Showing posts with label Memory Lane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memory Lane. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Twenty-Fifteen

In January we spent the warmer days walking our favorite walking path around the golf course.


In February we spent time with some of our favorite friends.



In March we toured the Don Aslett Museum of Clean.



In April we watched base jumpers jump off the Perrine Bridge.



In May we visited Craters of the Moon.


In June we took a road trip to Seattle Washington.



In July we celebrated America and spent time with cousins.



In August we sold our house. Spence started a new job, the kids started a new school year at a new school, and we moved into a hotel.



In September, 42 days after checking into the Residence Inn, we moved into our new house. We also took a trip to Yellowstone National Park with the Wahlens.



In October we got a kitty and named her Cinnamon.



In November we started building walls and running electrical wires in our unfinished basement.



In December we celebrated our very first Christmas in our house in the country.


2015 - It was a year of change. Some very good times. And some trying, challenging times too.

And 2016, I am so looking forward to you. You are going to be a great year; I’m going to make sure of it.


Friday, May 2, 2014

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Disgust

Edna is now the keeper of all our old digital photo folders. Which means our TV screen is now an instant walk down memory lane.  And last night when this picture popped up onto our oversized rotating photo frame I snort laughed, because it deserved it.

...obviously not the flowers she would have picked out for herself.
Katie’s Junior Prom
03-2006

Saturday, May 8, 2010

A favor, returned.


mom with her girls
June 2006

I never went to a girls camp without my mom. Never.

When I went to my very first girls camp, at age 12, mom was a leader. When I went at 13, mom was a leader. She was the leader the year that we decorated with sunflowers made of green grenade balloons and yellow construction paper. She was there the year we did the skit about Mathew 25: 34-40. And when Bishop Sutherland taught us how to sing "McGregor is Dead," and "Three Sharptooth Buzzards". Every year I went, she went.

Mom would spend endless amounts of time prepping for the camp. She'd worry about are camp theme and song. How we were going to decorate the cabin. How to divide up secret sisters. What to eat. And what to do for the camp crafts.

This particular year was no different. Jami and I were Young Women doing the girls camp thing; my mom, just like the year before, was our mom doing the camp leader thing. It was a ward camp this year and Stanley, Idaho was our destination.

After arrival we set up camp, ate Brother Johnston's Dutch oven dinner and tried to get some sleep for tomorrow we would venture out on that years girls camp hike.

At the beginning of the hike mom realized her shoes weren't made for hiking. They rubbed and irritated her feet. It was a bit of a joke at first, "Way to go, Mom", "That's what you get for not being prepared" we'd joke. But then the hike got longer. And harder. We were hiking in the mountains, weaving between trees and sagebrush. And trying to navigate our way on a path made of jagged rocks and untamed sticks and tree roots. Mom's joints are bad. Her knees were aching, and her ankles weak. The shoes had already rubbed visible blisters. She was in pain.

Around the hike's halfway mark we were all exhausted and ready to be done. It was then that we came to a small creek. To cross the creek a log had to be used as a bridge. Holding our arms out for balance and taking small steps, one-by-one we wobbled to the other side. When it was mom's turn, she lost her footing. Slipped. And landed into the creeks cold water. Her already uncomfortable feet were now soaking wet.

We had come too far for mom to turn around. Plus, she wouldn't be able to find her way back to camp without our hike leader. So she kept walking. Forward. Her body ached. Her feet were blistered. And with every step her wet Levis, rubbed. And her wet shoes, squeaked. I could feel her pain.

We came to a point in the hike that was at a steep incline. Most of the hikers were having a hard time making it up the mountain side. Mom especially. She was wet. Blistered. Throbbing. She was defeated. And she told me and Jami so.  There was no way she could finish the hike, she argued.

So I took mom's left hand and Jami took her right.  And we kept walking. Pulling mom, and her pained, wet body behind us.  That hike was hard.  All of our faces were red with exhaustion. We were sore, tired and uncomfortable. But, we were not defeated. We were going to finish that hike. The three of us. Together!

Later that night, when we were safe back at camp, my Young Women's leader put her arm around me telling me how proud she was of Jami and me. I smiled and accepted the complement. But, it was a complement that didn't need given. Praise that was undeserved.

Because so many times before, and so many times since, I've been the pained hiker with wet shoes and burning knees. And my mom the rescuer, grabbing my hand and pulling me up the mountain side.

This small act was my teenage way of giving back; a way to say thank you.
Thank you for loving me.
Thank you for never missing a volleyball game or a dance performance or a speech competition.
Thank you for lecturing when I needed lectured.
Thank you for laughing when I needed to laugh.
Thank you for dancing with me.
Thank you for praying for me.
Thank you for asking a million questions.
Thank you for being patient.
Thank you for having a sense of humor.
Thank you for always being there to pull me up the mountain.

But most of all,
Thank you, mom, for being my mother.

I loved you then. And I love you now.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Serving Easter Dinner


We hosted our family Easter Party at our house this year. Just like last year. And quite possibly the year before.

Jami called me an estimated eight-hundred times prior to the weekend gathering. "Are you sure it's okay if we use your house again, Kim? We always make you do it." "Is it going to annoy you if we come down again, Kim? No be serious, WILL IT?" "Are you SURE it's okay?"

And my answer was always the same. "Yes Jami, it's okay." "Nope, not one bit annoying." "You're not inviting yourself for cryING OUT LOUD. I just invited you." I promise Jami…it's no problem."

And really IT ISN'T!

I have a good house for entertaining. Enough beds/air mattresses/hide-a-beds/floor space to sleep the family. A big dining table for card games. A toy room that can get destroyed in 2 seconds flat, but can be completely ignored by guests {moms} in the living room.

And as a bonus, when the party's at our house Spence and I show up on time! And I'm not gonna lie…that doesn't happen often ever.

I like to throw a party. I mean, I'm no Martha Stewart! But I love the excuse to create a few centerpieces and use my oversized serving platters. My heart beats a little faster when I get to decide on a menu plan and tally up a guest count. LAME. I know. But it's the truth.

When I hosted our first "real" holiday party at our house I swore I would never do it again. It was Thanksgiving. I think there were twenty-five guests. I was only given a day or two notice and I did it ALL myself. Every bit of it. Spencer helped entertain guests while I peeled, cut and mashed the potatoes, made salads, set up the tables and chairs, made the stuffing, cleared the tables, washed the tablecloths, loaded and unloaded dish after dish, and then when the last guest finally left I collapsed on the couch in complete and total exhaustion. It wasn't enjoyable. Not in the least bit. Everyone else visited. Relaxed. Ate pie. Celebrated Thanksgiving. But, not me. I was hosting and there wasn't time to do anything else.

Since then I've learned a few things.
Thing one: People want to help, LET THEM.
Thing two: The messier the house gets, the more fun everyone's having.
Thing three: If they're willing to wash the dishes, let them do it their way. If they're willing to sweep the floor, then by all means move out of the way. If they're willing to clean up the toy room don't worry about getting the toys in their proper bin and totes, there just going to get taken out again anyways.

When Jami asked me for the umpteenth time if it was okay if we had the party at my house AGAIN. Without even thinking I told her it wasn't a big deal. And I was serious. It isn't.

And here's why:

Because Jami and Jaelynn are going to peel all the eggs for the deviled eggs while Alan washes the potatoes. Then Alan and Jaelynn are going to cut the potatoes while I work on a salad and Jami does a few dishes. Then Katie's going to set the table while Jake {her friend} brings down all the extra card tables from the loft. Then half of us are going to cut the fruit for the fruit kabobs while the other half stir the chicken/clean the toy room/hold the babies/take out the garbage/and make the French bread.

Because, I don't have to do all the work. That's why.

In fact, when my mom came in to see what she needed to do to get the last of the Easter dinner prepared I half-jokingly, half-dead serious-ly told her that my kitchen wasn't a twelve butt kitchen and she would have to help by allowing the twelfth butt to sit on the couch. Because the kitchen…it was hoppin'. And the kitchen space…it was limited.

I love my family! They get me. They're always willing to help. And they always do it with their outside voice.

Jami, you guys are always invited! As long as you promise you'll take out the trash and recycling before you leave. And bring a salad.
P.S. {in list format}
1. Hope your Easter was fabulous.
2. Did you have an Easter Egg Hunt slash Snowball fight too?
3. Dear Spring, Any day now. Okay. Kim
4. We missed you Brad and Jessica.
5. I haven't forgotten Brynlee's 4 year-old birthday letter. I'll be posting it soon. Or ya know, after I get it written.


Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The Trip


Hello, my dears. We're back. And it's March!! March 3rd.

{Anybody mind telling me what happened to the second half of February?}

We've returned from a little vacay in Las Vegas.
We had a great time…thanks for asking.

This is our second trip to Las Vegas.

The first time there were two of us.
Spence and I. We were freshly married. As in very freshly married. As in only been married for twenty-four hours kind of freshly married. Thanks to Spencer's sister, Liz, we stayed in the Excalibur in a honeymooner's suite. She had the hook-up. We were there in the middle of July. It was hot. And humid. One day we walked the entire strip. From the Excalibur to Circus Circus and back to the Excalibur. And then we cranked up the AC and slept the rest of the day. It was SO HOT. Times were different back then. There were two of us. We slept when we wanted and ate when we were hungry. If we longed to spend the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the Strip, we did. If, at 2:00am, we were craving ice-cream we'd go out in search of ice-cream. We were poor college students at the time. Our trip was funded exclusively on monetary wedding gift. Every time we spent money in Vegas it meant we would have less money for groceries when we returned home. We picked the shows that we attended solely on ticket price. Spencer wanted to see the "Blue Man Group". I told him we couldn't afford it. We instead saw the "Tournament of Kings Dinner Show." We had a buy one get one free coupon. We would eat one meal a day. At an all-you-can-eat buffet. Our sole souvenir was a little jackpot toy from M&M World. We never took a single shuttle or taxi. We walked everywhere.  We were younger then. Spencer got ID'd in the Casino. He was 23. Spencer would call me his wife. I would smile. It seemed so strange. Strange, yet exciting. Spence and I spent a lot of our down time making life plans. We dreamt big. We discussed what we wanted, what we expected, what we hoped for. In Las Vegas. It was just the two of us. A lover's retreat. A poor-man's vacation. A celebratory get-a-way in honor of us. Our new life. Together.


::Spence and I in Las Vegas.  With eyes shut!  July 2003 on our Honeymoon::

This time it was different.

There were more of us. Spence, me, Brynlee, Jace and my little sister Katie. We stayed at The Trump International Hotel. Because there's no casino. And no smoking. Plus it had a kitchenette…perfect for warming sippy cups and some Easy Mac when needed. We requested a baby crib. And would pull it into the oversized bathroom every afternoon for Jace's naptime. Brynlee went swimming in the Jacuzzi tub with swimming suit and Dora floaty. We brought princess movies and Barney to watch during down time. We Built-a-Bear, went to M&M world, ate at Rainforest Café and spent an evening at Circus Circus. We'd spend our days pushing baby strollers down the strip and comforting exhausted kids. Our daily itinerary was planned around lunchtime and naptime. When kids (and adults) were tired we'd opt for a taxi instead of walking. And we would take the long route to bypass the Casino. We'd be sure to have the kids tucked safely into their beds before Las Vegas would wake-up for the night. Then at night we'd rotate. One night Katie and I went to the "Phantom of the Opera". One night Spence and I went to the "Blue Man Group". And one night Spence and I walked the entire strip. This time I wore a jacket. It wasn't anything near as hot as it gets in July. We held hands and walked from one hotel to another. Sometimes in silence. Enjoying the quietness. The escape. Other times in conversation. Conversations that would always, somehow, end up about our kids. How perfect they are. How much we love them. How happy they make us.

Oh, how time changes things.
Isn't life funny?
Isn't life perfect!?!

The gang in Las Vegas.  Feburary 2010.

Monday, November 30, 2009

a (twelfth) confession

Me and my bangs have a very complicated, unhealthy relationship. If there were such a thing as bang therapy…my bangs and I…we’d be the first to enroll.

I’ll cut my bangs.
I won’t like them.
I’ll pin them back for a while.
They will start to grow-out.
They will hang funny.
The bangs start to look lifeless.
I grow them completely out.
I won’t have bangs.
I look in the mirror and realize my forehead looks HUGE.
I decide {because it’s like pregnancy and I forget} that life is better with bangs.
So I’ll cut myself more bangs.
Cut, rinse & repeat.


OH MY WORDY, THE LIFE WITH ALL THE MISBEHAVING BANGS!
It’s tough to be me.

I just cut my bangs again. I made myself promise me, with scissors in hand, that if I cut my bangs again I could not, should not, would not pin them back for a least three weeks.
It’s been a week and a half and so far, so good.

When my mom and I were visiting while preparing the Thanksgiving Feast the topic of the misbehaving bangs came up. Mom reminded me of a note that Josh S. had written me in 5th grade. In which he sweetly told me that he liked my “funky” bangs!

Why, thank you Josh S., t  h  a  n  k    y  o  u.
Just for you I’ll try to learn to embrace d'ole bangs and all their FUNK!

::Jace, me and my freshly cut "FUNKY" bangs::
::at the "Ring in the Holiday Celebration"::
::November, 27th 2009::

Friday, November 27, 2009

Day 26 of 30: da’Bird


Spence and his "kill"*!

*Spencer didn't actually, um…kill da'Bird. I picked it up at the grocery store, brought it home and defrosted it. Then he did his part by throwing it in a vat of boiling peanut oil. However, when he pulled the nicely toasted turkey from the rapidly boiling oil he said, "Aren't ya going to take a picture of me and my "kill"?" and then without further ado I took said picture. I let him have the pride of calling it his "kill" because, well, just because. Plus, the fried turkey wasn't scorched black {Thanksgiving 2007} or slightly undercooked {Thanksgiving 2008}. In the end I decided that a perfectly golden brown fried turkey gives the operator of the fryer the right to call da'Bird whatever they want to. Wouldn't you agree?

******

T u r k e y  T i d  B i t:
Growing up my dad always cut the turkey. Mom would get Thanksgiving dinner prepared, then right before it was time to eat she would call dad in. Dad and the electric carving knife would carve the turkey. Dad would cut the turkey into perfect little turkey shreds. It was the perfect size to dip in mashed potatoes and gravy and was just right for leftover turkey sandwiches. I thought that was how everyone carved a turkey. I thought turkey was always served in small, shredded portions.

And then I attended my first Thanksgiving dinner at Spencer's families' house. They don't shred their turkey. Not even close! Their turkey is cut into steak like proportions. Everyone needs their own steak knife to cut their individual serving of turkey. The meat isn't removed from the wings and the legs, but rather placed on the platter as is. {I'm always tempted to help myself to one of the massive turkey legs, but haven't yet. Maybe next year.}
And now that Spencer is the turkey carver at our house, that's how our turkey gets served. Just like his dad served it; and probably just like Jace will serve it when he carves the turkey for his own little family.

And then after the Thanksgiving feast I shred the leftovers. I remove the meat from the turkey wings and drumsticks {because, of course, they are still sitting on the platter. No one ever takes the turkey drumstick. Who would? Well, except I'm going to next year. Maybe!} Then we have perfectly shredded turkey for dipping in gravy and making turkey sandwiches.

******

Who cuts the turkey at your house? How is it cut? Don't you think leftover turkey tastes much better than when first served?

Monday, November 16, 2009

a (eleventh) confession

When Spence and I first started “hanging-out” I was over at his apartment and asked for a drink of water. He grabbed a saucepan, filled it to the brim with water, and delivered it to me.

Have you ever tried to drink out of a saucepan?

It’s hard! You will undeniably get more on your shirt than you will in your mouth.

Promise.


::Picture from the shoebox::
::Spence and I, 2001::
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...