The Husband Store

“Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” 
~ Henry Higgins (My Fair Lady) 

Recently, after having my monthly acupuncture treatment, my therapist tested me for a “Bach Flower” remedy to enhance my treatment during the following month. Now for those of you who know a little something about homopathic medicine, you know that Bach Flowers are medicinal remedies made from flower essences to aid and assist emotional healing. Every Bach Flower has a negative and a positive quality. Positive qualities are displayed when our emotions are balanced, while the negative qualities surface when our emotions are imbalanced. So you might say that having your body call for a particular Bach flower is like wearing a Scarlet Letter displaying all your worst qualities! Needless to say, it can be a test of self evaluation––facing your reality and understanding how others may see you.

Bach Flower remedies are usually short-term remedies—a little pick-me-up, that helps rebalance and redirect your emotions positively. While the negative traits can be a slap in the face with your own reality, more annoying to me is that my husband never needs one. Never! My husband, who also has a monthly acupuncture treatment at the same clinic, never tests for a remedy. Why is this? “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” 

If I entered a room full of men and women and asked if anyone knew what a Bach Flower was, more than likely there would be a handful of women who not only knew what they were, but would instantly relate personal testimonials of their effectiveness. The men in the room wouldn’t have a clue. Or care. At all. As women, we display our emotions on our sleaves for all to see. We are sharers of information and caregivers of emotional therapy to oneanother. A simple question posed in a group of women can be the opening statement for a thesis of wisdom! Men, on the other hand, tend to keep their emotions safely bottled up inside themselves. When asked a direct question, they answer it––short and to the point. The End. They don’t feel the need to share life experiences or personal anecdotes. They are content to let others “live and let live” without need of their acquired knowledge. Instead they save up all their buried emotions as “road rage” for the jerk that cuts them off in traffic, or “phone range” for the unsuspecting phone solicitor who has called one too many times! But as women, we enjoy sharing every aspect of our lives with one another, leaving our husband’s to wonder, “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?”

So in honor of the month we celebrate Father’s Day––our sons, husbands, dads, and grandfathers, I am sharing this wonderful allegory. Although unflattering to my gender, it is a humorous example of our high female expectations. A man takes life at face value, allowing everyone to be themselves more or less. As women we expect more. We expect perfection. With women there is always room for growth and improvement––especially within ourselves, and more importantly within our husband’s! Enjoy!

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The Husband Store 

A store that sells husbands has just opened in New York City, where a woman may go to choose a husband. Among the instructions at the entrance is a description of how the store operates. You may visit the store ONLY ONCE! There are six floors, and the attributes of the men increase as the shopper ascends the flights. There is, however, a catch: You may choose any man from a particular floor, or you may choose to go up a floor, but you cannot go back down except to exit the building.

So, a woman goes to The Husband Store to find herself a husband.

On the first floor, the sign on the door reads: Floor 1 — “These men have jobs and love the Lord.”

The second floor sign reads: Floor 2 — “These men have jobs, love the Lord, and love kids.”

The third floor sign reads: Floor 3 — “These men have jobs, love the Lord, love kids, and are extremely good looking.” “Wow,” she thinks excitedly, but feels compelled to keep shopping.

She goes to the fourth floor and the sign reads: Floor 4 — “These men have jobs, love the Lord, love kids, are drop-dead good looking, and help with the housework.” “Oh, mercy me!” she exclaims. “I can hardly stand it!”

Still, she goes to the fifth floor where the sign reads: Floor 5 — “These men have jobs, love the Lord, love kids, are drop-dead gorgeous, help with the housework, and have a strong romantic streak.”

She is thrilled and so tempted to stay, but unable to resist her curiousity, she goes to the sixth floor where the sign reads: Floor 6 — “You are visitor 4,363,012 to this floor. There are no men on this floor. This floor exists solely as proof that women are impossible to please. Thank you for shopping at The Husband Store. Watch your step as you exit the building, and have a nice day!”

I Like New Things!

I LIKE TRYING NEW THINGS! I like new movies, rarely seeing the same movie twice, unless, of course, it’s an all time favorite that I haven’t seen in a number of years. But usually I like the anticipation of seeing something new––to be surprised at the ending. I like old movies too, because they remind me of my childhood and simpler, less complicated times. But generally I love old movies that are new to me––one’s where it has been so long since I’ve seen them that I’ve forgotten the plot, or else old movies I have never seen before, starring a favorite actor or actress of mine.

I like reading new books, seeing new theatrical productions, downloading new music, and trying new foods. I like new, never before tried, fruits and vegetables, and to experience new ways of preparing them. I like new recipes. Other favorites are new puppies, spring flowers, baby chicks, and the feel of a new born baby’s soft head on my shoulder. I like the smell of new leather in a new car, the fresh smell of newly washed sheets, and wearing new clothes. I like new holiday decorations, new home decor, new technology, and new innovative ideas. I LIKE NEW THINGS!

I was raised by two very modern parents. They grew up during the Depression years, but were never opposed to change and improving their situation. They never hung onto old, worn out things—”hoarding” was not a word in their vocabulary. They threw out the old, replacing with new. Material possessions were saved for financially and taken care of carefully, but not valued above family. Treasures were photos and memories written down for posterity. They were an oddity for their generation of people—a generation who grew up learning not to waste—saving string, elastics, used tinfoil, and black bananas. My parents were not risk takers. They did not go into debt. They were financially conservative—saving money for the future. When they bought their first house my mother made herself a bedroom dressing table from an old wooden orange crate, contact paper, and material scraps, and she passed those creative skills on to her children. When I was young, growing up in the summers at our Bear Lake cabin, I remember mother showing me how to take boards and apply contact paper to them, stacking bricks between them to make my own small dressing table. She even hung a mirror above it. I remember collecting sea shells and painting them with clear fingernail polish, proudly displaying them on my little vanity table. As a young bride, I used this principle to build our first bookcase. Our first marital kitchen table was a card table we received for a wedding present, sporting a round plywood topper, covered with contact paper for washability. I was raised by parents that taught us how to MAKE OLD THINGS “NEW.”

The first “new” house my parents built was a “modern” house. Everything was custom-built from the beds to the kitchen cupboards. My mother designed it, decorated it, and painted every square inch of the interior by herself. She was one of the first of her generation to have the same color of carpets and wall paint throughout her house. My father was equally innovative. He landscaped the yard with cement sidewalks and patios everywhere, including a big fish pond and a cement wading pool. His irrigation ditches were cemented in too. We even had cement borders around our garden and play yard. The man loved making cement! He kept everything looking new. Car’s were never rusty and fences always had fresh paint. HE LIKED NEW THINGS.

My name, “Linda,” was a new, modern name from the 50s. I have never met anyone with my name that wasn’t born during that era! When I asked my mother how I got my name, she said she liked it because it was cute and “modern.” It was new, and MY PARENTS LIKED NEW THINGS!

Once my husband and I bought an old waterski boat because it looked brand “new.” It was a beautiful yellow boat that had been well cared for by it’s owner. It was clean and shiny and the leather seats were in perfect addition. We decided “old or gently used” was the way to go––an affordable way to teach our kids how to waterski! We bought the boat with my brother and his family and together we looked forward to a summer full of fun at our own Bear Lake cabin. We even established a list of rules so our “old” boat would continue to look brand-new. Funny thing though, every time we took the boat out on the lake the engine would suddenly stall and we couldn’t get it going again. That would be followed by several weeks in the repair shop getting it fixed. I think that boat spent more time in the shop getting fixed that summer than it actually did in the water! I can remember countless outings, sitting in the middle of the lake unable to get the boat to start, finally paddling it to shore! Thank goodness that boat came with a lovely set of shiny new ores! It didn’t run, but boy—was it shiny and clean. And we were dedicated to keeping it that way. Every time we brought it back in from another disappointing excursion on the lake, we cleaned it until it shone like a shiny new penny! However, by the end of that summer we discovered it was better to buy “new” rather than inheriting someone else’s “old” problems. Lesson learned. That’s why I LIKE NEW THINGS!”

Spring is my favorite season because it brings with it “new” growth––new sunny weather after a winter’s sleep, fragrant new flowers, fresh new garden vegetables, new buds on the fruit trees, and new blades of green grass. I like that spring symbolizes being “new” and I like that we celebrate Easter in the spring––a symbol of hope and renewal of our Savior’s unconditional love—His atoning gift. I LIKE NEW THINGS!

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“Don’t quit. Keep trying. Don’t look for escapes and excuses. Look for the Lord and His perfect strength. Don’t search for someone to blame. Search for someone to help you. Seek Christ, and, as you do, I promise you will feel the enabling power we call His amazing grace.” ~ Brad Wilcox (“His Grace Is Sufficient,” BYU Devotional Address, July 12, 2011 


“Surely the thing God enjoys most about being God is the thrill of being merciful, especially to those who don’t expect it and often feel they don’t deserve it. .… However many mistakes you feel you have made or talents you think you don’t have, or however far from home and family and God you feel you have traveled, I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines.” ~ Elder Jeffrey R. Holland (“The Laborers in the Vineyard,” General Conference, April 2012)

Memories of Dad

There is a missing piece in my family this year, as our beloved father has hung up his final gone fishin’ sign and returned to his Heavenly Home. My father, Milton, loved to fish, but he is warmly remembered as a fisher of men.

Leon Milton Sealy, age 89, passed away on Wednesday, November 30, 2011 at the Ted Warthen Center, in the St. George, Utah, from causes due to old age. On Monday, December 5, 2011, family and friends came together to celebration his life—his graduation day!

Dad has returned home into the loving arms of his Heavenly Father. If you are wondering what he’s doing now, I know . . . because when I was a little girl dad used to tell me that when we went to heaven we would all get to do what we loved best in life. He’d say, “Don’t worry about me Linda, I’ll be up there fishin' and making donuts!” So there you go!

Whatever dad is doing now, I know he’s excited to be working again! Dad’s motto for success was, “Work, Work, Work!” Work was dad’s play! There is nothing he enjoyed more than working in his garden, cleaning out his fishpond, or digging a post hole. Playtime for dad was a day of fishing or logging in the mountains.

I remember one particular summer when my husband, Dale, and I decided to take our children on an afternoon boating trip to play in the shallow, warm water along the North Bear Lake shore. We packed a lunch, preparing to spend the afternoon away from our cabin. As usual, dad was outside chopping wood and I asked him if he’d like to come along. He said, “Why would you want to do that? We’ve got water here!”

“I know Dad,” I said, “but the water on the Idaho side is shallow and warm and the kids love to play there.” Reluctantly he decided to come along, and soon we were all on the North shore, playing in the water and having a great time.

I remember sitting on the beach beside Dad while we ate a sandwich together. He looked at me with a big Milt grin on his face and said, “So are we having fun yet Linda?”

I said, “Sure Dad! See how much fun the kids are having in the water?”

Then he laughed and said, “Are you sure it wouldn’t be more fun to be back home digging a post hole or planting a tree?” That was Dad. He loved to be outdoors working hard.

When I think of my father, I think of him as “a big fish” in the big fish pond of life. He just loved to fish. In our house the cost of material possessions were counted in dozens of donuts he’d need to make to pay for them, and jokes were related to fishing! His great sense of humor gave us laughter and the strength to endure the hardships and sorrows of life. When I think of my father I think of his big smile, the twinkle in his eye, and all of his funny sayings. No matter what happens in my life, I can always hear my dad’s voice in my head––the things he said, or would have said, in any given situation. For example, when talking about his posterity he’d say, “We need more Indians in this family. We have too many chiefs!” When bragging about his Grandchildren he’d say, “There’s not an ugly one in the bunch!” On my college graduation day he said, “Well congratulations Linda! But ya know . . . college graduates are some of the stupidest people I know––very little common sense!” And before he’d leave for work in the morning he’d pop his head in my little sister Loni’s room and say, “Well, ya going to amount to anything?” We hope he’s looking down on us now, seeing how great all his Indian Chiefs turned out.

When I think of my dad I recall the proud look he had on his face the day he and mom returned home from their LDS Church mission service. When I think of my father I think of a man that stood for honesty beyond reproach. He always took responsibility for his actions––his mistakes. I remember him saying, “I have no one to blame but myself. I did it to myself!” His Patriarchal Blessing said he would be “a help unto many people in showing them the right way to go, setting an example before all men—of the life of a true Latter-day Saint.” That was Dad.

Throughout my high schools years I worked in Bear Lake during my summers. Most of the time the family was at the lake, but once in a while it was just Dad and I. I remember after being alone for a few days I called home from work to see when they were coming back. “When are you coming back Dad?” I said.

Dad’s voice was reassuring over the phone. “Don’t worry Linda. I just wrote you a nice letter explaining everything. We’ll be there soon. And don’t forget to water the lawn!”

I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to get to the post office. Imagine! A letter from my dad! Dad wasn’t one to write letters––mom was the writer of the family. So you can imagine my excitement when I retrieved the long #10 business envelope from the post office, with my name on it. I ripped open the envelope revealing a small, yellow, ripped notepad sheet with the words: “Linda . . . Be there soon. Water lawn, Milt.” Dad was never one for small talk—he was direct and to the point.

I know that each of us are called home in the Lords time––when our mission is complete. Dad had several near death experiences before his actual death, but he was preserved in life until his mission was completed. Once Dad was involved in a terrible accident while on his way to work at Won-door Corporation. His lightweight truck was struck from behind on the freeway causing him to roll several times. The highway patrolman at the scene of the accident looked into the cab of Dad’s pickup truck and saw him laying on the floor with his eyes wide open. “You're alive!” the officer exclaimed.

“I believe I am!” was Dad’s reply. Later, when Dad went to claim his tools from the salvage yard, he was told that they had been sold because they thought that, “no one could have survived that wreck!”

After that Dad always said that, “When it's your time to go, it's your time! Not before!”

Only God knows when it’s our time. He is in charge. He gives us each breath. He is preserving each of us from day to day, lending us breath, that we may learn, grow, and love, and to serve one another. Dad was lovingly served by many willing hands in his declining years. He came to accept that service, and along with him, we are so grateful for the love and care he received. Surely there is a great mansion prepared in Heaven for such a man of love and strength—where he can continue to do great work among men, as a new fish in a Heavenly sea.

Dad’s younger brother, Ramon, has said that Dad was the “single most influence in his life—one of his real heros and a great role model.” I have to agree. He was my hero too.

I love you Dad. Work hard, and don’t forget to water the lawn! We’ll be there soon!

Magical Monkeys and Milk Chocolate Christmas

Growing up in my family, Christmas was always a celebrated event. My parents were children when the Great Depression began in late 1929, so they both grew up understanding what it meant to be poor. Their families worked hard, but with large families and difficult economic conditions, there was little money to spend on fancy toys and pretty dresses that children often dream about. However, they had their families, and in their love they were happy and contented.

My mother doesn’t remember feeling poor, because everyone they knew was in the same financial condition. They grew their own food, and traded for things they did not have. Mother grew up in the warmth of a loving family. Perhaps because of her meager possessions as a child, or perhaps just because she loved the happy memories of Christmas morning, warm coal stoves, and oranges and peppermint candy … my mother always worked hard to make Christmas an extra special day for each of her children.

I remember my mother hand flocking her own Christmas tree with our old canister vacuum—white clouds of fluffy snow filling the carport, as she sprayed the green branches of our freshly cut Christmas tree. While most of the neighborhood decorated their Christmas trees with traditional colored twinkle lights, candy canes, and silver icicles … Mom was a trend setter and liked modern, designer trees with big red and purple balls, soft white lights, and coordinated wrapping paper. She’d paint Christmas scenes on the front window and hang twinkle lights around it. And there was the Christmas sewing. Throughout December, Mom’s Singer sewing machine could be heard late into the night, long after we were asleep. On Christmas morning there would be new pajamas, Christmas dresses, and doll clothes, skillfully made with her two hands.

Dad used to tease mother and bark in a loud, gruff voice, “Christmas … Humbug,” with a twinkle in his eye. But he’d work hard for extra money to give mom for the shopping, and we knew he enjoyed Christmas as much as we did.

As the big day got closer he’d jokingly question my mother, “Is Santa bringing anything special to Linda?”

They had a communication code in front of the children because Christmas secrets and surprises were part of the anticipation of the long awaited day. Mother would reply, “Yes dear, Santa is bringing her a D … O … L … L,” spelling the letters of my secret gift.

“A what?” Dad would say. And then it would suddenly click in his head what she’d spelled out, and he’d blurt out loud, “Oh, … a doll!”

“Milt!” my mother would exclaim shaking her head and hoping I hadn’t heard. They were like a hysterical comedy team of players and I loved the dance between them.

On one particular Christmas I wanted a monkey. I imagined having a “real” live monkey—a blackish-brown, furry, clothes wearing chimpanzee—like in the popular 1965 Disney movie, “The Monkey’s Uncle,” (with Tommy Kirk and Annette Funicello), that created the hit song by the same name. I was a young naive teenager, as well as an Annette Funicello fan, and having a pet monkey around sounded like a blast. After all, it worked for Annette. 

The monkey was the main item on my Christmas wish list. My mother pointed out how impractical having a real monkey around the house would be and the improbability of ever sharing our home with such a smelly animal. I understood, but kept it on my list just in case ole’ “Santa” had a change of heart.

Right before Christmas, Dad came home with a package of two-inch “milk chocolate” Santa’s—colorfully wrapped in foil Santa suits. My younger brother and I were wide-eyed and curious. Chocolate candy was rare in our home. Were they for us?

The next morning we discovered the mouth watering Santa’s had been placed on specific presents under the tree, identifying Dad’s gifts to each of us. We were so excited! I could hardly wait to find out what Dad’s special gift to me would be. We knew our parents were the real Santa’s, of course, and that mom did the majority of the Christmas shopping. So to have a special gift marked just from Dad, was a thrill we hadn’t expected. I counted the days until Christmas.

On the long awaited day there were stockings hanging on the fireplace—filled with candy and small toys. There were wrapped presents galore and several opened Santa gifts, waiting to be discovered under the tree. I looked around curiously for my monkey and wasn’t surprised to find him missing-in-action among the hall of Santa gifts. It was a glorious Christmas morning full of surprises and shouts of joy. I saved the best for last—my gift from Dad, wanting to savor the chocolate Santa and whatever the contents of my gift would be. Much to my surprise, attached to the present was a note written in Dad’s scribbled hand, explaining Santa could not bring my monkey, but hoped the gift would take it’s place. I ripped off the wrapping paper—revealing a huge, furry, blackish-brown, thumb sucking, stuffed, toy monkey—wearing rubber white tennis shoes. I was in love—with the monkey for sure, but mostly I was filled with love for my Dad and his desire to fill the wishes of my young impressionable heart.

Now, as I prepare for Christmas for my own family, I try to create the memorable traditions of my youth—the designer Christmas tree and coordinated wrapping paper, Christmas lights, and Christmas surprises. It’s not about the money or material possessions … It’s about the magical feeling … creating a special day and being with those you love on “His” special day. I like to fill the stockings with small toys and special trinkets—like my mother did. And I try to find the Christmas magic—with that one special surprise under the tree … Like that “Magical Monkey and Milk Chocolate Christmas” so long ago.

Blessings From Lyme

Earlier in the month I attended a local Lyme support meeting at the Alta View hospital. I have mixed feeling about attending these meetings—wanting new information, but not wanting to focus my life on the disease. This disease called “Lyme” does not define “who I am,” and I refuse to allow it to bring me down.

The meeting turned out to be very informative and truly a “wonderful day.” They try to address all aspects of health improvement at the monthly meetings, and this month we discussed the medical benefits of essential oils. Interestingly, it was a discussion specifically about my favorite dōTERRA essential oils! I even learned some new things about fighting the Lyme battle that I didn’t know before.

Towards the end of the meeting the group leader, Jenny Bezzant, who is also Mrs. Utah and a fellow Lymie, gave us a sheet of paper with a stethoscope water image on it to use in an emotional exercise. We were asked to address the statement, “Things Lyme has taken away from me.”

I let go of the anger and sorrow associated with my condition long ago, so I didn’t expect to gain anything from the emotional exercise. However, it turned out to be an interesting experience for me. As we each shared our feelings I was surprised at the sadness still hidden deep within. We learned that it is important to address our sorrow over about the things Lyme has taken from our life, instead of putting on a happy face and stuffing those feelings inside. As children we are often taught it is a sign of weakness to display our emotions. Loving, well-meaning parents calm our fears and tell us not to cry—to be a “big” boy or girl. We learn to hide our true feelings, fearing the judgement of others. Interestingly, as we shared our feelings and a few tears were shed, the emotional release in the room felt extremely healing.

After we finished Jenny gave each of us a second piece of paper with a beautiful river stream of life-giving water on it. We were asked to address a second statement: “Things Lyme has given me.” Interestingly most of us had a longer list of things Lyme had “given us”—blessings of gratitude that we wouldn’t have realized otherwise!

Lyme disease has taken away my ability to be the wife, the mother, and the grandmother I’d wanted to be. I wanted to be the grandmother that hosted slumber partied and made gingerbread cookies with her grandchildren. I’d wanted to be the mother who took her grown children shopping and out to lunch and tended their children. I wanted to be the wife who traveled to far away places with her husband in joyous retirement.

However, that was not to be. So in honor of the month of Thanksgiving, I’m counting my blessings with those of you who are suffering from your own life challenges. We all have our own “Lyme disease” or trials. Everyone is walking his or her difficult path. May we have compassion for one another and learn to live in gratitude for all we have been given. And in doing so, may you come to realize your gifts far outnumber your sorrows!

Things I Have Gained From Lyme:
1. Tranquillity—I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore—fingerprints, broken China dishes, or spilled milk.
2. Being Present in my Life—I live more in the moment, enjoying each day with whatever it brings.
3. Closer Relationships—I enjoy close relationships with each of our children and with my husband—who demonstrates his unconditional love for me daily.
4. The Love of Nature—I appreciate more fully the great gifts God has given us—the sunshine, rainbows, sunsets, trees and flowers.
5. Remembrance of My Love of Music—Somewhere along the hustle and bustle path of life, I’d forgotten how much music has always meant to me. It calms my Spirit and soothes my soul. And with our world of technology—iTunes, and iPods, it’s always available.
6. Knowledge—Learning has never been easier with the information Internet highway of electronic books. I’d forgot how much I enjoy reading for pleasure!
7. Laughter—They say, “Laughter is the best medicine,” and my life is blessed with all the various forms it comes in—hilarious things my grandchildren say, jokes I receive from friends in forwarded emails, my husband’s zany dry sense of humor, and the “laugh out loud” books and movies so easily obtained.
8. Knowing “Who I Am”—Lyme has given me a closer relationship with my Heavenly Father and the knowledge that I am truly “valued” in His eyes.
9. A Strong Testimony—My testimony of the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has grown and been strengthen. This is the greatest of all His gifts—to know “Who we are,” “Where we came from,” and “Where we are going” after this life.

In the words of one of my favorite recording artists and songwriters, Joshua Radin, “It’s a brand new day”—a day of gratitude for the gifts of Lyme. Like in the song’s lyrics, I hope “the sun is shining” for you during this season of Thanksgiving.

“Wishing you a day full of thanksgiving without the turkey hangover!”


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“A grateful heart … comes through expressing gratitude to our Heavenly Father for His blessings and to those around us for all that they bring into our lives … When we encounter challenges and problems in our lives, it is often difficult for us to focus on our blessings. However, if we reach deep enough and look hard enough, we will be able to feel and recognize just how much we have been given.” (“The Divine Gift of Gratitude,” General Conference, October 2010) ~ President Thomas S. Monson

Happy Days!

Our Wedding Day

June 26, 1972

Love brought us together . . . 


As husband and wife, 


And gave each of us . . . 


A best friend for life!

Happy Wedding Anniversary!!

“Who says you can’t have your cake and it eat it too!”

“After 38 years in this sacred institution of marriage, I can safely say, ‘There's no one with whom I would rather be institutionalized!’” 
~ Author Unknown

“What's the earth with all its art, verse, music, worth—Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?” ~ Robert Browning

May Babies—Lucky People!

“It’s May! It’s May! The lusty month of May! 
 That lovely month when ev'ryone goes blissfully astray!” 
~ Lyrics from “The Lusty Month of May,” Camelot

Today, on the 24th of the current lusty month of May, it snowed here in Utah! You’ve gotta love the unpredictability of this joyous month.

The saying goes that “April showers bring May flowers,” but in my family May has always showered baby girls! Three out of four daughters born to my parent’s were May babies, including me. Joyfully, my husband and I even had a lusty month baby of our own.

I have always loved being born in May, as flowers emerge beneath their winter coats and crops begin to sprout. There are people who even believe that being born in May is “lucky” because people born during the summer months seem to have a more positive outlook on life than those born during the winter months. My own great, great grandmother, Annie, was born during the summer months and they said she “always looked on the bright side of life!”

Scientists think the difference in outlook in summer month babies stems from the effect that daylight hours may have on dopamine, a brain signaling chemical, and early brain development of the fetus. At any rate, I’ve always considered myself to have a positive outlook and a good sense of humor. So I’m lucky to have been born a May baby, drawing in all that positive summer light and energy!

My daughter, Ashley, was a late May birthday gift to me. She was intended to have been an early present, but her due date came and went, along with my birth date, before she made her anticipated arrival. We’ve always teased her that she has been running a little late ever since!

I remember the day Ashley was born—as if it were yesterday. Born in the fifth month of the year, she was our fifth child and our fourth baby girl, born May 24th, just five days after my birthday. Although she was over eight pounds, she looked so little—petite, pink and cute. I couldn’t wait to take her home and go shopping for a “pretty in pink” ruffled blessing dress. For my other children—their blessing outfits were gifted, but with Ashley I was looking forward to picking out something special by myself. After having had twins prior to Ashley’s birth, one baby seemed easy—a piece of cake, and we were relaxed, cool and calm—pros at the wheel of parenting an infant. We sat back, joyously in love with our newest arrival, and just embraced our happiness. Ashley was welcomed into a home of ready made sisters and a brother, and having four older siblings meant her needs were instantly met. I don’t think we ever heard her cry hard until I weaned her at 11 months (she didn’t want to take a bottle).

I remember the day we brought Ashley home from the hospital. We had a shortened hospital stay due to flooding in Utah and water contamination. Not wanting to nurse my new baby with drinking fluids consisting of fruit juice and sugared soda pop, I opted for home. It was sunny and warm—a perfect “May” day, no need for a baby blanket of any kind. Prior to Ashley’s birth we’d built in our basement to make room for more children and because it was a beautiful day and I felt wonderful, we stopped on the way home to pick out brick for our downstairs fireplace! Afterwards we took our baby home to summer vacation and lazy summer days, quickly learning how to manage a household full of five children under nine years old.

Interestingly, the month of May was named after the goddess, Maia. In Greek mythology, Maia was the oldest of the seven daughters of Atlas—the most beautiful and also the shyest. In Roman mythology, Maia was identified with Maia Maiestas, a goddess equivalent to a goddess of spring. Like the goddesses Maia, the month of May represents the beauty of spring as it shyly comes forth to welcome the sunshine after a long winter nap. May also represents national holidays like Mother’s Day and Memorial Day. It is also home to little known celebrations like National Salad Month, National Egg Month, National Barbecue Month, National Hamburger Month, and Fungal Infection Awareness Month—now known as Lyme Disease Awareness Month.

May’s Birthstone is the “Emerald,” representative of “the green of life and enduring love!” Although almost all emeralds contain numerous flaws and cracks, these rare and valuable gemstones are the most beautiful, most intense, radiant green that can possibly be imagined. The green of the emerald is the color of life and of the springtime, but it has also for centuries been the color of beauty and of constant love. In top quality, fine emeralds are even more valuable than diamonds! I like to think that we who are May babies are much like the Emerald—beautiful, loving—rare gems, even with our numerous flaws and cracks! Hopefully—like the Emerald gemstones of May, we are still valuable in God’s eyes, even with our imperfections.

May’s Flower is the “Lily-of-the-Valley,” representative of “Faith, Courage, and Love.” The Lily-of-the-Valley is an old-fashioned delicate perennial, with tiny bell shaped flowers that bloom in the month of May. However, there is not anything delicate about this hardy shade-lover. Lily-of-the-Valley (Convallaria majalis) is a tough-as-nails perennial that will keep going after many others fail to thrive. Throughout my childhood, my dad used to loving refer to me as gentle and loving—”Linda Lamb.” I knew my parents loved me long before I knew I was a child of God—loved as His daughter. Who would have imagined that an unknown disease called “Lyme” would teach me of my true worth in His eyes and make a formerly tiny flower, tough as nails—surviving in the face of uncertainty and personal challenges!

Happy Birthday Ashley! 

 Here’s to my own little tough as nails beauty—a loving, lucky,
child of May!

“The world's favorite season is the spring. 
 
All things seem possible in May.” ~ Edwin Way Teale

It's May!

Tis like the birthday of the world,


When earth was born in bloom,

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume:

There's crimson buds, and white and blue,

The very rainbow showers


Have turned to blossoms where they fell,


And sown the earth with flowers.

~ Thomas Hood, Humorist and Poet

(May 23, 1799 –May 3, 1845)

A Big Fish!

My Dad—The Brad Pitt, “River Runs Through It” of his Day!

Dad’s Big Fish

Today is my father’s 88th Birthday. Dad could be referred to as “a big fish” in the little fishbowl of life. He has always loved to fish. While my mother has always had deep faith and a connection to the preexsistence, giving her children spiritual roots, my father has always been connected to the beauty of God’s rich earth. He has given us laughter with his dry sense of humor. Together they have given us the strength to endure the hardships and sorrows of life that have come to our family in numerous ways.

As a child, Dad made toy rabbits from the red clay soil near the river by his Logan, Utah home. As an adult, he enjoyed the splendor of his earthly home through gardening, landscaping, cement mixing, carpentry, and raising multitudes of animals such as rabbits, chickens, horses and cows. Dad was a master sportsman in his younger years, enjoying hunting, fishing, snow skiing, and water skiing. In the early days of water skiing he mastered jumping off the dock on one ski and holding the ski rope in his toe and in his teeth! If there was a motto Dad has always subscribed to in this life it would probably be, “Work, Work, Work!” He has always worked hard and been an excellent provider. Work has been his play.

High priority on my dad’s list of talents has been his lifetime love of fishing. Fishing, and his great love for the sport, has soared foremost above all of his other passions and interests. He and his father and two brothers more than likely fished every fishing hole from Utah to Wyoming. His delightful tall tales of the biggest fish that got away and his other fish related adventures, will forever bring a smile to those of us who love him dearly.

Now in the declining years of their lives, my parents have new challenges and trials that must be faced. Yet, as we search for answers and wonder why, we are reminded of the legacy of strength we have been given to endure to the end. My father has always been a simple man, completely honest, hardworking, and faithful. He is one of God’s finest, a true and noble Son of God.

My mother always said she could write a book about my father’s tall tales and amusing anecdotes about life, but she could never really capture his true essence. Instead, following a life threatening illness of her own, she used her recuperation time to recreate and write down a few chapters of Dad’s life. Gratefully, she has given them to me to share with their posterity when the time comes.

I have tender feelings for my dad—truly a big fish in his daughter’s eyes. Because of my limited mobility and health challenges I am unable to physically visit him. However, from the comments of my children and other family members who have visited him, I am aware of my father’s present condition following a stroke—a limited concept of time and places, and a mental challenge, bordering somewhere between Alzheimers and dementia. But even though he cannot remember everything in his past and has difficulty communicating, I believe his spirit is fully aware of what is going on around him. I know his spirit responds to those who love him as they visit, with a spirit to spirit connection. His granddaughter, Ashley said, “His eyes light up when his family enters the room. Even though he is pleasant and kind to his caregivers, it is obvious he feels a spirit to spirit connection when his family is there.”

When my mother had her stroke—one she miraculously recovered from—she experienced conversations that could only be explained as spirit to spirit dialog. Although she was unable to talk and others were not talking directly to her, she remembers very specific conversations she had with others in the room—a “spirit to spirit” connection.

Last year on Father’s Day, my sister’s and I decided to send my dad an ipod, fully loaded with his favorite coyboy music, hoping to stimulate his mind and bring him joy. How much of the music he actually remembered is unclear, but he felt the love connection given through his spirit . . . of this I am certain. When he took the telephone to try and express his thanks, he was overcome with sweet emotion, unable to speak any words at all. He said my name, and then just cried. In that moment we had a spirit to spirit connection and words were unneccessary. I felt his love and I knew he felt a daughter’s love for him. Filling my father’s ipod with music, researching his era of old songs, was truly a gift to me—bringing my father back home to me. As a kid I didn’t care for the country twang of his old favorites, but when rediscovering them again, I relished in memories of days gone by, reliving the music he loved to sing on his guitar. I still smile thinking about it and keep his favorites on my own ipod. “There was blood on the saddle, and blood all around . . . And a great big puddle of blood on the ground!” (Tex Ritter)

I know there will be a missing piece in our hearts when Dad hangs up his final ‘Gone Fishin’ sign and returns to his Heavenly home and his Savior, fisher of men. Surely there is a great mansion prepared there for such a man of love and strength, where he can continue his great work among men, a new fish in a Heavenly sea.

A Fisherman's Prayer

I pray that I may live to fish, 
Until my dying day.

And when it comes to my last cast,

I then most humbly pray:

When in the Lord's great landing net,

And peacefully asleep,

That in His mercy I be judged,

Big enough to keep!

“Love you Dad. Happy Birthday!”

The Starfish Theory

Legend of the Starfish

Adapted from “The Star Thrower” by Loren Eiseley (1907-1977)

A vacationing businessman was walking along a beach when he saw a young boy in the distance that appeared to be moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself at the thought of someone who would dance joyfully to the day, and walked faster to catch up.

As he got closer, he noticed that the young boy was not dancing at all. Instead he was reaching on to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean. It soon became apparent that there were many starfish along the shoreline that had been washed up by the tide, that would surely die before the evening tide returned. So the boy was walking slowly along the shore, occasionally reaching down to the sandy beach, and tossing a beached starfish back into the ocean.

As the businessman got closer to the boy he called out, “Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?”

The young man paused, looked up, and replied, “I’m throwing starfish into the ocean. The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die.”

“You have a good heart young man,” the businessman replied, “but do you realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!”

The boy looked up at that man, and then he looked down at a starfish by his feet. He picked up the starfish, and as he gently tossed it back into the ocean, he said, “I made a difference to that one.”

* * * * *

I have always been enamored by the unique simplicity of the Starfish, one of the most strikingly beautiful creatures of God’s underwater creations. Their beauty is magnified only by their interesting characteristics of five or more arms, and an often spiky appearance used for protection. Starfish are also known as “sea stars” and are not really fish at all, despite the name that has been given to them. These echinoderms are found in abundance in various patterns of bright colors and stripes, in deep blue seas as well as shallow waters.

In the story of “The Star Thrower” the sea stars that have been washed up on the beach are struggling to stay alive until the tide can carry them back home. Like the starfish, we are all His children, each one unique and loved like the other. We come in different sizes, shapes, and colors, each with varied personalities and viewpoints. We too are struggling, each with our own life challenges, learning and growing, trying to make it back to our Heavenly home.

In my extended family, we are each struggling on the sandy beach of life, trying to love one another, trying to make a difference, and trying to face our trials with dignity, while hoping to make it safely back home to the loving arms of our Father in Heaven. I have always been “Switzerland” in my family of sea stars, usually preferring to remain neutral, avoiding direct confrontation. The other sea stars are used to my family role, where problems and complaints can be aired without fear of retaliation. Switzerland sea star had become proficient in allowing other’s opinions to wash over her protected surface, nodding as if in agreement, even when viewpoints are not shared.

Recently however, I had an experience with extended family that become “messy,” to say the least.  For one of the first times in my life, I drew a line in the sand, standing up for what I believed was morally ethical, voicing my true opinion instead of being "Switzerland Sea Star," avoiding the expected house of hostility that would surely follow if I voiced my truth.  I had assumed we were all part of a team, working for the common good, each with a unique role in the care of our aging parents. Suddenly, without warning, I was hit with the reality that I had taken my role as financial adviser more seriously than was expected. It was made painfully clear to me by the rejection I experienced by one particular sea star, that I was only a volunteer "bill payer," and anything more was not appreciated or desired. Anything more was not my responsibility.

Nonetheless, finding my voice of differing opinion has changed the core dynamics of my extended family and I have discovered that some of the other sea stars “needed” my silence in order to believe their opinions were shared by the majority, therefore retaining their desired power. Finding my voice was oddly “freeing” after years of unsaid opinions came rolling in with the afternoon tide. Unfortunately, like the starfish, my older sibling’s protective spiky shell came out in self defense and I felt her immediate rejection of my opinion as she struggled to justify her actions. I felt clouded with feelings of insignificance and low self worth.

I searched my heart in prayer, wondering if my Father in Heaven was pleased with my stand of truth. My answer came in the form of a blessing given by a faithful home teacher, fulfilling his priesthood duty. He was not aware of anything going on in my life, yet I was not prepared for the remarkable words that came from his mouth. I KNEW they were not his words.  I can't even adequately express what they meant to me or the impression they made on my soul, as this treasured friend became God’s instrument, picking my struggling sea star from off the beach of sand, and gently throwing me back into the ocean where God’s gentle grace blessed me with loving words of courage, strength, and confidence. My joy was unspeakable! Unexpectedly I was told that my voice should never be silent again from that day on, as I learned and grew as His child of God.

Family comes to us from different places, and just as the star fish on the shore were struggling to get back in the sea, we are His children striving to feel His love and to know that we are each individually important to Him. So he sends another’s hands, like the small boy on the beach, to guide us back into His loving arms when we lose our way.

The story of “The Star Thrower” is a classic story from 1979, written by Loren Eiseley, both a scientist and a poet, and hailed as a modern day Henry David Thoreau. To this day his writing is the subject of much discussion and inspiration. The Star Thrower is a powerful story of the potential within each one of us to make a difference in the lives of others. It is a gentle reminder that we should be here for each other, to give service, even in small ways, whenever we can.

In such turbulent times as these, when we may often feel alone and small, unable to make any lasting changes in our lives, we may find ourselves asking, “What can I do that will make a difference? What can one person like me do?”

In reality we don't have to be rich, talented or even particularly intelligent to make a difference in the life of another. We just need to remember that we are all here for a purpose, and that making small changes in the world, eventually adds up to something bigger in the life of another.

No matter how small your action might be, it makes a difference to someone! One person can change the reality of another. When we become throwers of the stars, we too, have the power to change the world.

All My Children

Aleesha Elaine, 3 Years Old

“Babies are always more trouble than you thought, 
and more wonderful!” ~ Charles Osgood

This past week, on February 24th, my daughter, Aleesha had a birthday. She was born in 1976, which is amazing to me, as it seems like yesterday. Has it really been 34 years? Aleesha’s name was a favorite of mine, derived partly from an actresses' name on a soap opera I watched back then called, “All My Children.” Aleesha’s middle name, Elaine, belonged to Dale’s mom, altogether a beautiful combination of names.

I can’t believe it’s been over 34 years since I first held my new baby daughter in my arms. She arrived a few days early, having been expected on the 29th, doomed to be a leap year baby with a fluctuating birth date. Good planning on her part to come ahead of schedule.

Aleesha was the first of five little girls who would become their older brother’s best friend, sometimes tormentor, and ultimately care about and babysit his own children. I knew she would be a girl because of a dream I had before her brother, Cordale, was born. We had called him "Aleesha" for almost the whole nine months of pregnancy.  Somehow I could never picture myself being a good mother to a boy!  I didn't understand boys!  I'd grown up with only one brother.  However, right before Cord was born, in the days before Ultrasound, I dreamt I had two little children. One was a boy and the other a girl, and the little boy was just a little taller than the girl. It was then I realized my first baby would be a boy, preparing the way for his baby sister, still to come.

Aleesha was always mature for her age, as she rushed to grow up and keep up with her older brother. She was the earliest to walk of all our children (10 months), even with a broken leg at seven months that slowed her progress by a month. She served a mission in Brazil for the LDS Church at age 21, and with her fair inherited Scandinavian skin and light blond hair, she truly stood out among men! She is a loving mother to many, teaching third grade now for 10 years now. Her creatively and numerous talents make her a popular teacher and an asset to the teaching profession. She is a wonderful sister, aunt, and daughter to our family. I am proud to be the one she calls mother.

As a young girl I loved the books, followed by their movies titled, “Cheaper By the Dozen,” and “Bells on Their Toes,” all about a big noisy family with twelve children! I told everyone I wanted to have a dozen children, but I didn’t want to get married! I guess I was too young and naive to understand why this was a little disturbing to my parents, friends, and other family members. Fortunately, things turned out differently.

An anonymous quote I recently discovered says, “We shape our lives not by what we carry with us, but what we leave behind.” What I will leave behind after this life is the posterity I have been blessed with, and like the black, cursive carved letters on my bookshelf that say, “Blessed,” I am reminded daily of the gratitude I feel for the family I have been blessed with. I am blessed with unconditional love from my self-sacrificing husband, six talented service oriented children, their amazing spouses and my adoring grandchildren.

Having children was my greatest desire growing up and I expected it to be nothing less than ruffle bottomed panties, pink hair bows, shiny clean new penny faces, and organized wonderment. If I had been foretold about sleepless nights, worry over a sick child, and all the pressure, demands and chaos that go along with motherhood, perhaps I would have reconsidered. However, I would have missed out on an incredible experience and grown children who are now cherished friends. There is nothing like the smell of a newborn baby, fresh from heaven, with that soft little head lying on your shoulder. And there is nothing that equals sharing the joys and sorrows of each passing year of their lives.

If not for children, I would not have discovered who I am, or my potential in life. Instead I would have remained my "grubby old self," self absorbed, not knowing the joy of loving someone more than yourself. It has been more than wonderful!

My feelings about motherhood are reflected in this simple verse by Anne Campbell, written on behalf of her child.

You are the trip I did not take;


You are the pearls I cannot buy;


You are my blue Italian lake;


You are my piece of foreign sky.


(“To My Child,” Quoted in 'The Treasure Chest,' 1965, 54)

How Do I Love Thee?

Our Engagement (April 24, 1972)

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach . . .” These famous romantic words, penned by poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, are considered to be some of the most unconditional words of love, transcending all love throughout history.

Recently I had an opportunity to ponder this author’s life when I saw on old black and white 1930’s movie on television called, “The Barretts of Wimpole Street.” Elizabeth Barrett was born in England in 1806, the oldest of twelve children. She was well educated and read Shakespearean plays, among other great works, before the age of ten. By her twelfth year she had written her first “epic” poem, which consisted of four books of rhyming couplets. However, by the age of fourteen, Elizabeth developed a lung ailment that plagued her for the rest of her life. Doctors began treating her with morphine, which she would take until her death. In addition, at age fifteen, while saddling a pony, Elizabeth suffered a spinal injury. Despite her ailments, her education continued to flourish. She had a passionate enthusiasm for her Christian faith and taught herself Hebrew so that she could read the Old Testament.

In 1828, when Elizabeth was 22 years old, her beloved mother died, leaving her in the hands of her tyrannical father. Following this tragedy Elizabeth’s much-loved brother, Edward, also died, drowning in a sailing accident. Distraught and overcome with sadness, Elizabeth became an invalid and a recluse, spending the next five years in her bedroom at her father's home. She continued writing, however, and in 1844 produced a collection entitled simply “Poems.” This volume gained the attention of the famous poet, Robert Browning, whose work Elizabeth had praised in one of her poems, and he wrote her a letter.

Elizabeth and Robert exchanged 574 letters over the next twenty months! Unfortunately, their romance was bitterly opposed by Elizabeth’s father, who did not want any of his children to marry. So in 1846, the couple eloped and settled in Florence, Italy, where Elizabeth's health improved with Robert’s loving care and devotion. Elizabeth bore a son, her only child, three years later at the age of 43. Her father never spoke to her again.

Her poem “How Do I Love Thee?” was part of a collection of Sonnets written in secret before her marriage. The poem expressed her secret thoughts of her unconditional love for Robert, long before their mutual feelings were known. It was published in 1850, eleven years before Elizabeth Barrett Browning died in Florence on June 29, 1861.

Once my sister, Vicki, told me I was more fortunate than most, to have known, pure, unconditional love. I was taken by surprise by her comment, having never really thought about it before. I suppose it is easy to take for granted those rarest of gifts, having always possessed them. However, my husband, Dale, has always loved me unconditionally, even before we united and became as one.

Unconditional love—real love—is caring about the happiness of another person without any thought for what we might get for ourselves. It is a concept comparable to “true love” and said to be the greatest power known to man. Mystics, singers and poets have all expressed ballads of love—love that can fill us up, make us whole, and give us the happiness we all want.

Dale and I began seriously dating in the early 70s, still unsure about one another’s true feelings, while trying to discover our own little love story. The 1970’s quintessential romantic movie, “Love Story,” was popular in the movie theaters. I remember spending an afternoon watching it with my college roommates in a darkened, downtown Provo movie theater, sobbing uncontrollably, as it was representative of what every girl wanted. We didn’t want a sorrowful, tragic ending of course, but it gave us hope for romantic love, the kind that lasts forever.

I was afraid of marriage and in denial of my newfound feelings, continuing to write several missionaries and date other boys. Trying to postpone the inevitable a little longer, I was a talkative, humorous date, with no romantic intentions. During this time Dale was going to school and working in Salt Lake, while putting a lot of miles on his little green Mustang, coming to see me. The more I liked him, the more I tried to find excuses for not being available. At Christmas time I bought Dale a colored shirt and a tie, gently helping him depart from his tried and true returned missionary “white shirt” attire. I also made him a giant red stocking to hold the gifts, complete with three large lumps of black coal I’d picked out at a construction site. I intended for my gift to be more on the humorous side instead of sentimental, securing our relationship as “just friends.”

Dale on the other hand arrived on Christmas Eve with two little packages, small and suspiciously ring sized, or at least my family thought so. As I began to open the gifts, my family descended on us with the movie camera, quite an ordeal in the days of silent home movies with additional hand held lighting. Everyone, but Dale and I, breathlessly waited the “big moment,” when all would be revealed. We were blissfully unaware of their expectations, having no idea why they were all so interested in our gift exchange. Inside the first package I discovered a pair of beautiful, long dangly earrings. Inside the second package, carefully arranged and displayed, lay a perfect “real” hot pink, miniature rose with an intricate, miniature crystal vase. It might have been a let down to my anxious family, but to me it was the perfect gift, romantically from the heart. We became officially engaged the following April, resulting in a June wedding.

Dale has always had a green thumb. Not literally of course, but he has always loved working with plants, especially miniature ones. He helped his dad with the yard work growing up and especially enjoyed caring for the outdoor baby rose bushes. In high school he would often tie baby roses to the front doorknob of my house while I was at work. After his mission, Dale began growing his own miniature roses in a little greenhouse he set up in his bedroom. Dale pruned, watered, and pampered his little plants, waiting for the first rose blossom to bud. Finally after a few successful blooms, the perfect rose blossomed just in time to be his Christmas gift to me! The perfect rose for an imperfect girl, who didn’t know the best thing that ever happened to her, until he quietly slipped into her life and deep inside her heart. A very small rosebud, insignificant to most, but significant of the unconditional love that he has always given me.

 “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dale!” 
~ Love, Linda

“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life! 
 And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” 
~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“The Miniature Rose”—Given with Love, to Me!

“Lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, 
But what you want is someone who will
 take the bus with you . . . 
When the limo breaks down!” ~ Oprah Winfrey

What’s In a Name?

In Memory of Devro 
(Feb. 8, 1956 - July 2, 2007)

In his Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare said, “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Names . . . we all have one, and most people have a vague idea what their own name means. However few give it much thought unless it has a special significance. Sometimes our birth names warp into shortened versions of the original, spanning nicknames meant to be terms of endearment. Growing up in my family was no different. My brother Dev and I loved inventing nicknames for our entire family (alliterations of course), and that was before I even knew what an alliteration was!

I loved playing with words and the names we created were just plain fun to make up. Our sister, Vicki, was “Vicki Vampire,” which made us laugh, as she was our older sister and sometimes a little bit bossy. Judy was “Judy Jellybean,” or “Judy Jumping Jack,” which suited her lively energy and her love of candy. I was “Linda Lamb.” I don’t remember choosing my name, but everyone called me that, I suppose referring to my “don’t rock the boat,” non confronting, usually gentle nature. I didn’t particularly like my nickname, feeling like I was considered fragile. I wanted to be a “tough” girl, like Judy.

I’m not sure how my brother, Devro, got his nickname of “Devy Duck,” but it suited him, as he was forever charming and loved to talk - a real funny “quacker!” When our baby sister, Loni, came along we’d apparently run out of clever nicknames, as her beautiful name somehow got shortened simply to “Lomp” or “Lumpy,” as our cousins referred to her. The nickname “Lomp” was pronounced upon her head by our brother-in-law, Richard, who also referred to his own daughter, Monette, as “Mo.” Yes, Lomp and Mo were the best of friends. To this day, even though Loni is well over 40, Richard still calls her Lomp!

Devro and I also enjoyed making up nicknames for our parents. We settled on “Shirley Squirrel” for mom, due to a lack of a more creative animal beginning with the letter S. Later, after I was married, I discovered my mother’s nickname growing had been "Shirley Salad," as she loved to eat salad. But we didn’t know anything about that as children. Humorously I grew up calling my mother’s sister, "Aunt Fruity." It never occured to me that it was an odd name or that it wasn’t her real name! I just accepted it. In reality, her name was Ruth, nicknamed “Fruity” because she loved eating bottled fruit for her after school snacks.

I don’t think we ever came up with a good nickname for dad, as nothing in our young vocabulary of “M” words seemed appropriate for Milt. Ironically last year my sister, Loni, told me our dad had created his own nickname, calling himself “Clay!” I had never heard that story before and curiously asked how it had come about. Apparently after dad began working for Won Door Corporation, installing folding doors, he would sell the left over metal parts from his installations to the recyclers.  They wanted a name for their records, and not wanting to give them his real name, he used his favorite name, Clay! It was the name he’d regularly suggested to us as a possible name for one of his grandsons. When it was rejected, he took it for himself!

My sisters and I were all given middle names that were reflective of our patriarchal grandfather’s southern heritage. Southerners seem to like to combine two names as one, and we had names that followed suit . . . Vicki Ann, Judy Lyn, Linda Rae, and Loni Mae. We were all very Billy Bob, Samantha Jo, in a Billy Ray sort of interesting southern style way. The exception to the rule was in the naming of my brother, Devro, my parents pride and joy and only namesake.  My mother wanted to give him the unusual name of Devereux, derived from the beautiful French name usually reserved as a last name. However, Mom was worried about the complicated spelling and imposing such a big name on her young child.  The only spelling she knew of was “Devereux” and that seemed a lot to put on one baby boy.  Then a friend sent a gift for our baby brother. Having heard his intended name, but unsure of the correct spelling, she spelled it simply, “Devro.”  The rest was history. Mom, lover of all that is clean and modern, loved the new spelling! To this day we have never heard of, or seen another, with that American spelling of a French name!

I have always loved alliterations, naming my pets appropriately with names like, “Barnaby Bunny” and “Parakeet Pete.” However I also adore names with an added sense of humor, like “Jack Rabbit” and “Gregory Peck.” Following in their mother’s footsteps, our children named their pets and stuffed animals too, also giving nicknames to each other, their own little terms of endearment towards one another. Of course our sixth and final child got the brunt of the nickname game, as each of her older siblings bestowed their favorite upon her. “Mckenzie” became “KiKi” (pronounced Kee Kee), which was the name she called herself when learning to talk. Then there was “Mouse” or “Mickey,” after the famous Disney character coincidentally sharing her birthday, and also “Jo,” “Joey,” or “Josephine,” with no rhyme or reason other than they “could” do it, finally wearing her down into acceptance. The name torture continued with an imaginary friend named, “Fred,” that her sisters invented and convinced her really existed. It was mom torture as well when I’d hear her in her room airing her childhood complaints and the unfairness about her world to her only understanding friend, dear Fred. Sisters! Gotta’ love ‘em!

I have had many unfortunate nicknames of my own over the years. My mother’s youngest brother, Uncle Kay, called me “Linda Lou,” and occasionally “Linda Spinda.” I remember a big family Thanksgiving celebration in our basement one year, where his nicknames became an annoyance to my budding young teenager style. The relatives on that side of the family all lived fairly close in proximity, and they were coming to our house to eat. It was a special holiday celebration, so my sister, Judy, decided to give me a glamorous hairdo for the occasion. She enjoyed trying new hairstyles out on my long hair. I spent the morning in her little downstairs bathroom as she curled, ratted and sprayed my hair, creating a half up-do with long curls hanging beneath it. When perfection was finally achieved, I gracefully walked up the basement stairs to show off my magnificent new look. At that precise moment, Uncle Kay came bounding down the steps carrying food for our feast.

“Hello, Linda Lou,” he said, lovingly patting my new hairdo flat on my head, unaware of my horror and the painstaking hours I’d spent getting my glamourous hairdo. “How’s my Linda Spinda?”

Although, nicknames can often be a form of ridicule, mine were always considered desirable, symbolising a form of acceptance. In junior high I nicknamed myself “Lindy,” after a brand of pen I used, thinking it would be great to have a pen with my name on it. However no one else knew about it so the name never caught on. In high school the boys in the ward nicknamed me “Nelda,” for reasons I can’t recall. Unfortunately they took great delight in teasing me with it long after I was married. In college I acquired the nickname of “Cinda,” after a boyfriend read a story I’d been given in one of my classes titled, “Cinda I love You!” Somehow it stuck and everybody began calling me by the new name. Boyfriend even had license plates made for his car with the name Cinda on them. My claim to fame!

Nicknames are still very much a part of my life, having somehow transcended into my present day environment. Thanks to my son-in-law, Casey, some of my favorite things now have family nicknames that have become permanent sayings. Our tranquil living room with white couches, off-white carpet and glass end tables, meant to greet guests and provide peaceful harmony . . . has been renamed the “Air Lock,” referring to the sanitary feel of a room so white and clean that it takes your breath away . . . apparently not in a good way. After our daughter, Ashley, married, her empty bedroom became the “Secret Garden,” a place where Casey could hide away during family parties, reading a book to his hearts content. A treasured piece of modern white sculpture, a design meant to be elegant, simple and symbolic of life’s circle of love from the “Circle of Love” collection by Kim Lawrence, has become the “Whip Cream Statue.” And Finally, the purple bedroom, formerly occupied by our youngest child before she decided to abandon us and move downstairs to the Secret Garden, has become the “Guessing Room,” like “guess who lives there now?” Thank you Casey’s daughter, my grandchild, Acacia. Like father, like daughter!

Today is my brother’s birthday. He would have been 54 years old. Happy Birthday Devy Duck! I miss you now that you’ve joined Judy in our heavenly home. Has it really been over two and a half years since you left? You were always the life of the party and it’s not quite the same here without you. I can still see your mischievous smile in my minds eye, your hand waving “hello,” your famous wide mouth grin, the “Barney the Purple Dinosaur” voice you’d mimic perfectly, and the barking dog voice that scared us half to death when you’d jump out from behind closed doors. You have always been just as unique as your name! “ . . . By any other name would smell as sweet.”

"My Brother and I"

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” ~ Helen Keller 

Tears For Fears

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” 
~ Franklin D. Roosevelt

Remember the English pop rock duo in the early 1980s called, “Tears for Fears?” My sister once went into a record store to buy their album for her teenage daughters. Forgetting the group’s name, she requested a copy of “Rain and Pain,” much to her chagrin and the confusion of the sales clerk. To add further humiliation, she requested a copy of “Oxygen Mask,” her name for the group, “Air Supply.” Tears . . . Fears . . . Rain . . . Pain . . . Oxygen Mask . . . whatever gets the job accomplished. Right?

However, the name, “Tears for Fears,” has forever become a symbol in my mind of fear and sadness, tears shed for those humiliating experiences or fears we all have stored inside. The group, Tears for Fears, actually based their name on a technique called, “Primal Therapy,” developed by American psychologist, Arthur Janov, who became famous after becoming John Lennon’s (of Beetle fame) therapist. Primal Therapy is a trauma-based psychotherapy that believes that neurosis is caused by repressed pain of childhood trauma.

My sister, Vicki, is afraid of cats! That’s right . . . the soft, cuddly furry ones of the kitty cat nature! But as unreasonable as it sounds, the fear is deep seeded for whatever tramatic reason that caused it. And it was no laughing matter! As a little girl, I shared a bedroom with my teenaged sister, Vicki. My bedtime was long before Vicki’s, so I would carefully arrange my collection of stuffed animals around me before I went to sleep. My yellow, fluffy kitten was a particular favorite. Knowing anything furry brought shrill screams from Vicki, I was careful to hide it neatly beneath my pillow or some other undetected place, where I assumed it would be safe. I understood my mother’s fear of snakes and my own fear of twitchy-nosed mice and creepy spiders. After all, they were what I considered to be normal, sensible fears. But really? A furry yellow kitten, that wasn’t even real? Please!

I’d carefully hide my treasured kitty in a new place every night, hoping Vicki would not discover it when she came to bed. Much to my dismay and without fail, every morning I’d discover my stuffed animals scattered about the bed, victims of her crazed search for fuzzy kitty. Poor beloved, yellow fuzzy kitten, would be coldheartedly thrown on the floor! However, I was relentless and stubborn in my quest. Each night I persisted to hide my kitty in a spot I hoped would be undetected. But alas, it was a “no win” situation!

To this day my whole family has a cat prejudice. I myself have come to view them as disease carrying, mouse eating, winey little creaters . . . probably due to their disgusting mouse breath association and my own unrelistic fear of mice . . . rather than their actual cattness.

Experts say that the most common phobias are the fear of snakes, spiders, mice, heights, and water. Fear of public speaking, closed spaced, and flying in airplanes are also common phobias. There have also been reports of people having persistent, irrational, intense fear of a specific object, like clowns, pickles, grapes, or birds. Movies play into our fears too. Remember the old Alfred Hitchcock thrillers, “The Birds (1963),” and “Psycho (1960)?” Who could view massive amounts of birds flocking together and feel safe after that? Who could shower alone in the house without heart pounding tension and locking the bathroom door after witnessing poor Janet Leigh’s violin screeching demise? 



Yes, I have an irrational fear of mice. I am not particularly thrilled about spiders either, especially the big, hairy ones. However, these fears seem perfectly rational to me. Spiders, after all, are creepy and crawly, possibly poisonous. Who wouldn't be afraid? And don’t get me started on mice. Mice have twitchy noses, they squeeze into small spaces undetected, and they die in unpredictable places, leaving their disease-ridden feces behind them! 



The word “phobia” by definition, is a persistent, irrational, intense fear of a specific object, activity, or situation (the phobic stimulus), fear that is recognized as being excessive or unreasonable by the individual himself. Fear is defined as an emotional response to a perceived threat. It is a basic survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as pain or the threat of danger. It has been said: “Honesty, love, compassion, loyalty, dreams and ideals will all be tested by our fears and that the courage portrayed in the face of our deepest fears is the strength beneath all other virtues. The depth of our courage will be the roots that determine how high we can grow.” ~ Author Unknown



In a 2005 USA Gallup poll took a national sample of adolescents between the ages of 13 and 15, asking what they feared the most. The question was open ended and participants were able to say whatever they wanted. The most frequently cited fear (mentioned by 8% of the teens) was terrorism. The top ten fears were, in order of the most feared: terrorist attacks, spiders, death, being a failure, war, heights, criminal or gang violence, being alone, the future, and nuclear war.



Instead of ignoring our fears, we should treat them with tenderness and patience. They are an invaluable window into our inner life and the development of our soul. So face your fears, shed your tears, and be patient with those around that you that don’t understand.



"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.' You must do the thing you think you cannot do."  
~ Eleanor Roosevelt

“Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.” 

~ Marianne Williamson

Give Us Faith, So We’ll Be Safe

“Faith can give us courage to face the uncertainties of the future.”

~ Martin Luther King Jr.

There’s a beautiful song that singers, Andrea Bocelli, and Josh Groban, have both sung called, “The Prayer.” I have both vocal versions on my iPod. The lyrics are spiritually uplifting and can immediately calm me when I am stressed. “Lead us to a place, guide us with your grace; Give us faith, so we'll be safe.”

A week ago I decided to stay up and watch a late night movie. It was a thriller! My usual genre is romantic comedy or thought provoking drama with an inspirational message. I have to be in the “mood” for action adventure and I rarely watch anything really scary, especially at night before going to sleep. I hadn’t planned to watch the whole movie, as it was taped on my DVR, so I knew I could finish it later. I thought I’d heard good reviews about it and the actors captivated my interest, so I not only started the movie, but continued to watch into the late night hours. My husband gave up half way through the movie and was soon fast asleep beside me. Wide a wake, I continued to stare at the drama displayed before me on my television screen.

The movie began with a successful, happily married, romantic couple, buying their first home. However it soon became evident that all was not well in perfect “happy valley.” Don’t you just hate those movies where the heroine cautiously enters a dark room, just as the music alerts you to possible danger lurking ahead, only to have her say, “Is anybody there?”

“Of course somebody is there!” I want to scream. “Can’t you hear the scary music?”

Well, it soon became apparent that my late night movie was THAT kind of movie! Anyway, the movie eventually progressed to a frightening climax. My heart was pounding as the imminent danger lurked closer and closer. Then suddenly . . . the attacker! I let out a shrill, unsolicited scream! Beside me my husband continued to sleep peacefully, unaware of my outburst, evidence of his over tired condition. The movie concluded. All was well. I shut off the television, still thinking about the movie, now alone with my thoughts in our darkened bedroom.

I couldn’t sleep. All around the outer walls of our bedroom were dark shadows, misty and black, like dense, suffocating fog. I closed my eyes, telling myself it was only my eyes playing tricks on me after staring at the television screen too long. I opened my eyes again, but the shadows persisted, as if there was an evil presence around me. My heart began to pound and I began to feel an unnatural fear within.

I blinked my eyes numerous times, trying to clear the shadowy, dark thick images from my brain. They remained around the perimeters of my room. I closed my eyes and began to pray. I prayed for His Spirit to be with me and for administering angels to calm my fear. I prayed for His light to enter my heart and room, casting out the darkness of evil that had entered. Soon I felt His calming influence and knew His angels had responded to my plea. I felt safe in His arms of love and soon feel fast asleep. “Lead us to a place, guide us with your grace; Give us faith, so we'll be safe.” He is always there, if only we ask.

“Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be . . . a prudent insurance policy.” ~ Elizabeth Gilbert, “Eat, Pray, Love!”