Canada Was So Last Year

Hightailing away from home for the summer seems to run in our family.  My mom spent every summer of her child- and teen-hood working and playing on a mountain ranch in-the-middle-of-nowhere-California.  Of course, she lived at a convent during her school months, so going to her great aunt's ranch every summer was essentially going home.  (I'll write a novel based on her story someday.)  I grew up browsing photos and hearing stories of the two years my dad lived in Africa.  It wasn't until my adult years that I realized that most kids don't grow up seeing nine-foot-boa-constrictor road kill or hiking Mt. Kilamanjaro.  (I could write an interesting book about his story too!)  By comparison, my own teenage summers seemed bland, until I remembered that I, too, spent a couple of summers away from my parents, working for my grandparents' business in Oregon.  I traveled across that state with my new friends there as we explored the coast or took day trips to the temple in Portland.

Since I know it runs in the family, I shouldn't be surprised that my daughter doesn't want to be constricted by international boundaries for her summer breaks.

Last year, #3 traveled with a friend for two weeks in Canada.  They stayed with a friend of the friend who has more money than she knows what to do with.  Those types make the funnest hosts.  #3 rode horses, went boating, and got launched in a giant, homemade slingshot.  I learned about that last activity when she got home.  I guess she thought that explaining how they used a tractor to pull her and her bungee cords back before releasing her 50 feet in the air might make me nervous.  (She was probably right.)

This year, the same friend extended the Canada invitation to her again.  But now that she had a passport, #3 had another country on her mind.

Last December, #3 asked if she could live at a Mexican orphanage for the summer.  Specifically, she wanted to move in with her friends at Casa Hogar Buena Vida as a sort of Spanish-immersion program.  Granted, she's grown up visiting this orphanage every year, but I still wasn't enamored with the idea of sending my child away to a foreign country for two months.  She persisted in asking, though, so in March we told her that if she wanted to make this happen, she needed to find out what documentation and legalities would be involved.  It turns out that it's pretty easy to abandon a child in Mexico.  A notarized letter granting parental permission and a few other documents were all it took to make her trip legal.  Her promise to me of daily FaceTime settled my worries.

One week after school let out, #3 caught a ride with some Child's Hope volunteers in a luxurious RV.  She sprawled on a leather couch for the ride across the border, and they dropped her off on their way to another orphanage.

I'll admit that my expectations for her summer away were clearly different from hers.  I encouraged her to write daily in her journal, or vlog, or at least email about the adventures she was having.  I mean, how many kids can say their parents sent them off to live in a Mexican orphanage?  I imagined her coming home and writing a memoir about teaching the Latin Americans some Latin dancing or learning tortilla-making at the hands of the orphanage director.  I assumed that with three dozen siblings, she would have a volume of material with which to entertain.

It turns out, that orphanage life is a lot more boring than one (I) would expect.  #3 spends a lot of time on her iPod, going through Duolingo lessons.  She sleeps in most days, does some morning chores, and then sits around watching the children and letting the teens practice their English with her.  She'll occasionally join an evening game of volleyball, and then stay up late listening in on the girl talk about who has a crush on whom.  It's pretty much her life in Provo, but more laid back and slower paced.  And if you know #3, you know that's exactly her type of summer break.  Live up the lazy life while you can #3.  I still expect you to learn some Spanish!

Note: I waited to post this, hoping that #3 would send some photos to add on.  She refuses.  I'll add pics later if I ever get any.

Movin' On Up

Three of our five children are reaching milestones in their education, moving on up to new schools.  And one will be moving on out too!

#4 is finishing elementary school and will be entering junior high next year...unless I can talk her into online schooling.  I've never before thought about homeschooling in any capacity, but I would love to be #4's education coach in her difficult subjects.  More importantly, she would have extra hours to develop her filming and video-editing skills.  She has become a sixth-grade celebrity, always bringing comedy and creativity to the classroom.  Any advice on how I counter the pull of peers who want to see her at school every day next year?

Pictured with Mrs. Ruiz,
ballroom coach,
art teacher extraordinaire, 
and big-time sucker for #3.

#3 starts high school in the fall, and will be leaving the charter school to attend the much larger district high school.  She is sad to be leaving her art teacher, who is also her ballroom coach.  Fortunately for Little Miss Loophole, she found a way around not really leaving.  Last month, when #4 attended auditions for next year's ballroom team, #3 asked if she could go watch.  Wanting to support her support of her younger sister, I agreed.  Two hours later, when I came to attend the parent meeting at the close of auditions, I discovered that #3 had wheedled her way into dancing in the auditions..."just for fun," according to her.  And #4 had opted to not dance.  (I think she was intimidated by the high schoolers who were auditioning.)  The coach had already stated that team members must attend the school...though she might make an exception for boys.  After the meeting, I spoke with the coach to let her know that I did not expect her to let #3 audition, and we certainly didn't expect special treatment.  I know #3 holds a place in this teacher's heart, so I was trying to help her say no to my daughter, who was asking for special treatment.  I also told her that #4 still planned to take the ballroom class next year (if I can't talk her out of going to school), and that I would be happy to get in my volunteer hours by running the team tutoring once per week.  (I'm already running it at home every day, so I might as well change the location and dovetail, right?)
Two days later, #3 received an envelope letting her know that she made the team...at the school she won't be attending.  Mrs. Ruiz said it was my chat with her that sealed the deal, because knowing that I am committed to helping the team lets her know that #3 will show up.  So even when I try to thwart #3's wheedling, it ends up helping her!  It must be nice for her to live a charmed life.

#5 doesn't have a huge milestone for him, but I'm ticking off milestones as he gets older.  Last night was my fifth and final 4th-Grade Utah program.  The songs and choreography are catchy, but not catchy enough that I want to hear them ever again!  #5 is a cheerful student, which may be what earned him the honor of showcasing Utah County in the program.

It's a little strange to see my youngest growing up and discovering his own talents, because he needs me less.  He started the year wanting to learn martial arts, probably to round out his super-spy abilities.  He continues to build his Nerf weapon arsenal each birthday, and used his own money last week for a manly watch with lots of features.  But jiujitsu lessons were pricey, so he relented to my wishes and gave the elementary ballroom team a chance...now he won't think of trying a different extracurricular activity next year.  I feel like I'm raising a mini, non-womanizing, James Bond!

#2 is halfway through her high school years, and is already ready to be done.  She's been at PHS for four years now, since she started attending with the gifted program in 7th grade--and it's getting kind of old.  Her sophomore year has mirrored that of many seniors as she sang for the second year with the school's audition ladies choir, Bella Voce, and danced on the audition D-Fusion team.  She completed a UVU concurrent enrollment math class and continues to thrive in every subject thrown at her. School does hold some allure for her next year, though, as she just found out that she made the top audition choir at the high school.  Next year will be a good year to be in Chamber Singers because the choirs will be traveling to New York City next spring to sing at Carnegie Hall.  Our agreement is that #2 will have the full cost of the tour saved up by mid-September if she wants me to sign the commitment for the trip.  Accordingly, she wisely chose to take a job at Mooyah's (the same week that #1 quit there), and hopes to save up lots of money this summer.

PHS senior class photo in front of the university #1 will be attending.

As our resident graduating senior, #1 is the star of this post.  Seeing her move on to higher education, where her professors won't need mom to come put in volunteer hours or chaperon field trips, is bittersweet.  I love being involved in my kids' school and education experiences.  Now, #1 is taking that completely in her own hands.  She is excited to study in the Woodbury School of Business at Utah Valley University.  Their business school has a strong entrepreneurship program coupled with required internships with local small businesses.  This is perfect for #1.  She has been courting a marketing firm that first impressed her during her sophomore year when she completed the Young Entrepreneurs Program with the Chamber of Commerce.  This firm wants her on board as an intern and just needs to find a place for her.

In the meantime, #1 is also working for Dream Dinners.  She makes reminder calls to customers and follows up with those who have shown interest at expos.  Her sunny attitude and cheerful voice make her perfect for the job.  And the flexible, work-from-home job is perfect for her and her schedule.  In addition to a renewable, full-tuition scholarship from the university, the UVU Honors Program was kind enough to extend a housing scholarship to #1.  That means she can continue to make work calls from her private room in a condo that she'll share with three other honors students.  It's a perfect setup.  The Honors Program also showers her with other perks, including field trips, tickets to all school events, and a free bus pass.  That will come in helpful...since she still doesn't have a driver's license!!!  (Did I mention she is also a great moocher when it comes to friends with cars?)  To give her some credit, she did recently renew her learner's permit--for the third time.

#1 earned a long list of awards and recognition in high school, including being a state semi-finalist for Utah's Sterling Scholar in Business and Marketing.  (It's a big-deal award in this state, with hundreds of students competing each year.)  We laughed to learn at PHS' awards night last week that BYU had also granted her a half-tuition scholarship.  That message must have been lost around the time that she declined acceptance to BYU to get almost everything free at UVU.

Most importantly though, #1 got a lot out of her education.  The three schools she attended through the last 13 years have served her well, and she has served them well.  She led service efforts as a student body officer in elementary school.  She rocked digital media and mock trial in middle school.  She found a love for performing in drama and choirs in high school.  She has worked, studied, and played--and found a great balance for all of it, which will serve her well in years to come.  Tonight, as her family watched her cap-and-gown procession, we heard her name and cheer to celebrate the educational milestone she has completed and the doors she has opened for her future.
Congratulations to #1 and the class of 2016!

Write-In

This year is #3's last at the charter school as she is choosing to enter the school district's local high school next year.  She will miss some of her teachers greatly, including her math teacher, Mr. Jones.  He keeps the subject engaging, as evidenced by interesting questions on the math tests.  Andrya does make a good argument for Justin Bieber's assumed comparative math abilities, but I agree with her write-in answer.  (Click on the image to read questions 4 and 4a.)

The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Snow Tubing

My little White girls after a day of sledding in Provo more than a decade ago.

You’ll remember my experience downhill skiing (aka human bowling, aka across-hill stomping) as a 13-year-old.  I wish I had remembered it a year later because that experience should have taught me not to join the annual ski trip with my church’s youth. But I was a slow learner when it came to those sorts of things.

Look how they've grown!  (#5 has been born.)
So far, #3, my current eighth-grader, has escaped this winter
unscathed.  She does not take after her mother in that respect.
This selfie is from our New Year's Eve sledding at East Canyon.
My sister, Carolyn, was kind crazy enough to invite us to
share her vacation condo and disturb her peace for a few days.

The winter of my eighth-grade year came around and I found myself piled into another minivan on our way to the same ski resort.  This time however, I was determined to not give the bunny hill a second chance.  Instead, I convinced a few other friends that we should join those who were snow tubing.  The ski resort had a really great “hill” for this.  In plowing their road all winter, the resort had built a big berm of snow between the road and the stretches of meadow that were now blanketed in several feet of Utah powder, This sloping meadow made for a wide tubing hill.  In theory, the bank of snow protected tubers by keeping them on the meadow side, rather than on the road side.  

(Do you see where this is going?)

The rental shop was very helpful in providing all sorts of injury-inducing snow gear, so that’s where we picked up our tubes.  We would ride our snow tubes on the meadow side of the snow bank, the long hill carrying us away from the lodge, probably a quarter of a mile.  One leader would drive on the road side of the bank, pick us up at the bottom of the hill, and drive us back up to the top of the road, where we would hop on our tubes for another ride.  It really was great fun.

Imagine these rolling hills covered in snow and children sledding.

Tangent time! Next to ice skating, flying downhill on an out-of-control piece of plastic was my favorite winter activity.  My parents used to take us sledding at the Mount Ogden Golf Course.  The course crawls up the foothills of Ogden, Utah, becoming a perfect sledding site in the winter.  We used to plant our three-person toboggan at the base of the trees that line the course, load everyone on while one parent held us in place, and then race down the hill into the open, wide space below.  There was plenty of room for dozens of sledders coming down the foothills together.

#5 on a sled run at East Canyon, circa 2015

Sledding, the next generation.
This saucer wasn't built for three people, but it's a step up
from the laundry basket that carried our kids down the hill
the previous year.  I like how #4 is "buckled" in by Dad's leg.

After a few outings, my family became more sledding savvy.  In addition to our plastic toboggan and Flexible Flyer, we started bringing our tubes.  In those early years, we went sliding on the big, black tractor inner tubes that we used for floating canyon rivers in the summer.  One or two of us would climb on, avoiding the giant inflation stem, wrapping our little arms around the sides and around each other, and clinging for dear life as we screamed with exhilaration all the way down the slope until it leveled out somewhere on the tenth fairway. Then I'd call Alfie, our Golden Retriever, who would retrieve my tube's rope and drag the tube to the next sibling waiting at the top of the hill.

The year that we got the yellow waterpark tubes was special, because then we had handles and we could take on the man-made snow bumps that would launch us into the air.  I distinctly remember taking flight like this photo shows.  There was one run where my tube and I became separated in the air, but gravity brought us back together and we continued down the slope.  It was both breathtaking and intoxicating!  

Back to that fateful night with the youth.  As an experienced tuber, I was confident that the ski resort’s lengthy tubing hill would convince my friends that sitting in a plastic doughnut and handing all control over to gravity was obviously superior to racing downhill with poles and skis on which one could supposedly stop and start as desired.  My friends and I made our first tube run with no mishaps--just lots of laughs and shrieks.  Good stuff!  But fate was teasing me.

We piled with our tubes in the back of the pickup truck for our lift to the top.  (For those readers who are worried by the fact that we weren’t buckled safely in the cab, just know that this was a compromise.  Out here in the West, another winter sport, when there aren’t hills around, is to simply hitch trains of toboggans behind a truck and get pulled around icy parking lots.)  This tubing train idea caught in our brains that night, too.  At the top of the road, my friends and I lined up our tubes side-by-side, grabbing each other’s handles to attempt to go down the hill in chain formation.  The natural bulges and depressions in the meadow’s snow forced us apart as we picked up speed.  I must have hit one of those snow bumps exactly the wrong way, because it bounced my tube right to the protective berm that stood between me and the road.  I remember hitting the edge of that berm like it was a surf wave, flying into the air, and hanging onto my tube for dear life.  I did not want to lose that tube!  The tube and I both flipped over in mid air and came down on the road.  We then proceeded to slide along the asphalt for a few yards--upside down. Upside down, aka on my face.  

I don’t remember my first thought, other than being confused about how this had happened.  Why had snow tubing turned on me?  Literally.  Then I noticed that my face burned. I suppose, given my luck, I should be grateful that I didn’t land on my leader’s truck or under its tires.  The adult leader who had been driving alongside us on the road stopped and climbed out as my friends punched holed with their boots across the tubing hill to see if I had survived.  

Everyone was a little concerned, I think, by the blood and sandy gravel covering my face. Back at the ski lodge, I spent the next half hour in the bathroom with wet paper towels, picking bits of road out of my face. Once again, my snow “fun” had turned into another evening alone in the ski lodge.  As dozens of teenage skiers returned, I had the displeasure of telling my tale over and over to all who saw my face and asked, “What happened?”

One of the tamer GPK.
I never liked these cards.

I got to repeat the retelling several times at school the next day, too. It was humbling to face my peers 12 hours later with scabby road rash face. I looked pretty gross. But it turns out that in eighth grade, gross can be good. (Keep in mind, this was in the age of Garbage Pail Kids.) My face earned me a lot of attention that day, including from the boy I then had a crush on. He seemed particularly impressed by my toughness, as evidenced by his compliment at the end of my story: "Cool."  

Go road rash!

The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Alpine Skiing

When I was a youth, my church took all the teenagers downhill skiing for one night every winter.  I had never been Alpine skiing before, and not being the adventurous type, I went only because I always went to our weekly activities.  I remember my 13-yr-old self gathering with high schoolers in the parking lot of Nordic Valley Ski Resort. These older, cooler kids pulled me into their circle and offered some “community Carmex” as they talked about how fun this activity would be. I took courage from their interest in me, a lowly seventh grader, and their apparent concern to protect my lips from the harsh wind I would be facing in a few minutes as I swooshed down the mountainside. It’s funny how kids’ brains process friendship.

We rented our gear in the resort’s lodge.  Once I had everything strapped on, and a firm grip on my ski poles, I joined two or three other friends who had never been skiing before.  One of our youth leaders offered to teach us the basics.  I’m sure I don’t remember everything he tried to teach me, but it probably sounded a lot like this sage advice I found on e4s.co.uk: “Skiing Tips for Beginners”.

1. 

   Helpful tips for avoiding this

   Gravity - This takes you from the top of the mountain to the bottom in the most direct route.
• My seventh-grade understanding of physics, specifically mechanics and motion, concurred with this assessment.
2. Balance - snow is slippery! Trying to balance whilst sliding down a mountain isn't easy!
• Agreed.
• Also, “whilst” is one of my favorite non-American English words.  I’m going to incorporate that into my verbiage.
3. Dress Code - Stay warm!
• Got it.  We hadn’t reached the part in our science class about thermodynamics and heat transfer, but I was pretty sure that winter night temperatures + snow + not being cuddled up in a blanket watching “My Two Dads” = the chance for chilly.
4. Protect your skin
• Carmex applied.  Check.
5. Gear - I'd recommend renting your skis and boots
• Check.
6. Skis - All rental shops should give you skis that suit your ability, but their height is the key. Make sure they are 20-30cm shorter than your height.  If you find the front of your skis keep crossing whilst you ski then don't be afraid to take them back to the rental shop and ask for some shorter ones.
• Check, I think.  The rental shop guy held skis vertically next to me until he was satisfied, and he seemed to know what he was doing.
• Whilst!
7. Learning to stand up
• I reminded myself that I’d been working on that skill all day every day for more than a dozen years.  Confidence boost!
8. Speed control/Stopping - If you can't control your speed and stop then there is a good chance you will hurt yourself and other people. The snow plough position is perfect for both controlling speed and stopping on gentle slopes! To slow down to a stop, simply turn your toes towards each other slightly more and push your heels further apart - making the snow plough wider at the back but keeping a small gap between the tips (front) of your skis.
• Got it, at least in theory.
• And it's farther apart, not further. (I can't tolerate poor grammar on my own blog.)
9. Getting involved - Strapping planks to your feet and slipping down a mountain may not sound like something worth forking out a few hundred quid for but...it really is. It's a great sport, no matter what standard you are! Skiing is a massive confidence sport though, so take your time learning and don't rush straight up to the top of the mountain, because getting out of control and stacking it at high speed can put people off.
• Yep.  
• Notice how he didn’t say “skiing is a massive confidence-building sport”?  Just...yep.

Six-year-olds make it look easy.

We glided out of the lodge and paused, looking down the steep slope towards the ski lift.  Our leader then pointed to the death-defying bunny hill.  He explained we would be using the bunny hill for starters, though I was sure it would be my end.  He showed us how keep to our skis parallel and most importantly, how to make a snowplow V with the ski tips, which is supposed to stop you from going down the mountain too fast.  

I plucked up some courage and went along with my cohorts who said we understood and were ready.  I pointed my skis toward the ski lift and let myself pick up a little bit of momentum.  As my speed increased, I got nervous about my ability to stop.  I remembered the wise words of my leader and pushed my heels away from each other into a deeper snow plow.  My ski tips were close, my heels were far apart, I had my Carmex on...but I couldn’t stop. I started calling ahead of me, “Look out! I can’t stop!”

Tangent 1: I learned years later, as a passenger in a van that malfunctioned and wouldn’t stop accelerating, even with brakes applied, that making noise is my go-to skill for “survival”.  In that instance, all I could think to do as we approached a red light was to honk the horn and find something soft to run into on the other side of the light.  It was good that Kent was driving.  He simply pulled into the left turn lane, turned off the engine, and coasted to a stop at the red light.

Back to the slopes.  There was a group of people gathering around the ski lift, and maybe they didn’t know which way the sound of my voice was coming from, but whatever the reason, no one got out of my way.  So I went into theirs.  I ended up skiing right between a lady’s legs, pulling her down on top of me and pulling her date on top of both of us. It was pretty embarrassing, especially for adolescent me who had not yet learned to laugh at herself.  The lady and her date, who very well may have forked out a few hundred quid to be there that night, were also not laughing.  I gave my apologies and they let me get up and leave in shame.

The only thing that went right that night?
This wasn't me.

I had made it almost all the way to the ski lift. Carefully, I scissor-stepped the rest of the distance and then waited with dread to catch one of the chairs that came around.  At this point I was terrified of 1) catching the lift, and 2) being able to stay on the lift. Thankfully, I did manage both of those parts of the skiing process.  My friend and I disembarked awkwardly at the top of the bunny hill where our leader was now waiting for us.  He reviewed with us again, eyes fixed on me, how to snowplow and how to keep my weight distributed to maintain an upright posture.  Then he smiled (maliciously?) and sent me on my way down the hill.

I fell so many times I stopped counting. Despite the assertion from the Brits that “[skiing] is a great sport no matter what standard you are!”, it actually wasn’t fun getting my limbs twisted beneath me, and tangled up, and stuck with skis and poles...and it was cold...and more than slightly embarrassing.  I was one of those kids who did most things right, so becoming the laughing stock of the evening was not easy. Looking back, based on how my middle-school P.E. classes were going, I probably should have known not to even attempt this Alpine activity in the first place.

Tangent 2: All the way through middle school, my P.E. teacher recognized how bad I was at coordination. I think she felt sorry for me because she would customize physical tests for me to pass to get through her class.  For example, while in the volleyball unit, everyone else had to bump, spike, set, and perform all other sorts of athletic feats.  When I couldn’t set the ball against the wall more than twice in a row, my final came down to just bumping the ball on my own wrists 20 times in a row.  (20 times! Was she serious?)  I remember her standing next to me and counting aloud for me. I would get to eight bumps and I’d drop the ball and start over. Then I’d get to six and drop it and start over. Then I’d get to 13 and drop it...and you get the idea.  I spent the whole class period bumping that ball.  I think eventually I got 18 bumps in a row and she said, “That’s good enough.  We’ll just round up.”  So I got an A in P.E. for doing almost none of the work the others had to do.  I did dress and show up for my daily humiliation in the gym, so I guess my A was for effort.

What my teacher was asking for.

What I delivered.

The bunny hill didn’t seem to care that I had dressed and shown up.  (As I said in my last post, snow is cold through and through.) Halfway down the slope, as I was wrestling myself in the snow, trying to detangle my legs from the poles and skis, I realized, I’m not getting a grade on this. This isn’t fun.  And I don’t like people watching me fall repeatedly. I looked up and noticed the ski lodge directly across the hill from me.  I pressed my pole into my bindings to free my boot from its plank, did the same to the other boot, picked up my skis and my poles, and I stomped across the ski slope to the lodge.  About ten paces in, I became aware of people yelling at me.  Why aren’t they grateful that I am finally getting off their slope? I wondered.  Are they upset that I’m taking away their entertainment at my butt-plants?  One loud, angry voice rang out across the hill to explain it to me: “You’re punching holes in the snow and ruining our slope!”  I did not care.  I could not win.  I finished my trek to the lodge, marched straight to the rental office, and returned my downhill ski gear for the first and last time.

This feels familiar.

Turning 40 this year, I’ve thought about maybe giving skiing another chance.  I do like cross-country skiing, afterall.  The universe must have heard my thoughts because it responded with one of my experienced-skier friends breaking his shoulder and one of #1’s squad concussing on the slopes in the past few weeks.  Two witnesses that I should stay away, and that’s enough for me.  Get well soon, friends. I'm sticking with the ounce of prevention and staying home.

*Thank you internet for providing images of what my adolescent experience was like since my peers didn't have cell phones back then to capture the real thing--thank goodness!

The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Snowballs

*This began as a single post, but two paragraphs in, I realized there was no way to fit all my snow mishap stories in one post.  I hope you enjoy this three-part series.*

Excepting a two-year stint in Massachusetts, I am a Utah girl, born and raised.  Snow has been a part of my life every November through February--and April.  (Utah weather likes to toy with us.)  I have fond childhood memories of playing in snow, as well as not-so-fond adolescent memories of being defeated by that menacing substance.  Snow is cold through and through.  (Oh so cold.)

My youngest children are still enamored with the stuff, though.  In 2014, I gave #5 a snow shovel as a just-thinking-about-you gift.  He loves it!  What eight-year-old boy doesn't feel more manly shoveling his family out of the house alongside his father.  I love sitting at the dining room window with a cup of cocoa, watching the two of them shovel almost as much as he enjoys the work itself.

The view from my window during a December 2015 snowstorm.
There is a house across the street that is hidden by the windy snow.

The blizzard picked up while #5 was out shoveling, but he was undeterred.
If you look, you can see his silhouette with the snow shovel.
The wind blew everything back almost as quickly as he cleared it,
so he took a break until we could see across the street again.

When I pick up the kids from school, #5 likes to point out the increased size of the giant snowball that moves a couple feet across the schoolyard each day.  He tells me that the kids with the best gloves are selected to push the snowball hands-on while everyone else lines up behind them to add pushing momentum.  As the oldest children in school, #4 and the other sixth graders have taken it upon themselves to protect the snowball from all who would do it harm each recess.  I guess they figure if they're too cool to play at recess, they might as well provide a security service while standing around out there.

My sisters and I made a snowball like that once.  We had rolled and packed most of our front yard's snow onto it and were pushing it to the backyard for more layers.  We were navigating our snowball through the side yard when we met with an obstacle: our lilac bush.  Our childish bodies strained to keep that snowball under control as we inched around the 7-ft-tall bush.  Our family's first second car, a 1973 Ford LTD, lay unsuspecting in the driveway only a few feet away.

*Here comes a tangent!  Before writing this post, I had not considered the influence of Ford in my family.  I grew up singing our extended family's song with great gusto at family reunions.  The song includes a line about "We pack our lunch and load the bunch and come from near and far, to come to this reunion in the good old family car."  (The lyrics work well set to the tune of the University of Utah's fight song.)

I always thought that was a throwaway line so that "come from near and far" could rhyme with something.  Not so.  As it turns out, the family car was an important part of each family reunion.  When my great-grandfather, Alfred, penned the lyrics to the song, he was probably thinking about the car deals that frequently went down at these family reunions.  Great Grandpa's brother-in-law, Uncle Walt, worked at the Ford dealership in Meridian, Idaho, and he always had a car just a year or two old. The Rohner reunions, which apparently influenced the Glauser reunions, became a time to admire Uncle Walt's latest Ford or Mercury.  Catching up with each other soon turned to talk of buying Uncle Walt's current, gently used car.  How convenient to have it there for a test drive!  My dad and his younger brother always got excited at the prospect, which sometimes paid off.  Both my grandpa and great grandpa bought used cars at family reunions.  This begs the question whether my brother, Jacob, is now a Program Management Analyst at Ford Motor Company because it runs in his blood--or at least in his last name.

A perk of working in Motor City:
Jake sometimes borrows new cars for the weekend.

Back to the late 1980s and our 1973 Ford LTD.  This particular car was a hand-me-down to our family from my grandparents, who got it from my great-grandparents, who got it from Uncle Walt.  For many years, this car had enjoyed gentle owners before being turned over to our family of five children.  And now there it sat, naive and off guard, relaxing in our driveway that winter's day.  As the snowball, my sisters, and I rounded the bend of the lilac bush, our lopsided, 50-lb. creation tipped to one side.  We strained against it but simply couldn't stop its momentum.  As if in slow motion, we watched helplessly as the giant snowball rolled into the driveway, right into the side of the LTD.  The steel body panel was no match for our ball of packed, icy water.

Picture this beauty with a tire-sized dent in the passenger door.

That was the beginning of my snow mishaps.  Fortunately, steel likes to retain its original shape and my parents were able to pop the body back to almost perfect.  Not all snow-induced damage is so easily rectified, though.  As the next two stories will demonstrate, my snow mishaps became increasingly perilous.  Stay tuned...

Spelling Bee5*%!

I have attended many spelling bees over the past ten years, and I've learned that the bee divides students into a few categories.

1. There are those who are not great spellers who know they are not great spellers.  These children generally go along with the competition, knowing they will get out on the classroom level of the bee.  This may be the only time of the year that these children grumble about their learning time being wasted as they are forced to listen to classmates say letters s-l-o-w-l-y.
2. There are those who deeply care about every academic competition.  Some of these students spend days or weeks studying for the bee.  Some look at their older sisters' bee records and figure ten minutes of practice per day for the last two days before the bee--along with natural talent--will carry them.  Either way, this group usually leaves the bee in tears when they lose.  It's hard to see their hope that comes from minutes of studying get crushed by one (or three mistaken) letters.
3. Then there are students who don't study, don't care about the bee, but still end up placing in the grade or school level.  This is my favorite group, because the older they get, the more entertaining are their spelling bees.  (Keep reading.)
4. I suppose there is a fourth group, being Akeelah and other students who study for months and compete quite well.  I almost forgot about this group because none of my children are in it.

My #1 falls into the first group.  She never became a bee bully, teasing the children who were actually good spellers.  She spells fine, but she has always known the competition she was up against, so it wasn't a big deal when she never made it past the first-round classroom bee each year.

#5 is in the second group.  He studied really hard for two days before this year's class spelling bee, plus at least six minutes of study during the drive to school on the day of.  His confidence waxed strong, even though he missed every fourth word when we practiced the night before.  What he didn't take into account is the Samantha factor.  Samantha is the youngest daughter of my friend who organizes the school spelling bee each year.  That family takes spelling very seriously.  In their junior high years, Samantha's older sisters competed in the district and state levels of the bee.  Samantha is in #5's fourth-grade class this year, which means he didn't stand a chance.  Sometimes being an eternal optimist means you come down hard.  He was f-l-a-b-b-e-r-g-a-s-t-e-d when I told him Samantha probably started studying at Thanksgiving.  (She went on to place second in the school-wide bee, losing first place to an eighth grader.)

Until this year, I wasn't sure into which group #4 fit.  When I picked up the kids at the end of school on the day of the class bees, #5 bravely told me that he had taken fourth place, and (with tears in his eyes) added that he wouldn't be advancing.  #4 wouldn't offer her results until I pressed: "How about you [#4]?"  "I made it."  Her friend who carpools with us was now the flabbergasted one: "You made it into the grade-level spelling bee?!"  "Yep."  I figured she was downplaying her enthusiasm so she could be cool in front of her friend.  At home I congratulated her sincerely, which she returned with, "Whatever."

Over the next few days, I asked #4 if she would like to study for the bee.  She never did.  (It's pretty hard to tear her away from editing videos.)  I asked if she would like me to come for the sixth-grade bee.  She didn't care, so I took that as a yes.  #4 was the second speller of twelve.  She went to the mic to receive her word.  I don't remember the word she was given, but I remember her response: "Oh great.  Really?  Okay."  At least she was going to keep the bee a little more interesting for the audience.  She spelled that word correctly, shrugged, and took her seat.  She only lasted two rounds, but at least her nonchalance got chuckles from her peers.  Yep, definitely in group three.

#2 has been great at spelling since age four, so I had high hopes for her.  I rescinded those hopes when she was eight, after sitting through her third year of 70-minute-long bees.  Those are not the most exciting events, and I sometimes get dirty looks when I bury my nose in a book during every other speller besides my kid.  #2's sharpest memory of a spelling bee was the one time she got out at the class level.  She misspelled some unknown word like pusillanimous--which, at that point in her spelling bee history, she wasn't--and then the next speller was given alligator.  #2's response upon hearing the next speller's luck was, "Alligator!  Seriously, alligator?  EVERYONE knows how to spell alligator!"  Way to go down with grace, daughter.  

(Have I mentioned before that our family is practiced at the art of sarcasm?)

#3 is good at sarcasm, but she's possibly better at spelling.  After placing in the school-wide bee a few times, she had the p-r-o-s-p-i-c-i-e-n-c-e this year to know that she could probably get by on humor and no studying.  Besides, she was up against the eighth grade's funny boy who is too smart for his--or his teacher's--own good.  He was determined to not advance to the next round, and so spelled impugn as i-m-p-u-g-n-3-r-2-9-x-o-8 (or something along those lines).

#3 appreciates his humor, but wasn't ready to betray her intelligence, either.  Following is an excerpt from her eighth-grade class spelling bee.  #3 thought she may have met her downfall before making it to the grade-level bee, so she decided to have fun with it.  

• Teacher:  "Please spell pharmacopoeia."
• #3:  "Um, what?"
• Teacher: "Pharmacopoeia."
• #3:  "Could I have the definition please?"
• Teacher:  "Pharmacopoeia is a book that lists medicinal drugs, their uses, and their effects."
• #3:  "Could you use it in a sentence please?"
• Teacher:  "A doctor may reference the pharmacopoeia when prescribing medication."
• #3:  "Could I have the language of origin?"
• Teacher:  "Pharmacopoeia comes from Greek."
• #3:  "Can you say it a little more slowly?"
• Teacher:  "Fahr-muh-kuh-pee-uh."
• #3  "Can you say it even slower?"
• Teacher:  Raised her eyebrows doubtfully.
• #3:  "Okay, fine.  I'm sorry.  Could you say it faster?"
• Teacher:  Gave #3 the stink eye.
• #3:  "Can you say it backwards?"
• Teacher:  "No."
• #3:  "Could you spell it for me?"  (That little trick works on substitutes and the occasional elementary-school teacher.  To the delight of her classmates, #2 has successfully used it on multiple spelling tests.)
• Teacher:  "Just spell the word."
• #3:  "Can I get a Bic Mac with that?"
• #3's BFF from the back of the class:  "With fries!"
• Teacher, with unending patience:  "No.  Just spell the word."
• #3:  "Pharmacopoeia: p-h-a-r-m-a-c-o-p-o-e-i-a.  Pharmacopoeia."
• Teacher:  "That is correct."
• #3:  "Dang!  Seriously?"

I think the teacher was relieved that most of her eighth graders were too cool for spelling so she didn't have to go through another round with #3, who subsequently went on to the grade-level spelling bee where she placed fourth.  That was fine by her, because she didn't want to go up against the fourth-grade Samantha factor in front of the entire school.  

As a former teacher's pet, I must give props to Samantha and others like her who do well because they don't rely solely on raw talent, but actually STUDY!  And, I guess, good job to my kids who show up and win ribbons with their i-n-s-o-u-c-i-a-n-c-e.

Back in the day, four years ago,
when she was still nice to her teachers.