In Memoriam: Our Jolliest Porter

In 2005 my brother Topher sent an email out to the family. He had started a "blog" under the alias the Jolly Porter. After reading his wildly funny posts a couple of us family members decided to follow his lead. Thus, the Jolly Porter was the impetus for c jane enjoy it and Nie Nie Dialogues. We owe much to his tutelage.

You may have noticed last week the horrible news that the Jolly Porter officially ended his blog after four years. This is tragic. I was hoping to persuade him to reconsider, alas he has other projects to feed his passion. We, his audience have no choice but to remember his roses in the winters of our lives.

His clever, clever roses.

It was Page who often reminded me that of all our family blogs, the Porter's was the most entertaining. She is right, a second to that though, is Matt's Hunting blog. Always intriguing, always full of wildlife and swamps (and now! a picture of Sweet Marie and a fish!). But despite my envy for his uncanny blogging ability, I can't let my mentor blog just disappear into that long, dark blogging night. This weekend I've dedicated my blog/ frog forum/ facebook to host tributes to the great comical blogger Our Jolly Porter.

Here is how it works:

You can write a tribute to the Jolly Porter (maybe include your favorite posts of his) email me at cjane @ gmail .com and I will post it here.

Or,

You can post your tribute at my blog forum here.

Or,

You can write a tribute on my facebook.

Please don't let the pieces of this weekend scatter without taking time to memorialize the man who was brave enough to interview demons, reclaim his manhood and travelogue his family's trip to a God-forsaken-county, all in the name of blogging.


My favorite: the Porter's take on Nie found here.


Tributes from my inbox:

Hello dearest CJane-

So glad you are doing this as I'm already going through major withdrawals. I can't even count how many times the jolly porter has made me laugh. Cause he has made me laugh that much. My favorite post has to be the one where he talks about his jogging outfit. I was rolling. on. the. floor when I read that post.

Please come back jolly porter, we miss you!!!

xoxoxo

Deb

Dearest Ceej,
It is with a heavy heart that I send you condolences on our most tragic loss: The loss of any hope for an update on the status of Rosalie DingDing Tampon. I don't know that I can continue knowing that she is out there and I am in here in a giant glass box of emotion. I will continue to self-medicate with fry sauce.
Tearfully yours,
La Yen

Courtney,

For the longest time (ALL of my life) I have struggled with humor. My brothers are hilarious and they easily make me laugh so my problem isn't finding the humor in others. Nay, my struggle has been finding my own humor. But then I happened upon The Jolly Porter, whose jogging post had me in painful stitches...and I found myself wondering, if I had it in me to be funny. I tried a couple times to explore my own funny bone in posts and the results were acceptable, certainly not stand up material, but I felt inspired to try now and then, to make others laugh. And I owe it all to Christopher... and these posts, my favorites from the Jolly Porter Archives...


[thank goodness his posts are still in my google reader]


1. my jogging outfit
2. weekly goal setting
3. am I strong enough to be your man
4. i have feelings too
5. anti-climax
6. moral/ethical dilemmas, day 6 [hot chocolate in coffee cups, because I can totally relate]
7. a secret crush [because the paragraph about Twilight is so stinkin hilarious]
8. An update on my mustache
9. In character [because he chose one of my prompts...and nailed it]
10. brother, can you spare a dime?

If I had a chance to ask the JP a question, I would ask him why he hated the movie Australia, because I loved it and it has been bugging me ever since he mentioned he hated it...


Forever and always a JP fan,
Marilyn Lott

Hi Courtney-
I can't remember the name of one of my most favorite posts of the Jolly Porter's but it was where Margaret was entered in a beautiful baby contest and didn't win. Made me laugh.
Cheryl Weathersby

Hi Courtney,

If we go on a hunger strike, will he reconsider? Or at least keep the old posts for the addicts to reminisce?!

My 14 year old and I enjoyed all of his entries, but the missing T-shirt took it to a whole new level. We had tears streaming down our faces.

Please, please bring back our favorite (sorry Courtney - you're a close 2nd) blog!

Susan



seriously, what the hell?

Jed Wells


Dear JP,

Trying to choose a favorite post would be like trying to choose a favorite child. Impossible. You are funny. "Snort-outloud-while-I-read-

your-posts-alone"...funny. I will never forgive you for abandoning us. But...we still love you (we just don't like your actions!)

xoxo
Leisha
Loyal Fan

Hello the lovely cjane! I am quite surprised that JP (as he is known in the blogging world) is leaving us. I never read a blog until I saw your beautiful smiling face on the Today Show. I have been addicted ever since. Now, I feel the urge to pour my heart out in an email to a family I have never met. It's quite strange the connection we all feel to your family. I feel like you are all my friends, my family. I have to say that I actually miss when you (and Jayniemoon!) do not blog on the weekends (gasp!) or actually have a life other than your blog (louder gasp!) Ok, enough praising the best family in the world...here is my favorite Jolly Porter moment: Picture it: Las Vegas November 2007 Lisa and JP head to Vegas. I loved his little comments about everyone he happened to glace at. I was enjoying my morning coffee, catching up on the past 3 years of his blog, when all of a sudden, there she is. Rumor Willis a.k.a Mr. Potato Head. Not only did the coffee shoot out of my nose, but I peed. Yep, I said it! I peed! In the hopes that he will reconsider his retirement (and make a come back like Brett Favre!), I am openly admitting that I had coffee shoot out my nose and I peed. I always knew that Rumor Willis had reminded me of someone, I just could never put my finger on it. Thanks for the laughs (and more!) Kim ~ Ohio

Dear Courtney Jane,

One day I heard a song on the radio. That song was (and is) called "The Christmas Shoes." And I threw up a little bit in my mouth. And then I felt kind of bad, because it was about a boy who wanted to buy some shoes for his sick mom (except why would a woman confined to a hospital bed need fancy shoes?). But then I read The Jolly Porter's why, why, why, delilah? post, and I felt so much better.

P.S. In his December 2008 post thumpety thump, he guaranteed that his song "Jennifer, the Winter Pony!" would become a holiday classic by Christmas '09. I really hope he makes good on that promise.

-Emmelyn

Dear Courtney,
I also will feverishly petition to have him at least leave his archives up!! Puh-leeeeze!!!
And one of my (many) favorite posts is his about the YM/YW activity playing volleyball. This is soooooooooo my husband (and probably) me. I mean, really, any game worth playing is worth winning, right?
Cheers to you Jolly Porter!
Carrie

CJ:

I echo Kim from Ohio when I say that I am glad to "know" your family. I was not introduced to you or your siblings until after NieNie's accident. Then a group of friends told me about all of you and I have been reading archives and the latest postings ever since. It is seriously addicting...in a good way. I will miss Topher's posts. I especially loved his sentiments to his students as of late. We send our best to all of you, and wish that the Jolly Porter would continue to post, but know that sometimes other things are equally important. We will continue to follow the rest of you. JWD in Davis County


Dear CJane,

As a convert to the Church, I have really enjoyed reading the Jolly Porter because I find him to be inspirational. He appears to be a faithful Church member who lives the Gospel and yet is clearly an intellectual who has interests beyond the typical prescription of vanilla (no matter how much I love vanilla!) that most have circumscribed themselves to. I have loved his movie and music recommendations and have even more enjoyed talk of his profession as I am a budding sociologist in pursuit of a career teaching at university. I am a person who wishes very much to find that seemingly delicate balance of faithful member while still holding onto important parts of who I am outside of the Church - I greatly enjoyed watching him do this successfully. I am saddened that he has closed up shop.


Merci et bon week-end,


Christina

I just love Topher's mind. I will miss his wit. Hey, if we get a big enough love-fest going, do you think he would reconsider? Or maybe leave his archives up for a while so we could sort of 'retro-wean'? Guest blog with you and Nie? SOMETHING?

Tohper, DON'T ABANDON US! We love you!!!

Shirley Rousseau

Tampa, Florida

I recently read the post about playing favorites with his students. My husband is a professor and this made me laugh so hard. I was devastated a week later when I went to read it to him and the JP had closed up shop. Please at least keep the archives open!! I have only just begun mining the gold!

Calicobirdie

Hey Courtney! Page's friend Amy here.

. . . my dear friend Page introduced Christopher’s blog to me, urging me to read the entry “Would You Like a Little Hooch with Your Omelet?” (or something along those lines), which still has to be my favorite. It brings to mind the many mornings we’ve sat around the breakfast table reading scriptures, with the tots sounding out “whoredoms,” “harlot,” “concubines,” and the like, while mom and dad ignore their quizzical gazes and hurry them on their way to the next chapter and verse. Thanks to Christopher, I can never look at Gospel Art Kit picture #110 without seeing it through an 8-year-old’s eyes: Really, why is Joseph considered such a hero for fleeing Potiphar’s wife? Clearly anybody would do the same when a hard-looking hag sporting blunt-cut bangs, kohl eyeliner, and matching turquoise belt-and-headband ensemble pulled on their arm. Clearly. Duh.

Oh Jolly P. Please don’t abandon us entirely for the land of head shots, black mock-Ts, and pas de bourres/chasse/chasses. “Tis true that a good play needs no epilogue,” but we’ll be bereft without a few more of your epic blogs.

-Amy Lynn Andrus

Dearest Courtney,

Hope this finds you, the Chief and Chup well. Thank you for your wonderful words and time that you give.

My favorite all time post was the Nie Nie Porter. I could randomly think of that post at any time or in any situation and immediately crack up. It is by far one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life. I think your brother is one of the most intelligent people out there to be THAT funny! I am so bummed that he's not blogging, but perhaps he'll bless us another way and we just don't know it yet.. Maybe his blogging purpose was just to get you and Stephanie going so that when the plane crash happened last year--well you know the rest more than the rest of us. In the midst of that, we have all been able to be interested and giggle lots.
I also really loved this post: http://thejollyporter.blogspot.com/2008/12/oh-christmas-tree.html

Thanks for doing this post and giving us all closure! I was wondering what happened!

Katrina

O My Boys

Chup bought running shoes last week.

He has decided to revisit his former vice, cross-country running. In my opinion, not even waterboarding can compare with the torture of running.

But his interest in tending to his mortal body is inspiring to me. I will not be jogging groggily by his side, but I might take up spiritual dancing.

And The Chief suddenly became a giant.

In comparison to his smaller, petite cousin Betsy, my baby has become a boy. His healthy body is round and strong, his skin tanned by the sun. He takes brave steps alone in the spacious green room when I am watching out from the corners of my eyes.

All of this celebration about the bodies of my boys have me thinking about Arlene Ball's essay O My Sons (which cannot be read unless one is feeling very strong of heart). After reading this stirring tribute to her sons, I cannot be the same again. It was this essay that persuaded me to be there when my baby was circumcised--strapped to a green plastic contraption in a cramped office in the back corridors of the hospital--shortly after his birth. It was this essay that has inspired me through this emotional weaning process. I owe something serious to Arlene for writing and letting Segullah publish this essay. It is molding my motherhood.

Read it here.

Transition Transgressions

The other night I went to visit Lucy when she was laboring. Call me crazy, but I find labor more fascinating than just about anything else. I like to be in it, watch it, youtube it, all of it. What does this say about me? Sadist? Masochist? Mineral?

As Lucy hypno-breathed, I talked to her incredible midwife Suzanne about signs of progression in labor. During the conversation she referred to changes in labor stages as "transitions." Of course, having an obsession with delivery, I had heard the word before, as in "the pain was so excessive when I was transitioning that I wanted to give up the ghost" but this time the word was harvested in my head.

If I were to take a look at the garden of my weaknesses, one of my most fertile plants would be transitioning. I am a horrible transition-er. Not during labor, necessarily, but during life. For instance, every time there is a change in seasons, I feel it in my veins and I spend several days longing for nothing but my bed and unconsciousness.

Little transitions get me too. This morning I was folding my white laundry and listening to a cd my brother Topher (formerly the Jolly Porter-sniff) made me. During this ritual I was pleasant and hopeful about the day before me. As soon as all underwear, towels and white onesies were folded however, I resisted the transition to put them away. Instead, I left the basket-brimming with waiting laundry-and stared at The Chief as he navigated the basement stairs.

After he successfully climbed the stairs several times, I put The Chief to sleep. Instead of transitioning to finish the dishes, I doozed off in my bed. When a lawn mower to the east woke me up, I couldn't transition out of bed until I thought about a handful of peanut m&ms.

This is the crux of my problem, the only thing that inspires my transitioning is food. Good food riddled with sugar and/or salt. A cupcake from Stephanie last night got me through a really tough transition from watching a documentary about the Taliban in Pakistan (no thanks!) up to bed. And this morning the thought of graham crackers smeared with Chup's heavenly frosting got me up and out of it. And whats more, if transitions cause me to wait, like when Chup calls me and says he is leaving work and I have to wait an hour for him to get through the door, I WILL EAT THE ENTIRE HOUR.

The five o'clock hour is no good for me. Obviously.

You see, my inability to transition is impeding my transformation from one dress size down to the next. And these sorts of things I am trying to not care about, only that I do care about them a lot.

And just as I was about to end and publish this post, I prolonged the transition and went instead to facebook and looked at random photos from old friends. This post would be really long if it were up to me, in fact I wish I could spend the entire day writing it, only because I wouldn't reach for food to help me get on to the next stage.

You see my point right? I need to weed this one out. If anyone has any good ideas let me know. Ok?

Thanks.


Alright.


So.

Then.


Oh.

Shoot.


Help!





Mmmm . . . a bag full of carrots!





Nope.

Not working.



Humpf.

Maybe I'll press "spell check" one more time.

Chup is spelled right.


And . . .



I should try and sharpen that photo of Chup's frosting on graham crackers.


Keebler or Honey Maid graham crackers?

Honey Maid!



A pear?



Publish!

Do it!






This is bad.




Kettle Chips.

The Chief's Birthday: A Photo Essay

What did The Chief get for his premier birthday?

A dance party with his grand extended family . . .


where I gave my son a special gift for his birthday--my talent.


(photos courtsey of The Despot).


A weekend with Grumma and Popeye.


A cake.



And a new little cousin, Betsy . . .

. . . who came last night via Aunt Lucy and Uncle Ric.

Next year I think we might go simple and buy him an orange Big Wheel and a couple packages of onesies.

Exhausting!

Mammorial Day Part 2

Warning: this post contains words like breast, milk and suck. Should any of those words make you feel uncomfortable you might want to skip this post!

The Chief, couple days old by Haley Warner

Last Memorial Day I came home from the hospital with a baby.

He was an alien. His body was skinny and his skin was marked with red splotches and birth marks. I could see purple and blue stretchy veins in his head. The unfused spot on his head pumped every time he breathed. And when he cried he sounded like a squawking baby from the Triassic period.

But I'd never seen anything so beautiful.

So I took him and gave away all the advice from time before, Ten minutes on each side only, or your milk will dry up and breastfed him all day and night. When we stopped he would cry, I would cry. So we nursed continually and we loved it.

In those first weeks postpartum I was never so aware of my body. There were changes to my shape and unfamiliar sensations. The smell of breast milk permeated everything I touched. My chest was a cycle of heavy and soft, always leaking. My cups overflew. The years spent being teased about my obvious endowments suddenly didn't matter. Their purpose was fulfilled.

This was a type of healthy co-dependency. We needed each other, my alien son and I. When he grew out of his size one diapers I had myself to congratulate. And I needed those moments of respite--alone in the nursery--good excuses to leave any situation to feed the baby. Breastfeeding was my great anti-depressant.

And so it went, until we introduced toast. And bananas. Potatoes. Until finally our nursing was nothing more than a soothing pastime, a hobby of sorts. He didn't need me for calories or consumption, just the pre-show to a nap or bedtime. And yet, it continued to be our connection and we loved it as much as we did in the early days of our lives.

And yet, I knew my time was coming to an end.

And yet, it came too early.

Last Sunday night as I nursed my mobile alien to sleep I heard the voice of the Spirit say to me, "Enjoy this, it will be the last time you will nurse this baby." It was quiet in the nursery that evening, the sound of my baby sucking and my heart breaking.

The next morning came early with crying from the crib. Instinctively I moved out of bed to feed him back to sleep for an hour. But the voice came again, "Take your baby down and feed him breakfast instead."

Since then we've traded the suck for the sip. Now our house is a landmine of sippys. We've replaced our nursing moments with long drinks from plastic containers. Rice milk instead of breast. The transition was peaceful, quietly right. I cannot deny that I was guided to wean, though I can't help but grieve that chapter. Memorial weekend will always be that, a time to conjure memories of the time I traded milk for infatuation.

As for my chest, we are back to our heavy days. A constant reminder of what I've given up. Slowly, as my spirit lets go so does my body. And us women, we've got our cures for these sorts of things. Don't you worry.

I've always loved the poem Blood and Milk by the great poetess Sharlee Mullins Glen, but never more so than today:

Blood and Milk

by Sharlee Mullins Glenn

I dreamed of Oxford . . .
(spires, a thousand spires, endless lectures, musty halls
a solitary self in a Bodleian expanse
A good life my dear Wormwood. An orderly life.)

then awakened to laundry
and things to be wiped
countertops, noses, bottoms)

How did this happen? And when, exactly?

Time flows, it flows, it flows
and there are choices to be made:

left or right?
paper or plastic?
blood or milk?

There's freedom in the bleeding;
bondage in the milk—do not be deceived.

Ah, but it's an empty freedom; a holy bondage,
A sweet and holy bondage.

Five times I chose the chains, those tender chains,
(though once will bind you just as well!)
and checked the crimson flow.
Suckled while dreaming of Trinity Term
but awakened, always awakened, to the laundry
and to that small and cherished captor at my breast.

-From Segullah

Whistle While I Work

This morning while doing dishes I was thinking about Kate Winslet winning her Academy Award. In her speech, she mentions her parents and asks her dad to whistle so she can acknowledge their presence. Without hesitation her dad whistles out in the crowd, and my gosh I get goosebumps every time I watch the replay (7:28). That is unscripted life.

But there is something about that whistle. I imagine her parents in the audience spilling over in excitement. Something about the eagerness of a family who support one another. Something about sharing success with those who've been there all along.

Is it possible to read too much into a whistle?

I am not sure why I was thinking about Kate as I loaded the sudsy glasses in the top shelf, but it made me think about family relationships. How hard they are at times, and how rewarding too.

I thought about a time a couple years ago when I felt at odds with one of my brothers. We disagreed on some important issues regarding the future of our family. I decided to visit him at home one evening, not to try to change his mind, but to learn more. Instead of discussing anything relevant to the issue, I observed him in his home. His children climbed all over him, teased him and adored him. In this instance, he became much more than my brother who disagreed with me. He was such a good person, who was trying to make strong choices. I was softened, and I've never had a hard feeling for him since.

I know my brother would whistle for me. That is it. If I ever win an award, and I am up on the podium with my custom-made designer dress and shaky/nervous voice and I say, "Whistle Brother so I know where you are!" He'd whistle immediately.

This Way

A month ago I gave my car to my brother. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, that c jane she is always thinking of others. Giving her car away, what next? But really, I gave away my car because I had the grand presumption that Chup would buy me a new one. A fancy, new one with OnStar!

Maybe in all my presuming and assuming I forgot who I married, He Who Waits. It is not that Chup hasn't spent the last month scouring the earth for my new ride, because he has, it's just that he has insists on having an agenda. His agenda includes: stable design, slick engineering and after market features. He will not buy a car if the button that rolls in the window down is too skinny or cold. Or if the turn signal ticks wrong. And always--this is important--Chup looks for vehicles that suits an exceptionally tall man as equally as his short wife. (If you really think about this concept you will see why we have a hard time enjoying the same spaces.) Mostly, Chup has all the patience in the planet. He will wait until VAVOOM! The perfect car appears. And to my surprise, it always does.

But this post isn't about all that, this is about yesterday when I realized that I don't want a car.

For a few weeks now I've had several items needing delivery to Azucar. She lives a good couple miles from my house. Yesterday, we had a free morning so I strapped The Chief into our loyal stroller and a way we went.

First, we walked to the university's mail room where I mailed a letter. Incidentally, I mailed a letter to a neighbor who lives in a house we passed on our way to mail the letter. But who doesn't love a letter in the mail box? I mean, besides people who don't love a letter in the mail box?

We passed over to the stadium where I found a big stick for The Chief to inspect for fifteen minutes. Every knob and fiber was manipulated by his little hands. Who knew? A stick!

We also watch the stadium landscaping crew work out their morning plans and saw one of them get tangled up in a tree while mowing alone on the north side. This caused him to panic, and became overly-frustrated. When he looked around to see if anyone saw him, we waved. Because we did! We saw him get plowed by a tree while mowing! And it was hilarious!

After we dropped off the goods to Azucar's condo and patted the handsome head of El Guille, we had a brief repast of crackers and water. After a half block we stopped to listen to a symphony of construction, parts with whirring drills, beeping tractors and the percussion of constant hammering.

Then it was off to the museum to visit Katy where we examined a massive stuffed elephant and a furry-tailed skunk. I will tell you something, I love the smell of the Bean Museum. It's a perpetuation of moth-balls, fluids of preservation and memories all in one spot.

While I asked Katy a spread of questions regarding their controversial white rhino, The Chief crawled among the bird displays. I am relieved to know that my son has no fear of stuffed birds. This is good for his future as a biologist. In case.

Outside of the museum we caught the heavenly scent of lilacs and heard the bell tower strike two o'clock. Nearing nap time, I pushed a little faster but couldn't resist for a stop off at the Creamery where I bought a selection of house cheeses. And a tube of English muffins because it's always time for toast.

Our simple errand had turned into a refreshing adventure. Transporting in cars eliminates a lot of the world's sensory experiences. In our autos we regulate our world, our temperature, our music, our comfort. But the vulnerability of pedistrainism makes for a conscious ordeal. See how much we would've missed out on had we just waited for a ride?

In anticipating the realization of Chup's agenda, I have come to truth. I don't need a car, I need to get out and walk. Smell the flowers, eat cheese, laugh at people who don't want to be laughed at. That sort.

If you see us around in your neighborhood, please wave, but don't honk. That just makes me feel embarrassed. You know.

The Angel in Me

Over a month ago I mused about having another baby, or writing book. I allowed the spirits of consideration to dance with my soul for a few weeks before I decided on a steady path.

Neither.

As a result of revelation, I've learned a book or a baby seems to be in my immediate future. Worthwhile goals, ones I intensely hope to achieve in the next few years, but not in the next nine months. I am moving on to new considerations, different spices and new spirits to dance with in morning hours. Because, if nothing else, I am a firm believer in personal reinvention. It is the secret to life.

I am starting with a cupcake. Thanks to passionate voters, Brooke from Conversations with a Cupcake has impersonated me with flour, sugar and a halo of edible flowers. Watch my baked-self transform from nice into spice. If my end result looks as good and tastes as delectable as my recipe I shall be very content.

Watch the transformation at Salon c jane!


p.s. steady yourselves for Brooke's mud cake a la Nie to be coming soon to Conversations with a Cupcake!


Voting results for the recipe that is most c jane:

Chili Mango Cornbread cupcakes with pure vanilla ice-cream & bittersweet jalapeno ganache	548 (16%)
Mountainous Angel-food cupcakes, topped with Burnt-Butter icing and a halo of rainbow-sugared fruit and edible flowers	2314 (70%)
Laced Coconut-curry cookie sandwiches with lemongrass mousse filling	432 (13%)

Nestled in the Heart of Happy Valley

On Saturday my crew and I took a turn around Provo.

We started with Days Market donuts:

and paraded the Farmers Market:



. . . where The Chief helped himself to a Flour Girls and Dough Boys shortbread chocolate chip cookie, which I've already proclaimed as the best cookie in Utah County:


and we ran into friends:


and were entertained by this guy:


after which we drove home and I noticed our lovely mountainous town:


(which beauty sometimes I forget to notice)



And spent the later afternoon in the park watching the son sit:


And I went to bed thinking how nice it is to dig where I live.

My crew and I are happy here.

If you live in Provo and want to hear some fresh ideas about the future of our fair town, come to my dad's official mayoral candidacy Monday (May 18) at Kiwanis, noon!

Are You Kidney Me?

I am not sure what it is with me lately, but I love everyone. Everyone.

For instance, the other night I was in pain (maybe a kidney problem? who knows?) so Chup rushed me to the Insta Care (I've never had emergency medical care! what a rush!) where I was helped by this sweet blonde nurse. She told me to pee in a cup and as she did so, I thought, I really love her.

When the doctor came into the room, and started kneading my kidneys I couldn't help but love him too. Even though I screamed when he pushed on my lower back. Even though he told me I should probably go see a specialist. Even when he told me my white blood cell count was aggressive. I was just grateful he took the time to care.

Then he wrote some instructions down for me and told me to take it easy. I scooted off the examination table, he patted me on the shoulder. It was really sweet, in a doctor/patient sort of way.

And he was the first doctor with a beard I've ever met. That is really saying something.

Later at Walgreens as I was filling a couple thousand prescriptions I was helped by a twenty-something pharmacists assistant who had spots of facial hair and wore a striped tie with his white coat. Perhaps it was his lisp that matched mine, or the way he told me that his mom was abused by his dad (wait, how did that go again?) but I felt like jumping the counter and hugging the boy. Just hugging it out a Walgreens.

But as I paid for my drugs I could see a vibrant blonde soccer mom in the drive up window. I heard the drive-up assistant say through the glass, "One moment and I will be back with your Zoloft." And that point, I don't know what I was doing (pain makes for funny incentives) but I stared at her until she saw me. Then I gave her my bravest smile. I smiled through the pain. And she smiled back--smiling through her pain too.

Good glory what a moment!

Just so you don't feel left out, or think I only love blonde women and bearded medical personnel, I want you to know that I love you too. Really love the way you are reading my post right now, don't ever change. I mean that.

Things Making Me Jubilant Today

My siblings at our backyard Mother's Day Party.

(Matt, Lucy, Andrew and some creepy guy eating ice cream in the background)

(Taken from my brother Matt's blog, photography by me.)

A couple days ago I sent out an email to my family. Not knowing if anyone ever reads my mundane announcements, I planted a teaser at the end of my mail.

"First person to respond to this email gets a strawberry pie."

Then I waited all day for a response. Finally my efficient brother in law Vance (who is set to climb Mount McKinley in a couple weeks-he is a maniac) wrote me back.

"Strawberry pie please."

When Vance came down to retrieve his warm pie I made him take a few photos with it, only because I wanted to demonstrate to the other family members the rewards of reading my emails. As I shot away (without my derned flash) Vance obliged by holding the pie and smiling.

"Warm pie!" he exclaimed while posing with the pie.

"Good!" I said from behind the camera. "Keep modeling!"

"Like, really warm pie!" he said again, acting like he was smelling the pie.

"Nice!" I encouraged.

"Warm pie really hot on my hands!" he said as cheerful as ever.

"How hot?" I asked cheering him on, clicking still.

"Like, burning my hands hot pie!"

Then I realized that the tin on the hot strawberry pie was probably scorching. He picked up an oven mitt in desperation.

"Um, sorry." I said putting my camera down, feeling foolish.

Anyway, I hope that when Vance is beating back the -118 windchill factor on McKinley he will have warm (really hot) memories of my strawberry pie.

On days when The Chief decides to spill his morning nap into the early afternoon, I like to visit one of the world's best Food Blogs Conversation With a Cupcake. I relish that all recipes are conceived by Brooke with witty story lines. I laugh, I cry, I get really hungry. I like dramatic treats.

To my amazement, Brooke has offered to make one of her brilliant concoctions inspired by my modest life story--how one short blogger became a woman of words--that sort of thing. She delivered three options in my email, to which I was ask to choose one.

Um, how do you choose?

-Chili Mango Cornbread cupcakes with pure vanilla ice-cream & bittersweet jalapeno ganache

-Mountainous Angel-food cupcakes, topped with Burnt-Butter icing and a halo of rainbow-sugared fruit and edible flowers

-Laced Coconut-curry cookie sandwiches with lemongrass mousse filling

Wanna help me? There is a little poll (I am a confessed poll fanatic) up in there to the right. Vote for recipe that says "Sweet! Spice! Humility! c jane!"

Because I am all those things. I am every recipe and every recipe is me.

And so are you.

(That was deep.)

Weeds versus Wants

Last night Chup and I joined Mormons all over the globe in holding Monday night Family Home Evening. It starts with singing a song, then a prayer, discuss family business, pontificate on doctrine and end with treats. Who doesn't love Family Home Evening?

Last night in our review of family business, I brought up the obvious fact that we have weeds spreading like swine flu at Retro House. This fact is really bugging me. I don't like to be the eye sore of the neighborhood, and I know my neighbor cares about my weeds because the other night she suggested a trade.

"If you lend me your ear so I can vent, I will pull your weeds."

So I sat and listen to her stories of family dysfunction, while she used suppressed anxiety to yank all the weeds (and one time a mistaken plant) out of my front flower bed. Not bad. But even though my listening ear and nodding head kept our side of the bargain, I still felt ashamed that my distressed neighbor was plucking weeds out of my garden. Shouldn't be the other way around?

I am remembering the first time I saw the backyard of Retro House. My breath refused to be exhaled. It was a park! A vast empire of grass and brick fencing! We could host family parties with tents, booths and rentable Ferris Wheels! But in my merriment I didn't realize that the expansive space would require maintenance. Weeding! Mowing! Fertilizing! Labor!

With Chup off using business trips to gain rapid travel rewards, he nary has the time to tend to our kingdom. Every time a dandelion goes to seed--wispy wishing devices--my heartbreaks a little. This means my heart breaks forty-seven million times a day. And what am I going to do?

"So in conclusion," I argued to Chup as our family business section wrapped up, "I think we should hire a landscaping crew to do the work."

"A what? No. We don't need to add to our monthly expenditures." Chup argued back.

We have a saying in our culture--a little poem really--that sometimes exemplifies our experience of FHE.

Family Home Evening on Monday Night.
Starts with a prayer,
Ends in Fight.

"Just think about it." I said, even knowing Chup will not spend money on any task in his realm of capabilities. If Chup can do it, he will certainly not pay someone else to do it. And even though I promised to shift all sorts of money around in order to come up with room in our budget for yard help, he still wasn't satisfied.

On to the lesson, where we discuss aspects of the gospel, we opened up our Church's magazine The Ensign, and read an article about avoiding debt and addiction. In essence, our becoming provident providers for ourselves and our family relies heavily on our ability to understand needs versus wants, and feel comfortable with the words "We can't afford it."

I AM NOT comfortable saying, "We can't afford it."

I really hate those words, just about as much as I hate weeds consuming every grass patch, crack and corner of our home. A toss up, those two. The phrase "We can't afford it" makes me feel so restricted and uncomfortable. Nothing makes me want to flee to the accepting arms of debt more than someone telling me I can't have what I want.

So as you can see, this was a really good message for me.

By the time we had finished the lesson and moved on to the treats (hate frugality, love treats) I knew in my heart what I had to do.

"I will weed." I said to Chup, dolefully swallowing. "If you will promise to mow once a week, I will do the rest."

"Really? No crew?" Chup was encouraged.

"Yes." I cleared my throat. Deep inhale. "We can't afford it."

One weed down, nine nonillion more to go.


Want to read the invaluable article we discussed last night? Read here.

I would love to hear your ideas about provident living, weed pulling or how you've learned to say "We can't afford it." For a discussion click here.

Tandem Baby Steps-Rethought

This Mother's Day weekend brought with it two excitements.

One, my routinely scheduled escapade to the desert was slightly curtailed by Chup's suggestion that instead of camping, we accept his offering of a hotel room with a jacuzzi tub in St. George. At least one of us was very encouraged by this idea. Who knew I had a baby who excites over weekend stays with white linen beds?


In the end the dry wind and high heat did us all some good. Though my hair will definitely need some therapeutic deep conditioning treatment. Time to call Ashlee my scalp therapist.

The second excitement is The Chief's decision to walk. This is the part that totally astonishes me. I had nothing to do with his final inclination to raise himself up on his feet and move them forward. As it happened I was folding his laundry. It was all him.

In an effort to assist his toddling, we took him over to the indoor track a couple weeks ago to play a walking game of baby tennis. Chup and I sat on the floor with stretched legs directing our son to use his dexterity to move towards either of us. He stood, tottering on the edge of balance, only to plant his padded behind on the floor, lift to his knees and crawl with a maniacal smile.

I gave up.

Because it really wasn't about me.

Here is my first real lesson of motherhood: to let my child choose. And on the day he was ready, quietly together in his orange nursery, he stood and walked towards a solitary block hiding underneath his crib. I have never known such surprise or jubilation. No really, let me write that sentence again. I have never known such surprise or jubilation!

Despite my obvious hysteria and thrill, this episode has made me think about the grand scheme of parenting. How I have expectations of how much control I can have over my baby. But so far, his napping times, diet preferences and general attitudes have been all of his own. And this bit about weaning at a year old? No way. Unless there is major changes in my son's proclivity in the next two weeks. I will let you know.

I guess I am learning that the only control I have is over myself. How I choose to react to the fact that The Chief loves nursing more than he did when we spent two-thirds of the day doing it. Will I let that continually bind me, or bless me?

Or his wavering decision to pull out his bag of tricks in front of baited audiences. Wave! Wave Chief! Can you wave? Wave! Wave to her! Wave Good bye! And nothing . . . until we get to Rubios where he dazzles a whole table of fish-taco-eating construction workers by flashing his underhanded wave. Now you wave!

Or his hatred of letting me lather him with soft, smelly lotion. Do I grieve the days that are gone, or celebrate his initiation into little boyhood? I think I am going to cry.

I hope I will always have the faith to let him choose his way, knowing that as I allow his character to grow, mine will too. In learning to see that his choices are his own, I am empowered to own my reactions. And my desire--above all else--is to choose to be a happy mother.

Just glad to be here.

Post-edit: I remember asking my Aunt Chriss about her philosophy on parenting teenagers. She told me that together with her husband they decided to simply make their home happy. Their theory was that in making their home enjoyable, their children would choose to be there over anywhere else. I've always loved that approach because it is simple. It guarentees nothing, and yet provides a common goal centered around hope and happiness.

I really want to focus on happiness as a parent because I don't want my children to think their choices can manipulate my own. Or, more importantly, I don't want to manipulate my children's choices. I hope to establish a relationship based on education, learning from one another, rather than controlling one another.

We'll see how it goes, I've got a couple decades to figure things out.

Most of All She Makes Me Happy

For Mother's Day I was going to write a grandiloquent tribute to my mom. Included in the blueprint: the time she explained--while cuddling next to me in bed--about the origins of babies, when she clarified to my teenage self why the males of this world crave the female anatomy, how she helped me plan my dream wedding for a marriage she knew was doomed. These are the stories that have salted our relationship.

But.

But then we were asked to be a part of Justin Hackworth's 30 Strangers in 30 Days project to benefit the Women and Children in Crisis Center. And as we took to the photo shoot, I was asking Justin why his photography produced sentiments inside of me. His shots of a bride and her father pre-matrimony or a senior citizen in her fantastic front room gave me an interconnection to unknowns. Instead of looking at glossy photography emphasizing what I don't have, his shots helped me to realize what I do. How was it done?

"Photography is a language."

He explained to me, backed up against the corner of an empty loft, clicking and judging the light on my face. For a skilled artist, a great subject needs nothing more than humanity built by existence, or soul. More importantly, I see now that words are not needed where sublime art will do.

Without my wordy tribute, this is the story of me and my mother.

Happy Mother's Day to the beautiful woman who shared with me her womb--

and much more.







Want to see more of our photo shoot? Maybe a glimpse of the standing Chief?

Please go to Justin's blog here.

Justin Hackworth is a documentary-style wedding photographer with an office in downtown Provo. If you'd like him to speak your language too, you can contact him here.

I fully recommend.