"How Do You Do, Mr. Chinny, Chin, Chin?"

(At his "Cowboy Christmas" performance Dec. '08)
Sam's little flawless face has taken on a new rugged appearance this week.

On his way down for "What-ya-Got Cassarole" and Home Evening by the fire, Sam pushed himself up on the banister from the top step. Rather than mounting his imaginary steed, he flung himself right over it, tried to hold on to the rails, but fell a mighty fer piece. His chin and jaw took the brunt of the fall, and the hard wood floor and walls got a good red splattering. I called Terry for reinforcement. She came over immediately and set to work scrubbing away the evidence. His little body started into shock, and didn't want to move from the floor. The rest of our vigilant posse set us up with pillows and blankets, some ibufrofen and a dark rag for his battered face. We stayed there until Star arrived, then headed out for the E.R.

Sam showed real bravery and curiosity as his jaw was x-rayed, and we waited for the results. But as I watched the tissue emerging from his wound, I was grateful for the stitches that awaited. He was too, until he realized that the numbing they'd told him about came by way of a needle. That really tested his mettle. The staff was excellent --I couldn't have prayed for better. And as Dr. Anderson sewed him up, Sam, now pain-free, grilled him with a variety of thoughtful questions. The deal was sealed with the promise of a vanilla frosty from Wendy's, and a date with "The Crocodile Hunter" movie for the next day's viewing. The adrenaline wore off for me as I returned home and realized what might have happened had he landed at a different angle.

As much effort and energy as that Cowpoke has taken to parent--I was quite tortured imagining life differently. I put him in my bed the next night (Star had flown to SC for a conference) and held his little hand --grateful to hear his sleepy breathing.

The Velveteen Rocker

Since before I can clearly remember, my mother's blue striped rocking chair has creaked and squeaked as Wells babies were calmed there. Photos document it's age--as children, who now have children of their own, sit --timelessly piled in my young mother's lap. It was a place where books were read, nursery rhymes sung, and little heads --sweaty with fever--nestled close enough to hear her heartbeat.

The accompaniment of the creaking was constant. It could be heard through walls, a floor below.

As the years wore on, Wells children's legs growing more and more lanky, the soft velvet-like stripes wore thin. Eventually the seat was covered with a twin sheet, and moved out of my mother's room. When I brought my first-born from the hospital, we tried a couple of nights in our apartment alone, (Star was in the middle of finals for his 1st semester of graduate school), and then packed up for HOME. The rocker was placed in a room I had once shared with my younger sister, Carrie. In our canopy beds we had wondered what being "grown-ups" would feel like. I sat now, propped up with pillows, trying to learn how to feed my tiny child, the rhythmic squeaking keeping time to the Christmas carols I hummed to him.

My father has retired from BYU after a lifetime there. My mother has packed up her house and moved with him to South Africa. The seasons have changed. And while my mother now comforts her children from Skype, her worn rocker has not finished it's season. It has recently moved to the room of my sixth baby. It's fraying cushion and thread bare arms have been covered by a sheet to mask it's age. But it's familiar song is unmistakable.

I suppose a little WD-40 would quiet it significantly --it might have 30 years ago, but as that chubby baby's body relaxes against my body, close enough to hear my heartbeat, it's as though I can hear my mother's.

It is in the rhythm of that very "real" velveteen rocker.

Recycling Options

Last week as I set about clearing out --in a massive strike against clutter, I was ready to dispose of almost anything. I was impatient with the process, and wanted visible success. While my head stayed in the pantry, my hands discarding pots, pans, broken tripods into a small mountain --my DI and garbage pile began to decrease, rather than increase. Why? Because my children can create magic in their minds with what I have labeled as junk. After I came up for break in the playroom in order to feed the baby a bottle (no, he still has no interest in holding it on his own) I caught a glimpse of their wonderful world.

Furryville and Littlest Pet Shop metropolis --set up for Millie by Abbie

Why bother with the playhouse from Santa when a luxury home nestled in egg cartons is so much more accessible?

The camera man and his "wife" on their way to the Jungle. They are hoping to capture a photo of "Big Foot." (Can you guess what Sam has been reading about lately?)

This remarkable photographer has set his sights on the Himalayas for his next adventure. He knows the Yeti (or Abominable Snowman) has been seen in that vicinity.
Later he and his assistant appeared clad in plaid shortly before their scheduled outing to Scotland. Watch out Nessy!

I vaguely remember living in Imagination-Land. It really was a wonderful place.

A little Bit of Country

I know that I have occasionally made comments that might seem as though I'm complaining about the country life. Pigs, chickens, Ferrell cats...
But really--it's a wonderful blessing.
When Hal and Terry head out of town, Abbie sometimes gets to feed Ebony. She loves that chore and needs no reminding or incentive.




There are so many hopes and dreams that parents have for their children... I just want mine to know where to find peace, and to feel confident in their commitment to seek it.

"Make New Friends..."

"But keep the old, one is silver and the other gold." Do you know that old camp song?

This Christmas my spouse wanted to get me something extra special. He purchased brand new scriptures --with all the bells and whistles--tabs, quadruple combination--everything.


And after being married nearly 15 years, the engraved name on its cover reads, Hall.

They're very lovely scriptures, but they don't fall open to well-worn pages. They don't have post-it notes from my newly-wed husband saying, "Whenever you read this, know that you are in my mind and on my heart --5/94). They don't have things like, "Munich Sept. 19, '92" written in the margins. In fact, my non-color-coded highlighting is nowhere on those gold-tipped papers. The set I received for my 16th birthday were very clean once too, but over the years they have become more and more cluttered with a semblance of proof that I have desired inspiration, and on occasion, received a personal witness. And when Pres. Hinckley challenged me to read the Book of Mormon before Christmas one fall, that book became my close friend.

My Husband has a wonderful new method for scripture marking. He is excited for me to try it.
But my reluctance to make new friends seems to be holding me back. Dr. Wells has said that I have always been a little "slow to warm up." Perhaps.

Perhaps these lovely pages will someday display even more devotion -- maybe even wisdom. Maybe.

Catch a Phrase

I am curious about the phrases we all pass around.
I mean, think about it.

I'm in way over my head. I don't know if I can hack it. I'm trying to keep my head above water. My work's really cut out for me. Can't see the forest for the trees. That's the full meal deal. That doesn't float my boat. He was wolfing it down. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone. Am I in the ballpark? Knock it off. Count me in. Sock it to 'em. She eats like a bird. He eats like a horse. She's thin as a rail. Or some of my Dad's favorites: That's the pot calling the kettle black and The latch is always open and the dipper's by the well.

They're kind of funny phrases right? The funnier thing is recognizing how frequently ones like, It's swallowing me whole and It's eating me for lunch or It's gonna chew me up and spit me out trip across my mind. It usually happens when I tally up the list of things that need doing around here. "This little bit of country" is a lot of work. It takes daily determination just to face the music and get the ball rolling. Sometimes when I feel like throwing in the towel, I just have to remember why I decided to take this on.

Poor SkyMax sometimes feels "over done."
And someday--when I look back on all of this I hope to know without a shadow of a doubt and with all my heart that it was well worth going the whole nine yards.

After all, we only live once.

Some of my badges of courage.

Girl, Interrupted

Since the day my eldest daughter learned to form words, she has had a lot to say. It used to be easier for her to give full details of her day, and easier for me to give full attention to those plentiful details. That was when Sam was a baby and Abbie was in Kindergarten. With the addition of children, chores, homework, and activities, poor Abbie does not get the talk time she desperately desires.

She's been trying to have a sense of humor about it lately, which is nice, but there are times like this morning when she just doesn't have the patience:

A: "You know what I really wish?"
Mom: I look at her with raised eyebrows --as if to say, "what?"
A: "You know what I wish for?"
Millie: "Sometimes i have very bad dreams. Mom, sometimes I have bad dreams!"
Mom: "Oh really? I'm sorry about that." I make eye contact with Abbie.
Abbie: with a deep breath, "So, anyway..."
Mom: I hear Sam upstairs making his zoom and crash sound effects. The timer for being dressed in his Sunday best has already gone off. I yell, "Samuel?" but look at Abbie with a "Go ahead."
A: "I'll never be able to tell you what I wish."
Mom: "I was listening, I just had to call to Sam before you got started."
A: "I thought I already was."
Mom: with a smile, "I'm sorry, it's just tricky getting everybody ready and eating while having a conversation, you know?"
A: somewhat melodramatic, "It's hard having a conversation anytime around here."
Mom: I realize that she's right, but for some reason it strikes me as funny. I turn around so she won't see me laughing.
A: she notices anyway, "M-o-o-o-m (several syllables and pitches long) what's so funny?"
Millie: "There are some really crazy monsters like the Loch Ness Monster in Scooby Doo."
A&Mom: our eyes meet. Both of us start to laugh.

What else is there to do?

Did I Say That?

Did I write that I didn't want to be released? Did I encourage "enduring to the end?"

Can I add some contingencies to those commitments?

Maybe if I were to get a trip to Oahu for a few days, or maybe if somebody else wanted to take over the early morning school preparations and pep talks about feeding the dog, making the beds, and the blessings of teeth-brushing....

How about just a little bit of that magic-nose-twitching ability --you know, like on Bewitched?
I promise, pinkie promise I wouldn't abuse it....

Ring Out Wild Bells!

Ring in the new...year, with new cousins and countdowns, and raisin-like bodies after hours of swimming feats in chilly weather. It seems, with all that life throws at us, that seeing relatives every few years still strengthens family ties a-plenty, but we adults sometimes forget that some were not born, or too little to remember past reunions. The Hall cousins had a wonderful time partying and playing this past weekend.

Some pictures (pre-official family photo since my lame-o battery died right then):

Noah and Sus appreciate that Russ can keep flawless time with Gracee in the bouncy seat and Schuyler in his lap.

Eh? What d'ya say?

Little Red Millie Hood, on our way to dinner at Stokers

Jarom and Joey

A posed action shot: Steven, Susie, Abbie and Sam

Aunt Susie (in Vanuatu-like garb?), with Gracee as the bear and Alethea w/ sleepy Jesse Dean

Ethan and Aubrey (in the photographer's shadow)

Millie, Joey, little Slade, and Sam

Noah and Abbie

So long, Farewell --we'll see you Arizonians soon.

Roots and Discovery

Grandpa Hall used his timeshare powers to host a Hall Family Reunion in St. George for New Years. Each of the seven children and their families had their own "condo" with ample space. The children played day and night with long lost Hall cousins, the adults sang and played games, managed determined swimmers (despite the frost on the grass) and visited. Maxler wasn't as pleased as his siblings about such an adventure, and on our 2nd very long night together, he and I packed up in a hurry and headed down the mountain in search of some ibuprofen and decongestant. I drove down Bluff, past familiar and tall unfamiliar buildings. I passed "Wells Court" where Uncle Scott used to tend to his animals for so many years, and I started to tear up. I pulled into Smiths. The baby and I spent a long time there. And even though I have shopped at Smiths all over the state, this one is Grandma's, with Ross Hurst's just next door.

I haven't been down to Dixie since Grandma died. Part of me was wanting to close that chapter --so much had changed about the city with it's expansion. Part of me didn't want to go back and remember. But part of me is Dixie bred. I know the landmarks. I love the red rock. My feet recall that prickly stiff grass, the sands of Snow Canyon, and the lava rock by the "Secret Pools of Living Youth." I am 34 years old. When we climbed to those pools long ago, surrounded by Wells cousins, and young uncles --I wasn't developmentally capable of realizing the magic of such a secret. The pools, the people, the journey -- the secret lay in the living -- in the being together -- and now in the memories of it all.

I left the store and drove up past Hurst's --"Rah, Rah, Ross, Ross, Ross" my mind rehearsed. I came around the back and through Smith's parking lot again. I went straight. There was Mary Ellen's, there was Schuyler and Afton's --and there was the driveway we always parked our variety of station wagons, late at night....Grandma's. It seemed little. The whole house seemed little. It has always been, of course. The blue looked a bit faded. I drove past it, looking back. I turned left, past Scott and Jillyn's old place. Down by the tabernacle, right past old houses and newer condos --straight at the light, past the movie theater where we'd seen Back to The Future when it first came out. Next through the busy intersection and after a stretch of development that is less familiar, I spot the small white out buildings that were once part of the Wells Dairy Farm.

Later that day, after we'd said good-bye to all the Hall travelers, Star drove us out to Santa Clara -- what a change on that road from the days we frequented Gary and Marsha's place. Our destination was the home of Jacob Hamblin -- one of Star's ancestors. It was a peaceful spot. The children were intrigued by the cotton growing right outside the door. Star felt connected and proud of his heritage. Elder Hill promised that a trip to the St. George temple visitor's center for the viewing of a new film would prove valuable to our family. We felt compelled to comply. We entered the center and were warmly greeted. "Is this all one family, Mom?" an Elder and his wife asked me. "Yes, and it feels like a lot of people on Sunday mornings," I smiled. We had the theatre to ourselves. Only a Stone Cutter began. It tells the story of a man who was called to work on the Salt Lake temple. He lived in Alpine, and would begin his walk to the temple on Monday mornings at 2am in order to arrive with the other workers at 8am. He stayed with his son each week until Friday, when he would walk back to Alpine and reach home around midnight. He did this for many years despite amazing challenges. The image of his walking and limping up the hill back lit by dawn's pink hues will remain with me. He was only ....a stone cutter, ...a father, ...a servant of the Lord.

It was hard to persuade the children to leave. The spirit there could not be denied. I could feel it. My children could feel it. We walked out a different way than we had come, past the large Christus statue with his outstretched and marked hands. Star took the baby and started the loading process. Dusk was settling in, and with it came the Christmas lights and the music from the Nativity still on display. Millie was captivated. Pres. Hinckley's voice came over the speakers. She looked up at me with happy recognition and ran to hug me. I picked her up and held her close. And my mind cast back to a specific memory from a January 15 years ago:
Star and I had traveled to AZ to meet his family. On the way back I wanted him to see St. George --after all, that was part of my roots. Grandma had been gracious and we had left her to visit the temple. It was the temple where my Wells cousins had married, and where my siblings had photos in sun suits and straggly hair. We stood there, somewhat giddy in our excitement, dreaming up a "happily ever after" sort of ending to our college romance.
And now -- with a Suburban full of children, snacks, bedding and books, I was overcome with the realization that in many ways my story resembled the old stone cutter Moyle; It included an uphill, determined trudging that may not end for years, but I do not want to be released from this calling of motherhood. And besides, imagine how many lovely sunrises and sunsets he must have witnessed.

I kissed little Millie's cheek. When we climbed in the car Star said, "We're just going to drive by the cemetery and let Mom get out for a few minutes. Would you like that, Mom?" I nodded, tears pooling again. I had not ever been to the St. George cemetery without my parents showing me where all the Wellses were. It took me a few minutes to locate them. I saw Annie's stone, and then up a row were Hannah and George. The fonts were identical, as though there had not been almost 40 years of separation. They said simply: Mother and Father. On the next row was Uncle Scott and their David, Jillyn's name already carved there --waiting. Oh---that upward, long journey for us all --week after week, year after year. But....as I searched for those names in the Dixie grass, I was back lit with one of the most spectacular sunsets I'd ever seen.

God was in his glory. He knows my roots, and He knows what that means to me.