My Family When I Was Seven Years Old

While going through some boxes of my old papers, I found this picture I drew of my family when I was seven years old. 

How do I know I was seven? Because Carolyn isn't in the picture, and she came along when I was 8 years old.

My just older brother, DellRay, is on the far left holding a bucket on his head with an impossibly long arm. (He needed the arm to hold the bucket, don't you see? He was really good with his chemistry set, so maybe he turned himself into elastic man for a day.)

His other (impossibly short) arm is extended to hold my hand. (Maybe he had the secret ability to pull his arms through his body, like a pipe cleaner through a hole.)

Awww, look at that. We're ALL holding hands! My awfully curvy seven-year-old self is holding onto bikini Bev, who was five going on six. (She still loves to tan.) Then there's four-year-old Greg, who usually matched DellRay when we were kids, but he's got a red suit that summer for some reason. Loraine, the only one with stylish stripes, was turning three that summer.

Behind us is 11-year-old Rebecca, also in a red suit, holding onto 15-year-old Melinda's hand.

Now I've got to wonder why I drew Melinda in a dress and socks and shoes instead of a swimming suit? I don't know. Maybe she swam in a dress. Maybe it's because her legs were broken. (I mean, LOOK at them! She should be walking with  crutches at least!)

It also appears that she's saying, "Down!" (Written in blue above her head, with little blue talk lines radiating from her mouth.)

What does that mean?

I forgot to write an explanation.

Then it looks like my parents are dancing in the middle of us all. (My father loved to dance.)

   So now you'll be able to recognize all of us on the street.

You're welcome.

What's your favorite summer activity?

Shopping in a Paint Shirt

I have this great shirt, a former nightshirt that serves as a paint and project cover all. At the end of a recent painting project, my youngest pestered me to go to the store with him. "But I need to change."
"No you don't," he said.
"Really? You wouldn't care if I went to the store in this?" I spread my hands to show off the splattered shirt hanging nearly to my ankles.
"I don't care," he insisted. "Let's go."
So I went. In the first aisle, my son looked at me sideways and said, "You look funny."
"You're the one who didn't want me to change," I said, plucking a bag of raisin bran off the shelf and tossing it in the basket with a flourish. I figured if anybody at the grocery store cared to stare, I'd give them something to talk about.
What have you seen in the unusual clothing department lately?

Michael's Happy Shirts

I love hand-me-downs, hand-me-overs, or hand-me-ups. I don't care if clothes are new before I wear them. In fact, I passed some "new" jeans in the store a couple of weeks ago with so much wear on the front of the thighs that I'm sure my underwear would show if I tried to pull on a pair.
But this isn't about me. It's about 10-year-old Michael who was given some shirts from a shirttail-cousin-by-marriage. ;0)
When Michael discovered the bright colored golf shirts with horizontal stripes, he said, "I LOVE these!" For the next couple of days, he wore different bright golf shirts. "You know Mom," he announced, "these shirts make me happy. I can't help it. When I wear them, I'm always in a good mood."
If that's the case, then those shirts aren't going anywhere! They'll be "wear-me-outs!"

Why do I always dance?

I had the privilege of substituting at our local elementary school for a week and a half, where I got to do... TA DA! LUNCH ROOM DUTY! It was great fun.
After a few days, one of the students at the lunch table looked up at me with wide eyes and asked, "Why are you always dancing?"
Surprised, I asked, "Am I always dancing?"
"Yes!" several students replied.
I thought fast. There had been some occasions when I was wandering past tables, monitoring students' food intake (or lack thereof) when I'd spun on the balls of my feet, for no particular reason, but it WAS fun to see my skirts twirl out and around. Other times I wore tappy shoes and I couldn't help but tappity-tap them a few times now and then. That must have been the dancing they were referring to.
"Because," I said, "Dancing is good for you. It keeps you healthy and makes you happy. You should try it!"
I caught some incredulous looks, then did a twirl and moved on to the next table.
You know what I didn't tell them? If you do a few dance steps, you can eat your whole school lunch with fewer pounds gained.
And the sweet rolls are worth it.
Oh, yeah!

I Just Wanted to See the Play!

I got to the high school play, "A Curious Savage," an hour early because my high-schooler son was in the light booth and needed time to set up. While waiting in the lobby, I got busy writing. So when there were signs of activity around the ticket booth, I gave my 10-year-old some money and told him to go get us tickets so we could go in.
When the auditorium doors opened, Michael came to get me and I picked up my papers and followed him toward the seats he'd picked out. As we were going through the doors, the director saw me, gave a mischievous grin, and called loud enough for Egyptians to hear, "Hey, you should tell your son that you just want a child and an adult ticket."
"Why?" I asked, wondering if Michael had gotten two child's seats or something.
"He said your age," the director snorted, trying to hold back the laughter.
"Oh, that's okay, I don't really care," I said with a smile.
Michael took a few steps beside me in silence, then he turned his face up and said, "But, Mom, I had to tell him your age because I didn't know if you got the Senior Citizen discount yet or not."
I cared about that. I laughed clear 'til curtain time!

The Santa Letters - by Stacy Gooch Anderson

by Shirley Bahlmann
REVIEW:
Think, “P.S. I Love You,” condensed to twelve days, with snow, and four kids thrown in.
In a style reminiscent of “The Christmas Box,” Anderson tells a tale of recovery from the loss of a beloved family member. Through a mysterious series of letters and gifts, a widow and her children experience hope where before there was loneliness.
Although this book could have benefited from another edit, it is a Christmas story with a valid message. Even though I found the Santa letters longer than my children would ever sit and listen to, my eyes prickled when I read the tender part about Trevor’s mother.
Too many of the characters had a similar “voice,” with the notable exception of Walter, yet I felt my heart thump with satisfaction when the final gift was opened.
My favorite line is: “…regular old super hero with extra skinny legs.”
This book has a beautiful cover and an overall good message to remind people what is really important all year long.

INTERVIEW:
Shirley: Stacy, thank you for meeting me at the North Pole. What's
that on your feet? Galoshes? What were you thinking, girl? Go skin a
polar bear and make some real boots! Are you sure you're warm enough?
Stacy: Oh Shirley,....have you seen these thighs? There is plenty of insulation for the two of us!...;-)
Shirley: Ho, ho, ho! What is your favorite holiday?
Stacy: Christmas by far. Tinsel, twinkle lights, family, gingerbread, happiness everywhere,.....it's all just so delicious! A close second would be the 4th of July though since the neighbors don't rat us out when we use the water balloon launcher on a few of the more cranky ones down the street.
Shirley: Whew, that was close. I was scared you might say the 4th of July FIRST, then it would be so ironic that your book is about Christmas. Was getting your first book published like, well, Christmas?
Stacy: Don't know how to answer that one. I'm still kind of uncomfortable with the notoriety that has come with it since I don't really feel it is my story. It's about the Savior and the important gifts He brings into each of our lives. It's a good story but it's just one I was blessed enough to be a part of.
Shirley: That's a very touching outlook. What gave you the idea for writing the Santa Letters?
Stacy: A few years back, I found out that two of my sons had been in a sexually abusive situation. And since some of the perpetrators had been wards of the state, there was a lot of pressure for us to back off. At one point, I had so much anger for what DCFS had put us through that I almost let it destroy me. But this wonderful little voice reminded me of all the things my parents had taught me and insisted that if I wanted to raise sons with integrity, love, compassion and forgiving hearts, I had to learn to do that myself and be an example. Since there was no money for Christmas - it all had gone to legal and counseling bills - I came upon the idea of the Santa Letters as a way to help our family heal and remember all the gifts we had been given throughout the years. I never intended our experience to become a book but I had a friend who when she found out what we'd been doing, she encouraged and challenged me to share it with others.
Shirley: Wow, Stacy. What a great example of making lemonade out of exceptionally bitter lemons. Um. Not to change the subject, but there's a reindeer behind you. He's not smiling.
Stacy: (Looks over her shoulder and then back to Shirley) Oh yeah, that would be Blitzen. He's still mad at me for eating the last bowl of Cheerios - it's heart healthy you know....He loves his oats in any form!
Shirley: (To Blitzen) No Cheerios here! Go look in your feed box! Oh, good, there he goes. (To Stacy) Do you have any other book ideas, say, with reindeer? Or maybe tropical islands? Yes, reindeer can wear hula skirts. I don't
know if they can actually hula, but they can wear grass skirts... for a little while... before they eat them.
Stacy: I was thinking more penguins in puka shells.....And reindeer do hula dance. I saw them swishin' and swayin' once while Santa was playing Blue Hawaii on his ukulele. Oh, and there is the companion book to The Santa Letters that I am currently working on. No animals (other than the thugs in jail) but this one picks up with Guillermo's story.
Shirley: That sounds great! I thought they way you worked Guillermo in was a great twist in reader perspective. Hey, look at that guy over there. That's not the big guy, is it? (Eyes growing wider) It is, it is! Awww, how sweet, he's carrying a pot of hot chocolate toward us! Do you like hot chocolate?
Stacy: Love it! Especially with a hint of mint or amaretto and whipped cream on top. If he's going anywhere near the reindeer though, we may have to settle for a bowl of chicken soup....
Shirley: That's strange. I thought he had a white beard. Oh, I see.
He's moonlighting as a hot chocolate taste tester. Well, looky there.
I never knew reindeer liked hot chocolate. Now they're all smiling. I
guess it's snow cones for you and me, Stace. What do you say? It's been fun talking to you, but now that it's time to go, I'll race you home on a sled!

· Hardcover: 190 pages
· Publisher: Sweetwater Books (July 8, 2008)
· Language: English
· ISBN-10: 1599551454
· ISBN-13: 978-1599551456
· Product Dimensions: 7.8 x 6 x 0.9 inches
· Shipping Weight: 12 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
· Average Customer Review:

ORDER HERE! (Just click!)
CLICK FOR STACY'S BLOG!

Under Son

by Shirley Bahlmann
I just finished a week and a half long stint at the Mormon Miracle Pageant in sunny, mosquito-infested Manti, Utah. My routine was pretty much get up at 6:00 a.m., clean the alternative high school in readiness for Summer School classes, feed and water our pets since that's the only way I could be certain they'd remain alive, then be in my Craft Fair booth by 10:00 a.m. (I didn't have to go except when it was my turn to take the till, but more people bought books when I was there to threaten them with paper cuts if they didn't.) I stayed among the paper and glossy covers until it was time to do my part in the Pageant, which started at 9:30 p.m. (I was a wicked Shaman who led people astray from Third Nephi.) Home by 11:30, I was in bed soon after, unless my restless 8-year-old made it later.
Later, rinse, repeat.
I met some interesting people in my book booth. One fellow who appeared deceptively young had a double super hero cape velcroed around his neck. On one side was the Superman symbol, the other side showed Batman. One lady who shared my booth asked the young hero which super dude he was. "Are you Batman or Superman?" was her innocent question.
The boy fixed her with deadly laser beam eyes. "I'm Under Son," he declared, clearly irritated that she did not recognize him by sight. (How could she have known his real cape was at the cleaners?)
"Under Son?" the lady asked, unaware of the mortal danger she put herself in by questioning his identity. Her life was saved by the lad's older sister, who obviously had super powers of her own. She grabbed Under Son's shoulders and held him fast.
"It's like Under Dog," the girl explained. "Only he's Under Son."
Ah.
That boy has a big future. I could tell by his cape-swaying swagger as he left us without a backward glance. (Under Son never glances backwards.)
I'll tell you what... if I'm ever in danger, I'll run to the nearest kindergarten class and call for Under Son, the hero of limitless creativity.

They go potty in heaven, don't they?

We're in the middle of "The Mormon Miracle Pageant" here in little old Sanpete County, Utah. The outdoor spectacle of volunteer actors in period costumes is in its 42nd year on lovely Manti, Utah Temple Hill.
One thing that pageant goers probably don't know is that before each performance is a devotional for cast members. It takes place on Temple Hill behind the costume building. There are some wonderful speakers at those meetings, interspersed with those who do the best they can with the talents they've been blessed with.
During one meeting, my 8-year-old came to me with a frown on his face and said, "The man wouldn't let me use the bathroom."
"What man?" I asked, my protective Mommy hackles rising.
"The one who says when we can go get our costumes."
So I went to talk to the bathroom-maximum-security guard. With a voice that could freeze watermelons, I said, "My son told me you wouldn't let him use the bathroom."
"Oh, I'm sorry, when was this?"
"During cast devotional."
"Oh. Well, you see, if I leave the bathrooms open, then all the teenagers go in there and won't come out."
"My son is eight," I said, smoke coming out of my ears.
"Oh, I'm really sorry. Look, if you could come with him next time, then that would really help with crowd control. I really apologize," the man said, looking very apologetic.
"Okay," I said, my hackles smoothing down. I was glad, too, because raised hackles is not a good look for me.
I walked away, reflecting on the lesson that if you really want to reach your goal, it helps to take a parent with you. And there is One who can get through any barrier, from writing block to basic mortal needs. And if I, as an imperfect mortal, love my son enough to push aside my non-confrontational fun-loving yellow personality to confront Bathroom Security, how much more does Father in Heaven love us? I'll bet he even has a bathroom key right there in his pocket.

Walking Boxes

by Shirley Bahlmann
They were big, they were beautiful, and they were in the dumpster. Two huge boxes, big enough to reach from my head to my ankles, sat unappreciated, waiting for their final journey to the dump. How could I let these building blocks of imagination meet such an awful fate? There were castles and rocket ships and secret clubhouses just waiting to be built!
I recruited my big fourteen-year-old son for project "Save-a-Box." We each hoisted one up, up, and over our heads, upside down, so we were looking through little peep holes that were torn along the bottom. Walking with a big box on your head takes some getting used to. By the time we reached Main Street, we were moving at a reasonable pace, and were glad to find the crossing guard willing to hold up his STOP sign so we could cross without worrying about being blindsided by a turkey truck. I thought the most dangerous part of our journey was over, but that was before I decided to take a shortcut through the elementary school yard. That was real danger.
Curious children started squealing and pushing on our boxes, making me stagger to catch my balance. I don't know about you, but falling down is not one of my top ten favorite things to do, and falling down inside a box where I had no option of putting out my hands to catch myself is an even worse prospect.
"Hey, stop pushing us!" I yelled.
There was a moment of silence, then a small voice asked, "Are you Michael's mom?"
"Yes," I answered, claiming parentage of my third grader. Since I'm a minor celebrity at the school, working with producing social skill skits every month, most students know me. Once they knew who the alien box monster really was, the pushing stopped and we survived crossing a street on our own.
A block from home, a stream of wolf cub scouts flowed toward us, parting around the boxes like rocks in a river. Then I saw my son, Michael's, face through my peephole.
"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked, his cheeks turning red.
"Taking these boxes home," I answered.
"What for?" He tried to sound exasperated.
"To play with," I said.
"Whatever," he answered, and walked on to join his den.
When my son got home from scouts, he spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the boxes. I grinned, remembering all my cardboard box adventures, and marked double time on my walking exercise chart.

Applause from an unexpected source

When I'm not plotting or characterizing I'm still reading books at the local library during pre-school story hour. This past week our subject was the alphabet and how it spells our names. One of the books I chose to read had the charming old song that goes, "A," you're adorable, "B," you're so beautiful, "C," you're a cutie full of charm..." Of course I couldn't just read the words when the tune was haunting me from the back of my brain. Even though I wasn't 100% sure of the tune, I did my best to sing what I could remember, and ended joyfully on the final line of, "It's fun to wander through the alphabet with you to tell you what you mean to me."
Just as the final note drifted off to silence, a cute little girl with brushy horizontal pigtails sticking out behind her ears put her small hands together and clapped. Startled, I looked down into her adoring blue eyes staring up at me. Then I said, "Thank you," and gave a little bow.
I've been floating on that tiny bit of appreciation from a tiny little person for days.
So say something nice. Give a smile. Clap for someone. It doesn't hurt a bit, and it will help more than you imagine.
Shirley Bahlmann

Sing It With Gusto

Bob and I just got back from the obligatory elementary school Christmas program. There's nothing wrong with music, but it's easier to take while I'm working on something else. Life seems to be all about multi-tasking these days, more's the pity. But we were being good parents, going out in the cold, dark night to see our son sing a Christmas song.
While waiting for the 3rd grade's turn, we were delighted to hear "Blue Christmas" belted out by a bunch of preschoolers that couldn't have been more than knee-high, clutching paper guitars and swaying in their neon plastic sunglasses. Their voices filled the college gymnasium with energy, happiness, and enthusiasm. Bob even put his book down to watch and listen. Several chuckles from the audience punctuated the lively performance.
I had expected to merely endure the program with good grace, but with a beginning like that, I couldn't help but smile through the whole thing. Thanks to a bunch of elves in disguise, my Christmas season was better than before I braved the dark and cold.
So even if you don't have little ones in it, go see an elementary school Christmas program. It will be worth it.

Just a MOM

(This isn't mine, I could only find the name "Anonymous" on it, wow! that "Anonymous" is some writer! I think this really puts priorities in perspective, so I'm sharing!)

A woman, renewing her driver's license at the County Clerk 's office was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation.
She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.
"What I mean is," explained the recorder, "do you have a job or are you just a......?"
"Of course I have a job," snapped the woman. "I'm a Mom."
"We don't list 'Mom' as an occupation, 'housewife' covers it," said the recorder emphatically.
I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall.
The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient and possessed of a high sounding title like, "Official Interrogator" or "Town Registrar."
"What is your occupation?" she probed.
What made me say it? I do not know. The words simply popped out. "I'm a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations."
The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair and looked up as though she had not heard right.
I repeated the title slowly emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written, in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.
"Might I ask," said the clerk with new interest, "just what you do in your field?"
Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, "I have a continuing program of research, [what mother doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field, (normally I would have said indoors and
out). I'm working for my Masters, (first the Lord and then the whole family) and already have four credits (all daughters).
Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, (any mother care to disagree) and I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money."
There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she completed the form, stood up and personally ushered me to the door.
As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants -- ages 13, 7, and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6 month old baby) in the child development program, testing out a new vocal pattern. I felt I had scored a beat on
bureaucracy!
And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another Mom."
Motherhood! What a glorious career! Especially when there's a title on the door.
Does this make grandmothers "Senior Research associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations" and great grandmothers "Executive Senior Research Associates"? I think so!
I also think it makes Aunts "Associate Research Assistants."
May your troubles be less, your blessings be more and nothing but happiness come through your door

Boxed and Ready to Sleep

While raising sons, I’ve discovered that each one has their own style. It does absolutely no good to take one boy and try to stuff him into his brother’s mold. If you persist in the attempt, they tend to yell a lot, because it’s not a good fit.
When my seven-year-old, Michael, showed delight over a huge cardboard box left over from an oversized printer his Dad ordered, it didn’t surprise me. It actually brought back memories of when I was a kid. I found a cardboard box on our front porch. No one seemed to want it, so I cut a doorway with a bread knife and forced a chair into the narrow end. It was a child-sized chair, and a tight fit, so in hindsight I realize that the box must have been narrow enough to ship a card table. But at the time, I didn’t care. I sat there in my own space, my own castle, for what seemed like hours.
Now think about your own childhood. You haven’t forgotten those racecar apple boxes, have you? Orange boxes work, too, as long as you pop the bottom flaps out. Holding the rectangle car up around your waist, you’d run around trying to smash into brother and sister cars that wove equally erratic paths around the yard. It was even cooler if you drew headlights and doors on your box. Once I even managed to turn a picture of an apple on the side of my box into a doorknob.
Now I was the Mom, and Michael asked if he could sleep in the box that night. Why not? It was no worse than camping. I figured he’d get tired of it after a night or two.
I figured wrong.
After he’d slept on a pile of blankets in his box on the bedroom floor for three nights, I got him tucked in his bed and started reading a story. After a couple of minutes he said, “Mom, I’m cold. Can I sleep in my box?”
Of course he could.

Why Energetic Children Should Not Have Alarm Clocks!

When he was six years old, my youngest son begged for an alarm clock. I figured it would be a passing fancy. What does a six year old need to get up for, except to pee, and there’s a built in alarm clock for that.
For a while, it was a novelty. He made it ring over and over, moving the alarm indicator and then the watch hands to enjoy another full minute of clatter. I asked him to close his bedroom door.
One early summer morning I even heard the distant “dingaling” of his alarm clock and climbed up the stairs to turn it off. Michael lay with eyes closed, mouth slightly open, obviously dreaming of a drawer full of silverware doing the hokey pokey.
Even when his room fell silent, he didn’t stir.
Definitely a passing fancy.
But when he turned seven, something happened. He came into my room at 3:30 am. Thinking he’d had a bad dream, I instructed him to go to the bathroom before he got in bed with his dad and me. I didn’t want to risk his internal alarm clock failing to wake him up when he reached critical bladder mass.
It was only after he finished the night with his feet in my back and his hard skull doing its best to knock me unconscious that I found out the truth.
He’d purposely set his alarm clock for 3:30 a.m. “I wanted to get up earlier than anyone,” he said.
The next night, we talked about him not setting his alarm to go off so early.
“But I still want to get up before everyone else,” he said.
“Dad goes to work at 6:00 a.m. so why not set your alarm for 5:30?”
He grinned and set his alarm.
And was up at 3:30.
This time he didn’t come into my room.
He had a bath.
And played on the computer.
And watched a movie.
He forgot to eat until I got up at 7:00 and offered him breakfast.
And he went to school happy.
That night, we all got ready to go to the high school to watch his big brother play basketball. Michael wasn’t sure he wanted to go. “I might fall asleep.”
You know, Michael, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.