B: Despite Woodruff

It’s true what they say. It’s all about location, location, location. Just look at the Old Testament for PAH-lenty of examples.
I hadn’t really considered the weight the decision of residence carried until I was engaged and looking for an apartment. Flagstaff, despite what you have heard or may think, is a very desirable place to live. This explains the cost of living. To find an affordable apartment with some elbow room that is close to campus but not on campus is nearly impossible. You’d need four or five roommates to make rent. And since the days of polygamy in our church are dead, the likelihood of a newly-wed couple, both full-time students, finding an affordable apartment is slim.
We found our apartment through sheer providence. It was small, but affordable. A ten-minute walk to central campus. It was owned by an attentive member of the Church. We lived in that apartment for two years. Our neighbors became our friends, as often good neighbors do. Our ward provided ways for us to serve that provided growth and would later prove to be preparation for other endeavors.
Yes, where you reside is of extreme importance. Sometimes like Abraham we are told “Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house” and unto a land he will show us, so we can be blessed in ways beyond our small scope.

The summer before Mike’s graduation, during his last internship, we started considering our next move. We toyed with the idea of eastward expansion, considering possibly Virginia at the farthest. That changed during an interview for General Dynamics when Mike was informed about their Boston branch. Mike had settled on General Dynamics as an employer but we were unsure where we wanted to be:

Arizona or Massachusetts?

Michael’s brother was working for GD in Scottsdale. We’d have family close by, we’d most likely live in Mesa close to a LDS temple, housing would be cheap. On the other hand, Boston would be an adventure and, with further meditation on the subject, harder. What to do. What to do.
After prayer, fasting, compiling lists, inspection of the housing market, reviewing our patriarchal blessings, and discussing our family’s needs, assessing our long-term objectives and after more prayer and a lot of listening… we were told…
it was our decision. Both locations were good choices.
We arrived at the resolution that for us and our family, it would be the better choice to move to Massachusetts.
So we did. Despite section *84 and Elder Wilford Woodruff. ;)
We spent four months in an apartment before putting an offer in on a house. Not our current house, mind you.
Mike had scouted out a home on busy 109 and between his work schedule/commute and me attending to a four month-old Caleb, I had to trust his taste because I wasn’t able to go with him to view a single house. We had prayed about the house and the only way I can describe the resolution was “Meh.” So we submitted an offer, noncommittally. When his schedule and our baby carrier was aligned just right, I was able to tag-along to two viewings with Mike. First was a tatty house nestled at an end of a lane, a dead end on an overlooked road. I walked inside and I remember liking the flow of each room and just feeling, however cliché, peaceful.
Next, we were shown the house we’d made an offer on.
The floor plan left me feeling disarrayed. There was duck, I kid you not, and elk wallpaper in the kitchen. Sure, it was neighboring the town library, had a decent back yard, and was well-kept comparatively, but it lacked. I told Mike I liked the other house, the first one I had ever viewed. He agreed. Luckily our offer for the woodland creature-shellacked house was rejected. We’d put an offer in on our future home and the seller would tell us it wasn’t enough. Our realtor encouraged us to resubmit another offer before the open house that evening. It was Sunday, and we decided the offer could wait until Monday. And it did. And it was accepted. Eventually.
Then the branch was created.
Since then, buying and residing in the weathered house has been proven to be a trialing a rewarding an experience. The additional half bath and third bedroom that we “needed”, that were a requisite in our house hunt, are rarely used. Our abode expectations and aesthetics shaped by our western-upbringing have been redefined. The house is functional and besides cosmetic alterations there is no need for change. It is small and essential. Only real qualm is in regards to parking. We live at the end of a road after all. A narrow road.
This summer we planned for our house to be painted. The time had come. Rather than scheduling a date to have the painters come, we signed up for them to come at their convenience (reducing the price). This past week a canceled job created an opening for our shabby house.

Yowzers! Look at that yellow! You only live in Massachusetts once, I say. May as well take advantage of the colonial-style structure and its green surroundings. Could you image that shade on a stucco house offset to salmon-colored gravel? No thank you.


*Thanks to Bro. Liesek for informing us rigth before me moved about D&C 84: 114 and the words of Elder Wilford Woodruff !
Speaking directly to the youth in attendance, Elder Woodruff declared: “‘Now, my young friends, I wish you to remember these scenes you are witnessing during the visit of President Young and his brethren. Yea, my young friends, treasure up the teachings and sayings of these prophets and apostles as precious treasure while they are living men, and do not wait until they are dead. A few days and President Young and his brethren, the prophets and apostles and Brothers Benson and Maughan, will be in the spirit world. You should never forget this visitation. You are to become men and women, fathers and mothers; yea, the day will come, after your fathers, and these prophets and apostles are dead, you will have the privilege of going into the towers of a glorious Temple built unto the name of the Most High (pointing in the direction of the bench), east of us upon the Logan bench; and while you stand in the towers of the Temple and your eyes survey this glorious valley filled with cities and villages, occupied by tens of thousands of Latter-day Saints, you will then call to mind this visitation of President Young and his company. You will say: That was in the days when Presidents Benson and Maughan presided over us; that was before New York was destroyed by an earthquake; it was before Boston was swept into the sea, by the sea heaving itself beyond its bounds; it was before Albany was destroyed by fire; yea, at that time you will remember the scenes of this day. Treasure them up and forget them not.’ President Young followed and said: ‘What Brother Woodruff has said is revelation and will be fulfilled.’” (In Lundwall, Temples of the Most High, pp. 97–98.)

(YIKES.)

A: He's got my number.

After the spring showers resided and the sun soaked up the excess water that flooded most of the surrounding areas, I bribed Caleb into his carseat (yeah, you’ve never done that before, right?) and went to visit the cemetery. I’ve learned through previous travelogue commentary that when I announce to Caleb “We are going to go see Emma” I need to omit the Emma and substitute your sister. Because if I don’t, Caleb will resound with a stream of Emmy’s (Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me! Em-me!... and so on) until the next distraction comes along. (Emmy is a friend, she is about a month and half older than Caleb. Simply, she is Vada to his Thomas J.)
Since Emma’s defect was discovered early on that gave us time to prepare. I’ve mentioned before how family history comforted us during that experience, but I never mentioned how it equipped us to make the arrangements for the foreseeable burial of our infant daughter. I’ve been in my fair-share of cemeteries to document grave markers and record their inscriptions as well as for my plain leisure.
Let it be known that Mike and I want to be buried in Saint George. That’s the plan. Burying our infant there however would prove to be costly and, frankly, a hassle. Heaven forbid, if it was Caleb it would be a different story, but hey, that was not the case.
After a spiritual prompting we researched some neglected branches of Michael’s family tree. His roots run deep in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Among his ancestors are forefathers and founders of various New England towns including Northampton, Sandwich, Ellisville, and Providence, Rhode Island. A Mayflower passenger and a cast of family members that once resided and served as selectmen in Sharon, Mendon and around-and-about Norfolk county round out his pedigree.
It brought peace to a, what others may contrive as shallow, detail. Our second child wouldn’t be buried in a random place. It was the land of their ancestors. The land harrowed by family. Now, just to find a cemetery.
That’s where my many hours logged among graves came in handy.
Some of the prospective cemeteries I visited were poorly laid out. Some were cluttered. I couldn’t even locate the infant section in one. Many lacked organization. Others had narrow roads, were difficult access or were next to a highway.
If I hadn’t spent so much time extracting information from tombstones, I wouldn’t have noticed these features.
Remember when I blogged about our town’s cemetery? After an exhausted search I recalled my immediate impressions of our local burial ground. It would be perfect.

Leaping forward to last week as we made a stopover to Emma’s site, my visit had a purpose. Around December, at the onset of our mild winter, the dust began to settle. Literally. The soil that shrouded Emma’s grave sank. This is pretty typical, just so you know.
Because the infant section is situated bytheway, I don’t have to make a formal visit. I can do drive-by glances. Other times this is convenient because I can just leave Caleb in the 4Runner while I pay a visit which is good because Caleb likes to tinker with the toy tributes that neighbor Emma’s marker.
I was planning on a quick drive-by glance to see if her plot had been filled in with additional dirt and grass seed yet.

As it so happened it had been. And also

the bush adjoining her grave had bloomed. I paused the vehicle and sat idle. Caleb stared too.
I had never seen the shrub come into flower before, Emma’s funeral was on the Eve of Halloween. It had been what-seemed-like a long winter. I guess I prematurely assumed the bush’s barrenness was enduring, not seasonal. Hmph. Perspective.
The blossoming was a token, a reminder of the Abrahamic covenant for me. Not the Abrahamic convenient, as I hope for at times, but a two-way promise with a god who has numbered His posterity, no matter how numerous.

Tomorrow will be brought to you by the Letter B.

C: doppelgänger

A few months ago you might have read or taken part in the Facebook *doppelgänger fad, when people changed their profile image to that of a celebrity look-a-like.
I was trying on celebs like shoes and none of them seemed to fit. Three months later I resubmit my second-self: Tina Majorino. Big forehead. Nose matches. Good enough. Not a true double but if the script of my life ever pans out she’s got job security.

In reality, however, social network fads aside, my true doppelgänger is a blue koala. Back in 2000, the summer Olympics were held in Australia and Texaco offered Inside-Outback plush toys. My parents purchased all of them and eight years later gave them to Caleb.
After a good washing, a hideous blue koala/soccer ball, predating Disney’s Stitch, quickly became newborn Caleb’s favorite. Why? We have a theory. The premise of which is largely based on the facial features of the koala. Unlike other toys it has a flat face that includes two eyes, a nose and mouth similar to the facial features of a human. Basically, Caleb thinks his plush friend is human and since he has associated with the toy since an early age, I’d venture to say Caleb regards it as a family member. In fact, it is one of his “babies”.

If asked what Caleb’s first words were I’d respond: quack, Dada and Ah-yah-yah. That’s right, Ah-yah-yah trumped Mama by at least four months, but that is mine own fault. I would puppet the koala to say, “Hi, Caleb, I’m a koala and I’m from Australia,” and Caleb, a recluse child, would smile and giggle. If you have ever been a new mom you’ll understand this: newborn smiles are like crack. They keep you going. Towers of dishes erect, laundry become plentiful heaps, sleep dwindles, but your child’s smile is a triumph of world-peace proportions.

So after reciting Australia day in and out (babies are the only ones who think broken-records are entertaining) Caleb started jabbering Ah-yah-yah. Nowadays though, he makes a weird tongue-waggling sound in regards to Ah-yah-yah that I cannot imitate or give phonetic-justice. For the sake of onomatopoeia, I apologize for this!

Recently Caleb, when asked, “What are you doing?” will respond with “badaduh TOWER”, “COLORS”, “HELPing”, “WOLKing”, “THROW” or “KICK” as he commences his toddler-business of stacking blocks, coloring, picking up and relocating toys, adventuring outside and playing with a ball. He enjoys playing ring-around-the-roses and duck-duck-goose with Ah-yah-yah and Ducky. He puts them in time-out for bad behavior especially after he has warned “STA-OP!”

Lately, as I buzz about with my household chores, putting dishes away, fixing the couch cover for the umph-teenth time, dusting, sweeping and whathaveyou, in my peripheral vision I’ll spot Ah-yah-yah, deserted and often face-down on the floor. It has been happening more frequently. Caleb has found other activities to occupy his time. No need to tote around Ah-yah-yah anymore unless he needs a third for duck-duck-goose.
This is a glimpse of myself. My role as mother is shifting from a security blanket to a wet one. Most days I enjoy his independence. These are my face-up days. I’m smiling and relaxing, and the house is in order because I have the means of free time. Then there are those face-down moments when I have a pang of baby hunger. It usually subsides after fruitfully reading a line of a book without needed repetition, completing a project, going for a walk outside, saying a lengthy prayer in reverence, realizing I’ve had at least eight hours of sleep each night for over a year now or using the restroom uninterrupted. You know, the benefits.


I’m glad I have what little intimate time I do with Caleb now. I think he needs it as much as I do.
Part of me misses the possibilities that having a healthy second pregnancy could have produced. I see how Caleb interacts with his peers. He is considerate and meek. I think back to when he was blessed and given his name that he was commissioned to be a good brother and to help his parents raise his siblings, to be an example. His middle name is a constant reminder that he was meant to be a forerunner of other children. There are no doubts that he would be a wonderful big brother, but now is not his dispensation. Until further notice it is a time of acquisition rather than mentoring for Caleb, for whatever reason.

And as for Ah-yah-yah and me, well, we have each other to keep company. I think we’ll join a spin class, recite poetry, volunteer for habitat for humanity, take up underwater basket weaving or just

something.

As for the picture?
Besides the occasional ring-around-the-rosie, Ah-yah-yah has been known to dabble in hide-and-seek. Caleb and I take turns hiding and finding the koala.

Ah-yah-yah Blog Cameos:
Birthday No. 2
All You Need is
1953: A Very Good Year
Memorial Day Parade
Caleb Aerobics


*Argh, don’t even get me started on the accurate meaning of doppelgänger and how a literary term has now been reduced to a mean a person is a mere twin. Curse you, Facebook, on behalf of Mary Shelley and literary-enthusiasts everywhere!

Caleb saying "Ah-yah-yah"

Come back tomorrow for: A

Readers' Choice

Hardy-har-har. I’m back. For now.
With everything that I could possibly post about today, I couldn’t decide what to write about.
So, here’s snap-shots of three promising posts. Trust me when I say: they are not what they seem. Each will be lengthy.
Comment below and let me know which snap-shot you are interested in reading about.
Polls close Friday. Post will be published on Monday.
Ain’t got nothin’ but love, babe,

eight days a week.

Priceless.

8 semesters of
higher education:
$$$$$


Losing your degree
during your last move:
priceless

Tonight I regrouped my search efforts for the most expensive paper of my life:
my Bachelor of Science degree in English Education.
Ever since we moved into the house it has been MIA.

My way of finding things: rummaging around aimlessly before prodding Mike to help.
Tonight, Mike is staying late in Cambridge, so he left me no other option:

let’s get ready to RUMM-AGE!

And you know what, after going through my recommendation letters, my old assignments, sketches, love letters and other odds-and-ends I remembered something:

I was good at what I did. Whatever that was.

Once, not too long ago, but it seems so removed from the now, I use to be good at

something.

Reading the endorsements of my professors paints a picture of a capable rising-teacher.

These days, I feel anything but

capable.

PS Yes, my degree is still missing.

Oh SNAP!: Easter edition

Just some snap-shots:

~click photos to enlarge~

Easter Greetings

More next week.

PS The Easter egghunt was WAY past Caleb's naptime. :)