I think it's somewhat inevitable, what with the merging of your life to another through marriage, the puffing of pregnancy, the retreat from the single life into one of quiet service to your kids...well it's inevitable not to take those kids your investing lessons and dinners into and not live through them a little bit. They are a piece of you after all.

When my oldest sister got first runner-up in the high school pageant, I was amazed to see the investment of time and emotions my mother put into it. After high school, what with the closet full of dresses and an amazing piano number memorized, my mother quietly signed up my sister for a wannabee big-time but far from prime-time pageant called Miss Idaho National Teenager.

Desperate Idaho farmgirls high on MTV choreographed their own numbers and were returning year after year, moving up the ranks into the top ten, top five, then runner-up. Of course, the rookie newcomer from Rexburg Idaho blew them away. Monica won the coveted crown, and took our family to Florida for the National Teenager Pageant (where as you would expect, "Texas" was totally hot and a complete bee-otch).

Here's the beauty today with her tennis buddies (that I fuzzed online). I mean really, look at those legs! Does she still got it or what?!

I can't say, even with my adolescent understanding that my mother would never wear hiking boots, that my younger self didn't make an effort to please my mother in this the most basic of her daughterly joys: a pageant.



*Please please please tell me you don't recognize me in this photo.

I, of course, did not get a crown or even a bouquet of flowers. I enjoyed getting to know the girls, but the lessons on poise and how to pretend to walk with a nickel squeezed in your cheeks (yes- those cheeks) as well as the constant chattering, commenting, and note-taking of nearly 30 girls which pushed our weekly prep meeting nigh over 3 hours, was enough for me to say inside my high school self: Man, I hope I never have to do this again!

And I never did! And my mother still loved me. But as a testament to a daughter's love and desire to make her mother proud...I will always have the Madison High School Jr. Miss Pageant which parents and students suffered a good 4 hours of their life for back in 1992.

Which brings me to this: that old movie Cocoon has some old guy complaining that his elevens were up and he would die soon. "Elevens" are the protruding bones in the back of your neck. Just after hearing this, I saw Audrey Hepburn in a movie, when I determined that elevens are a good thing. It means that you have a beautiful thin neck fragile enough to have elevens.

The truth is, no matter how hard I try to straighten my posture, there is an excess of mass on my upper back. I lovingly refer to it as my grizzly bear hump. And so the cold hard fact is that my elevens are swallowed up by my grizzly bear hump and I never want to have short hair, but I think it's cute.



And so begins my vicarious living through what could well be my only daughter. I talked that kid into the haircut that is against my own obscure fashion rules, and we chopped that girls hair!



What's next for Rainbow Girl? Volleyball, guitar lessons, gospel scholarship, studying abroad, and becoming a gourmet cook. All the things I miss or have fallen short in...she's in for whether she wants it or not!

Having been a church-going Mormon most of my life, marrying the boy, having the kids, raising the mutts, and soon comes my favorite holiday of the year: Halloween. (It's now a very close second to Christmas). For years I would revel in the delight of this season, the shower of free candy, and the crazy dress-ups encouraged and sometimes participated with adults.

I looked forward to the parade of cute offspring, the ticket to a bucket of sugar again, and the gleaning of Snickers bars from your kids pail. Not to mention the reception of cherished Halloween memories: harvest moons, late nights, and contests to see if you could ever fill a pillowcase full of candy like your older brother did every year.

Here we are at The Mister's work Halloween Party, 2010. I swear I'm smaller than my husband. Is he hugging the wall?

But then as a parent, I was introduced to a new Halloween tradition that popped up in the Mormon sphere since my old trick-or-treating days: The Parking Lot Trunk-or-Treat. Whoever invented this was a tactical genius. All the congregation members line up their cars in the parking lot, pop the hood, and the kids walk to each car and say "Trunk or Treat" and they get their candy. Church camaraderie, adult supervision, increasing trick-or-treating efficiency by 58%...what's not to love?

After participating in it for a good 5 years, I regretted this new tradition. Not enough working for the sugar, and any kid not a member of your church going through the neighborhood where half the homes are blacked out cause they're scoring a truckload at the church.

Which was why I was excited when we moved to our semi-country burb-ville back in 2008. Our new ward (aka congregation) didn't have the trunk or treat! Back to the basics of 2/3 of a bucket of candy per mile walked, meeting neighbors outside your "ward boundaries", walking up to porches with lighted pumpkins and the perfectly spaced parade of costumes throughout the blocks of houses.

Much to my dismay, here in my 3rd Halloween out in my little country town, the trunk or treat returned. Boo!

Did I participate? Absolutely. Did I have fun? Yes. Did I let any kid reach into my basket without saying "Trick-or-Treat"? Absolutely not. Did we increase our trick-or-treating efficiency? Because of the freezing cold rain, we increased by a solid 75%!


Plus Rainbow Girl's bestest friend that moved out of our valley came back for a visit. Halloween's are always better with a buddy! Check out Vanilla Wafer, my little Captain America. Does he look miserable or what? The rain came just as we pulled into the church.

So we love and hate you trunk-or-treat. Just like Wal-Mart. Please go away next year so we can work for our candy and branch out in the neighborhood!

Here's some more Halloween Highlights:
Please enjoy the following picture of my oldest wisest brother Derek. Derek and Keri pull off an amazing Halloween party every year, and here's the bro dressed up as a b-baller. The top picture is of him trying to light the outdoor heater. Yes, I said light. As in fire. And he's wearing a gigantic wick on the top of his head.



My bro has been asked several times what his ethnic background is. I'm hoping next year he'll grow a beard and wear a turban and see how long he can wander through posh neighborhoods before someone calls the FAA.

And for anyone else pining for Old School Halloween, enjoy my favorite Seinfeld act ever! This is sooo my childhood. I heart it.

The Olsen's biggest, funnest, newest summer project happened around July. It ends up the hole in the backyard, which used to serve as a retention pond prior to city-wide gutters, still has a purpose. For some blessed holy reason, underground spring water flows into it during a few precious summer months. Usually, by the beginning of summer (and the end of spring) it's a soggy mess, but this year? It just kept a flowin' like honey in the Promised Land.

See. No swampy crap. Full-fledged pond. The Mister and I? Well we's gots right dern excited.

So in blur of euphoria, The Mister of the House called up some dude that owns a trout farm, who has a big truck with a tank, and a son to help do the job.



We purchased 50 trout, knowing that our un-lined little pond was operating on a wing and a prayer. But the memory of having to go fishing in the backyard was worth the risk.


The water was cold (like trout thrive in) and was full of little snails they like to eat. So into the water they went!



Before long we thought we needed to christen our new thriving pond with a name. It was then I reminisced my sweet innocent Idaho Days and hanging out with my bestest friend Kristi.



Here we are getting college credit while camping, hiking, swimming, and backpacking. You had no idea you had it so bad right?

So the thing is, Kristi lived on 241 Steiner Avenue, a little dead end a few blocks from "the college". Her papa taught English, and in those few and free summer months, he was the handyman. I watched every summer as he built a pond with a pump. Created a rock waterfall into the pond. Build a deck around the pond. Painted the fence, trimmed the trees, and even raised an existing backyard shop by several feet to fit his camper.

He wrote (and still writes) poems, and in a lovely and endearing British Turn, named his piece of property "Mellow Wood".

He was adorable!

I saw him just this past summer at his son's art exhibit. It was like old times, except now I longer have a tan, don't sleep well while I camp, and an a wimp. Oh, and someone vital to the mix was missing...but other than that, just like old times!



And so we thought it only fitting to name our little trout pond "Mellow Wood Pond". The Mister even tracked down an old piece of barn wood for me to paint the name on.

And dammit that thing dried up before I got my sign painted!

So Mr. Robert A. Tidwell Hacky Sir, I chomped a trout in your name and when that pond comes back next year it will once again remind me of yours and my days with Idaho Summers. And since your Mr. English Professor, would I say your and my days...or yours and mine days? That last one was just messed up right?

At any rate, your Mellow Wood lives on in the fresh and cold underground spring feeding into my dirt and my soul.

Good things are precious because they are fleeting it seems...

As a born and bred Idaho Girl, I was excited for a recent reunion away from the farm, over the river and through the woods to Island Park. Driving through southeast Idaho, the valleys are wide and plain. Plod further north and you get to beautiful Ashton, and right on the border of that town, you see the impending rise of the land, a major geologic shift forcing your transmission to growl. Within the course of a mile, the landscape transitions from wide sagebrush plains and winding rivers to forest. Don't think lush Oregon forest: ferns underground shaded by the massive outstretched arms of pinion pines catching oceanic gusts. It's just miles and miles and miles of tall, straight, narrow Lodgepole Pines.

These are the trees of Island Park and Yellowstone. These are the trees of my childhood trips to cabins and geysers. These are the trees whose cones stay sealed shut, never replenishing their seeds until they are set on fire. And thus, these are all the trees that burned and burned back in 1988 when I was just 13 years old. The let-it-burn process was natural, but soon became a crisis. Then the fire and smoke sent boyfriends away as firefighters, and spewed a billowing gloom for hundreds of miles that turned the moon red and had folks quoting end of the world scripture.

I could, and I did, sit in the passenger seat for miles with head crooked to the right, watching the assembly line of lodgepoles running past catching their brief dance with sunlight from above. And so it was that I turned to The Mister of the House, on our way to the Olsens-from-Utah Reunion and stated in my best neener-neener voice: Idaho is prettier than Utah.

Where else but an Idaho Lodgepole Pine Forest could you hide in the forest while dancing in the light?



And where else could you have a cabin by the lake, with dozens of trees between you and the water, and still have a view of the blue?

With the Olsen Clan came The Mister's grandparents, Grandma Darling and Grandpa Jack. Like me, Grandpa Jack is a born and bred Idahoan, and so that makes him extra special to me. After the recent passing of my last living grandparent, I am left to transfer all the last conversations, acts of service, collecting of garden knowledge that I wish the adult Mrs. Olsen was able to have with her biological grandparents onto my grandparents by marriage. Nothing could be easier, because they are beautiful people.



As a former Stake President, Seminary Teacher, Temple President, and professional counselor, there's something about associating with Grandpa Jack. With every person he meets, he genuinely loves them. Like other intimidating holy men, he has laser vision.

Or so it seems.

Both he and Grandma tell me over and over what a wonderful wife and mother I am. There are times when I look into their eyes, I look away in fear that they will see that I sometimes lose my temper, fart under the covers, argue with my husband, and cuss under my breath when my garden goes to weeds.

More than once I have left Grandpa's house and wondered (and hoped) if I could really, I mean really, be as good as he thinks I am. I'm not talking just about a good mom doing her duty to her kids and family. I mean really good. Like the kind of good that lifts, blesses, and makes it back to heaven. And this is not me fishing for comments on the blog okay? Don't you ever wonder these things?




Grandpa Jack often looks at my little Vanilla Wafer and comments how much he looks like Grandpa did as a kid.



And I hope that all the years of hard work, the love of mankind to the point of serving them for free...for decades, the faith, the endurance, and the pure love embodied by Grandpa will somehow transfer to my offspring.

Like my Idaho Lodgepole Pine Forest, Grandpa practices a transference of light. Who else can you hang out with over a weekend and bask in warm delightful love of God?

Here's some more photos from our weekend of fun:


More transference of light from Herm and Norma, who I love love love. Thanks for the cabin getaway!


Herding cats.


River run.


Cautious smiles from my cautious boy. On the river with Grandpa Herm-Daddy.


My favorite girl.


"Smile with your teeth"


My Idaho. My Trees. Perty sunburst.

Before the boat showed up to take us on a river run, here's how we played in the water...or near the water.


Oh sorry, Yellowstone spiritually claimed by Idaho. Better luck next time.


Old Faithful = excited tension.




For an extra two bucks, Rainbow Girl got to hide food for da bears!




Hiding spot under the rock.


Found by "Spirit"




People training. Mrs. Olsen wanted to edit this poster so the female had a thought burst that said: Is HE ever happy?! First he swaps our 10 pound infant for 3 shoulder bags, a picnic blanket, and car keys and now his panties are in a wad over a kid who's excited to see a bear.


Sorry folks. The tetons also spiritually claimed by Idaho. Better luck next time.




More transference of light. My beautiful momma.

One year ago this April, we celebrated the 90th birthday of my last living grandparent: Geneal Call Cooper. Although her birthday was in January, she had a hip replacement in that month, my folks were in Hawaii, so we pushed her party until spring-time. The family encouraged her to get the hip replacement because she was still so healthy and young. Just look at her, and you will see: This mama does not look 90!

As part of her celebration, my cousin and I filmed her kids and grandkids sharing memories of Grandma & Grandpa Cooper. We also interviewed Grandma about her life, and it was such a blessing to understand Grandma on a new level:

Over and over again family & friends attested: I never heard her say a bad word about anyone!

It was just this past February I mailed her some Valentine's Cards from my kids. She wrote back a thank-you that has been on my fridge. It is dated February 25th of this year. In the letter she is expressing concern over a family member recently diagnosed with cancer. Who would have thought on March 22nd, she would be diagnosed with a rare form of leukimia with the opinion that she had 3-4 months to live. Later in the week she was given 1-2 months to live. In reality, she passed away just 12 days after receiving the diagnosis.

When I was in high school, I hung out with the Parker twins. I daresay it's the only time, ever, that I have successfully and confidently been able to distinguish identical twins.

Tonya...you totally saved our bacon on that trip! There's something so my childhood about getting stranded in a snowstorm over Spring Break.

What good is a Valentines Week of Love without some talk about love-making right? This won't be out of hand, I promise. But first, a story about my sweet and GIANT (and by giant I mean 6feet1inch) little sister, Niki.

So in case you're new here, Mrs. Olsen plus her family are Mormons. That means your goal is to marry in the temple, which is a clean and holy place. And a peaceful place too. To marry there, you have to meet several faithful requirements, one of which is to not be a fornicator. God does love a virtuous woman, this I know. Which means that sex is a wonderful and scary mystery to the average virginal Mormon girl getting married for the first time.

For most people who think that lives on TV are standard, this (being a virginal Mormon girl) is NOT normal.

So my little giant sister Niki, bless her little heart, has left her western landscape where Mormon Culture was prevalent, and is now standing out amongst the heathens of the East. *wink*

Which means that Niki, who already stands out like a sore thumb because of her freakish height, is now standing out because she is young, a wife, and has more than 2 kids (East Coast Standard). Her hubs is in a medical residency, and is just about the ONLY guy that is NOT single, and definitely the only one that has kids.

A fellow resident recently gets married, and Niki and her husband arrive at a get-together to meet and greet the doctor and his new wife. When the new bride meets Niki, who is funny and friendly (and honest...bless her little heart), they start talking about how the wedding was. This led to talk of the new bride's amazing and extravagant honeymoon all through Europe.

So get this, this is my brave sister honestly confronting these rare missionary opportunities denied her in the west:

"Yeah, our honeymoon wasn't that awesome. We were supposed to go to a cabin but that didn't work out, so we just drove to Boise, Idaho. But we are Mormons ya know? So we hadn't had sex before we got married so it didn't really matter where we went cause we hardly left the hotel anyway. (Laugh)"

Pause.

Silence.

Upper-Crust East Coaster says NOTHING, looks at my sister like she's a freak and walks away.

Can I just say that she is putting herself out there and is ready to answer your questions about her religion! I LOVE HER. Boise, Idaho? For real? And since I'm injecting myself into this conversation, here's Mrs. Olsen giving upper-cruster a beeeech-slap for not having a sense of humor...or respect.

Well, my sister is right. You get married and hardly leave the hotel room during your honeymoon and you figure things out without the stupid Sex in the City girlfriends sharing tips and one-upping each other in the bedroom. You are alone, you and your spouse, and you learn to:

*share bank accounts
*plan meals
*go to church together
*share dreams
*work jobs to achieve dreams
*go to school without your folks paying rent anymore
*learn love languages
*pray together
*stop taking road trips cause you have bills to pay
*get a purpose
*support
*sacrifice
*serve

and when you aren't UNITED in the above department, how is it you can UNITE physically without a sort of spiritual schizophrenia?

SEX is the ultimate symbol of a united life in the financial, health, religious, parenting, retirement planning, working, building a home, and loving a family department.

I don't say this to ostracize those that live differently from me and my weird little sister. People are still beautiful, even if fornicators. And little sisters far from home, raising 3 kids and supporting a husband who works 90+ hours a week, going to parties and telling it like it is...will ALWAYS be beautiful to me.

With Love,
Mrs. Olsen