburg, Idaho, at the entrance to a doctor's office complex. I have not the smallest idea what the hell they're talking about--any ideas?

Anyway, you just can't deny the educational benefits of travel. And just remember this, no matter how excruciating those annual pilgrimages to Wally World can get, just be thankful you aren't in the photo at the top of this page. That's my grandmother, Ruth Hardy, traveling in Arizona in 1917. No crayons, no nappies, no McDonald's, no AIR CONDITIONING.

How ever did they manage!?