tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34450299239215584302024-02-20T04:26:59.795-08:00Some Things Matter More Than OthersPamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-50737101869106136392019-08-02T19:25:00.002-07:002019-08-02T21:00:23.685-07:00Top Ten Reasons Not to Get DivorcedI haven't written a blog post for over a year and a half. 'Write more' has been on my list of things to do for the entire eighteen months (along with lose weight, eat better, organize my house, and be nicer). Wait just a minute, that's been the same list I've had for 40+ years. Ouch. That realization stings a little.<br />
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Ah, well. Such is life, oui? Seems fitting I should start again in a cynical, testy mood. A bit of therapy writing. This one may or may not get published. I'll wait until tomorrow.<br />
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So . . . top ten reasons to stay married:<br />
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1. <b><u>Divorcee is a horrible label</u> </b>Trust me. People will always associate it with brokenness (accurate if referring to finances) and some antiquated notion that you are after someone else's husband (as if--seriously, maybe in movies from the 1950's, but not now--remember, we had husbands). I really should have killed him and then I'd be a widow! And possibly a death-row inmate.<br />
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2. <b><u>House repairs, car maintenance, masculine-type</u> </b>(I shudder at the sexism here, but bare with me)<b> <u>odd jobs</u> </b> I actually like mowing my lawn and shoveling snow is almost as good as cross country skiing for exercise! I get quite offended when people offer to do those two things for me. But I just paid over $300.00 for someone to spray earwigs because I hate pesticides. I paid over $500.00 to get my sprinkler system redone. I can't even change a light bulb because I'm likely to fall off a chair (see my posts about Multiple Sclerosis). I know having a husband doesn't guarantee that he'll do these traditional jobs and heaven knows, given a choice and another paycheck, I'd rather pay someone else and have a husband do the cooking. For now, my son-in-law could use a break.<br />
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3. <b><u>Only one paycheck </u> </b>I know,there's no guarantee that marriage provides two people who are gainfully employed either, but there's been no chance of two paychecks for me for the past 23 years unless I work two jobs. Which I have. Often. I do get paid twice a month now--retirement and social security! Not quite enough to support my estate sale/thrift shop habits.<br />
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4. <b><u>No one</u></b><u style="font-weight: bold;"> to complain about adult children with</u> (Yes, I know that I just ended that incomplete sentence with a preposition, but remember, I'm in a testy mood, so get over it) Please understand that I have other people with whom to complain about adult children. (happy?) Most of my friends have adult children. Most of those children are millennials. We sometimes vent. Most of my friends don't have a problem with any of them living with us--at least we'd see them more often. And all of us are remarkably fond of the grandchildren they provide us, but well, let's face it. They think we're old and not smart. It might be fun to complain about them with the other genetic donor.<br />
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5. <u style="font-weight: bold;">Grandchildren bragging rights</u> I know that my grandchildren are superior in every possible way to any other child in the universe, but sometimes my friends dispute this. Maybe their grandfather would agree with me. Maybe he does. He hasn't spoken to me in 23 years. (but I digress--that belongs in the "Top Ten Reasons to Get Divorced)<br />
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I need to take a break. I actually made something for dinner (my average is once a week) and it is 7:55. Also, there's a chick flick on Netflix I want to watch and my adorable golden retriever wants to snuggle with me. Or I may just go to bed and read for however long I want. Uh, oh, I see where this train of thought is going. There may not be ten reasons. I'm not lonely--I bought a puppy. I'm not poor; my needs are well met as are most of my wants. My son-in-law never complains (to me). I have the best friends in the world even if they do have cute grandchildren and not one of them accuses me of potential husband stealing. My marriage was kind of a train wreck except for the incredible children it produced (who won't be millennials forever). Hmmm . . . being single kind of works for me, I guess. And ever since George Clooney got married, I've sort of given up finding someone I'd consider.<br />
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One more thing. I'm posting this tonight. If I wait until tomorrow, I might have to ask my daughter for help. And she'll think I'm old and . . . well, you know!Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-23322328178633332202018-01-15T11:49:00.000-08:002018-01-15T11:49:52.954-08:00Who Am I?<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>I'm a Leo and a Ravenclaw. I'm blue and yellow, green, orange and yellow, green, and never ever red. I'm INFP, tender hearted but insecure, and so right brained that someone once doubted if there was anything in the left side of my skull. I'm abstract random and optimistic to a fault, a wee bit Scottish, a whole lot British and an Idaho native. I've been called a conservationalist, but I may also be an environmentalist. I'm a Mormon Democrat and a devout Christian (no matter what some of my Evangelical friends think!), and last but not least a bit ADHD. </b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>The part of me who majored in Psychology until a math statistics class turned me into a Psychology minor loves to take personality tests. I love them! Rationally, I know the validity tests is debatable at best. (Except that I really am a Leo and a Ravenclaw.) </b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>Recently, I listened to a Hidden Brain episode on NPR and found out I'm not the only one who loves categorizing my personality and giving myself labels. Many people have been harmed by various tests and I take all of them with a proverbial grain of salt. And I think we all know how devastating labels can be. We don't need any more ways to separate and segregate each other.</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i><b>So, who am I really? I am a Child of God. And so are you!</b></i></span>Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-28965375991108092922017-10-30T13:32:00.000-07:002019-08-02T21:13:04.304-07:00Our Better Angels <span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yesterday, I attended a women's church class that was about Christ being the good shepherd. It was a lovely lesson. The teacher encouraged us to develop those gifts that would allow us to be good shepherds to those around us, and to stop the inclination we have to judge each other, which I am afraid we do all too often. In our church we refer to our mortal selves having a "natural man" aspect wherein we have tendencies toward uncharitable habits ranging from gossiping to breaking any number of the 10 Commandments. It is that part of us that we try to overcome throughout mortality. We also believe that everyone born into this life comes with the light of Christ--our conscience so to speak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Toward the end of the lesson, the teacher reminded us to listen to that part of ourselves that wants to do good and the phrase "Better Angels" popped into my mind. I naturally did what I always do--and right there and then, while listening to the lesson, mostly, I googled "Better Angels." (I hope none of my former students read this and remember my preaching about not multi-tasking within the language centers of our brain, because you can't read and listen simultaneously!) I read a few things and then decided to research it more later. So I did! I love the internet when I don't hate it<i>.</i></span></span><br />
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In 1841, Charles Dickens (!)wrote, <b style="font-style: italic;">"</b><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">better angels</span><span style="color: #222222;"><b style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: #222222;">,</span> and thus their brightness is eclipsed." </b>It was in his book,<i> Barnaby Rudge</i>. (entire quote listed below--amazing)</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">In Abraham Lincoln's (!!) first Inaugural Address given in 1861, William Seward suggested edits to the speech.</span><span style="color: #222222;"> </span>According to an article on NPR.org, Ronald C. White Jr., an author of A. Lincoln: A Biography, Lincoln accepted some suggestions, but not all.</span></span><br />
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"It is Lincoln's final sentence that has found its place a</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">s American scripture: "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave, to every heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."</span></span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seward had written, "the guardian angel of the nation" impersonal. But Lincoln invoked "the better angels of our nature" — deeply personal."</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><b><i> </i></b></span>I love this phrase even more knowing Charles Dickens and Abraham Lincoln used it so long ago. Apparently Shakespeare used it in <i>Othello</i> as well. It really is as close to scripture as it can get! It may trouble some people that the term implies that there are less than good angels, but if you apply the natural man concept and realize that the term refers to our natures, I think it is completely acceptable to realize that within us is a complex set of character traits--good and bad--and that we have the choice as to which ones we choose to employ.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I find great comfort and courage in knowing that within myself there is a force, a light, an angel if you will, that will help me be better. If I choose to love, not hate, I will love. If I choose tolerance over judgment, I will be a better friend and citizen. If I expect a better and higher aspect of myself to go forward, I truly believe it will.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is an organization named after this quote as Lincoln used it at better-angels.org that is a bipartisan network of leaders and organizations that wants to re-unite our country in the way Abraham Lincoln pled with us to do so often. I wish them God's speed and best wishes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For myself, I will concentrate on daily choices, calling upon my own better angels to help me as a mother, grandmother and friend, and ultimately a better disciple of the Good Shepherd.</span><br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>The complete quote from Dickens:</b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><b>"The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there </b></i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "bitstream charter" , serif;"><i><b><span style="color: blue;">book-learning…</span></b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><b><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;">“It is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their minds contain…So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">our better angels</span>, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.</span></b></i></span></div>
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<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-64572619881874136562017-09-18T19:29:00.000-07:002017-09-18T19:32:43.061-07:00A Plethora of Sisters--the Most Recent is German!I really like my new blogging plan. A place for happy blogs like this one on this site and a place for complicated things on my other blog: mybeautifullymessycomplicatedstory.blogspot.com<br />
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Meanwhile--sisters! My parents didn't see fit to give me any. Also, I don't have a middle name. Those two omissions along with no pony in the back yard are the only things I hold against them. Well, and that they died too soon. Sigh. Pamela Rose Hunter. That's my imaginary middle name.<br />
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My brothers, who rock, gave my my first real sisters when they got married. Excellent choices--Iris and Sage are just like real sisters without the childhood fights. I'm lucky my brothers were careful and clever in choosing wives. Sage lives too far away, but Iris is close enough to quilt with, golf with and generally fulfill my extreme neediness to have an older sister.<br />
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But it was obvious that I was going to need a lot of sisters to keep me happy. I started in high school with Jeannine. Great start. Then I went to college and found Sandra. We were born 3 days apart, in Idaho, and each came home to two older brothers as youngest children forever. I think we could have been twins, but our parents each wanted one of us. We're awesome. And I still see her as often as I can.<br />
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*******Alert!!!!!!! I'm going to miss listing some very amazing women on this highlight reel. They know who they are even if I neglect naming them. Hawaii semester sisters Jacqui, Martha, Karla and Diane, I'm talking to you. Or would be if I had the slightest idea where you are! **************<br />
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So eventually, I graduated from college, got a job and moved on. I even got married and found out that is when you really need women in your life! Ah, Valley Forge/Yorktown. 10 newly married couples? More? All I really remember is that 30 babies were born in our ward in 1980. This is where I added Debbie and Karren to my list of sisters. A couple of years later, Janna and I met while holding our 8 month old babies who were born on the same day. No, I didn't name Jana after Janna but I would have if I'd met Janna a year earlier. We eventually made up 2/5 ths of a writing group with Theresa, Ann and Jill. What a rare privilege being part of that group was. I made lots of friends during pregnancy and child rearing years. Those I call sisters are the ones I still see as often as we can make schedules match. Gloria is the obvious one. Her family thinks I'm part of the family on her husband's side and his family thinks the opposite. That's how many family events I show up at. Her Kaysville ward knows me by name. The year after I graduated, I subbed for Lyn and we became traveling sisters--a kinder and gentler Thelma and Louise. I hope there's one more trip together. Judy and I clicked like fellow teachers often do, and when I started teaching in Nampa, Leslie became a little sister. Younger sister? She's in Montana now. Teachers make good sisters--both have qualities of love and nurturing. Add Alyce to the list, which reminds me--we are overdue for lunch.<br />
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Some of the woman I grew to love moved and I didn't do the work needed to stay close, but when I see them, the warmth and sisterhood is still there--Jeanette and Mary come to mind. Lora Dawn and Anne-Marie as well. Bonnie and her mom made it into scrapbooks and Bonnie is still my favorite driving partner to Utah and generous to a fault. She also makes really good candy!<br />
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I moved to Nampa and mourned the loss of sisters. Thirty minutes away might as well be three hundred I feared. And where would I find sisters in Nampa? No one in Nampa could possible like me or be kindred. I didn't even know if Nampa would allow me to live there. And in many ways those fears have been borne out. Thank heavens, literally, for Pamela and Sheila. I probably would have found a way to move back to Boise and live in a hut if I hadn't met these two. I'm serious as a heart attack here.<br />
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And now I come to my latest sister. Working at the Temple brought me dozens of women who I refer to as Sister Adams and Sister Howell, etc. Wahoo! Best part of the Church I love is the knowledge of a Heavenly Father and Mother and a whole earth full of brothers and sisters.<br />
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When I met Beate Cook, I was immediately impressed with her gentleness, graciousness and beauty. She's self-conscious about her accent, but President Uchtdorf has made having a German accent pretty darn cool. Not to mention she speaks perfect English. I've studied a fair amount about the history around World War II, the Holocaust, and many aspects of American and European events of the thirties and forties. I started asking Beate, who married an American serviceman in 1959, years before either one joined our Church, about her family's experiences in Germany. Had she written her history? Had she written about her parents and grandparents experiences? I was pretty nosy. She was very kind. But no, she hadn't. I asked her if I could. Write her history. Not a question I ask people on a regular basis. In fact, she is the only person I have ever had the desire to ask that question to. It wasn't until later that I realized that if she had wanted to write her history, she would have written it in German. Not a lot of use to her children and grandchildren. Or to me! I mean, I wouldn't want to write my memoirs in a second language, even if I had one. (What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bi-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Tri-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks one language? American.)<br />
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Beate agreed and it took us two years to make the time together happen. I think there were reasons for that, but finally, this July, I spent almost a week at their ranch in Riggins, Idaho. It was heaven. A very warm heaven due to Riggins being in a canyon, not cooler like the mountains in nearby McCall, but heaven just the same. Her house is beautiful and full of those characteristics of the British houses I came to love a few years ago. Lace curtains, lovely table linens, pretty dishes and so clean. Gloria lived in Germany and has told me about a work ethic she observed there. Beate is a little older than I am and works circles around me in every possible way. She irons her slip and her husband's levis. I iron . . . hmmm. Quilt blocks once every ten years when I start a quilt never to be finished? We worked on family histories a bit and I interviewed her about everything I could think of. I'm not done. I haven't written her history yet, but I'm getting ready as soon as I have another visit to firm details up. She thanked me for coming; I thanked her for letting me. Believe me, I got the best of the deal. I better write a very good history. She had an interesting childhood--there are details that should definitely be recorded.<br />
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She called last week and we talked about October for my next visit. I'll be there! I mean, I already love her like a sister!<br />
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<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-45333679913676091432017-08-03T09:59:00.001-07:002017-08-03T10:00:44.586-07:00Gardens Take Time: The Joy of WeedingA while back I wrote a post about gardens as an analogy of life. I love analogies! I mentioned in the post that I felt my life garden was being pruned, weeded, replanted and improved by my Heavenly Father and that it wasn't always appreciated! Turns out that whatever analogy you use for change hurts--a refiner's fire sound appealing to anyone?<br />
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After neglecting my back yard for a month while I flitted (drove endlessly?) from Nampa to Utah, Nampa to Boise, Nampa to Utah, Nampa to Riggins and Nampa to Utah, I was greeted with sad flowers and triumphant weeds. Tall, towering, terrible, triumphant weeds. After one hour of weeding yesterday, I wrote a facebook post that was meant to be funny but truthfully must have sounded like I was about to consider killing myself with a gardening implement. Friends came out of hiding and offered me love and encouragement, advice and good wishes, and from one much loved friend, "Real friends pull weeds together." No, Sheila, real friends go to lunch together!<br />
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Because of the outpouring of well-wishes, I went outside with a lighter heart today. I noticed yesterday's progress and by the time I went back inside two hours later, I felt wonderful. I started weeding by kneeling down near my lavender plant and breathing in its wonderful scent while freeing it from weeds that were trying to choke its life out. I emptied basket after of basket of wild morning glory vines winding around everything in reach, common mallow (I just did a weed image search so I can call these weeds out by name!), dandelions with <i>stickers</i>, crabgrass, and <b>goat head weeds</b>--all the while contemplating the blessings in my life. And believe me, two hours is not nearly long enough to contemplate all the blessings I enjoy.<br />
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So one more garden analogy that fits with life--friends make burdens lighter and tackling tough weeds and winning one battle at a time feels really great!Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-57023678866360284482017-07-15T20:31:00.000-07:002017-07-15T20:45:10.983-07:00Not All Diseases Are Created EqualI have a disease called Multiple Sclerosis, MS. It's an auto-immune disease which means the body attacks itself. In MS, the myelin sheathing around nerves is attacked by anti-bodies that think they are protecting me from an outside infection. When I was diagnosed, the prognosis was anything from very few exacerbations to a constantly worsening that would leave me in a wheelchair. Twenty years in, I am happy that the course of the disease is only moderately disabling for me. I did have to retire early from teaching, but I will walk a 5K next week with my grandchildren with few difficulties. Summer is wretched because of the heat, which makes all former symptoms come back for a curtain call and I am more tired than I was even in the first trimesters of pregnancy, but all in all I have been very lucky. As diseases go, I'll take MS.<br />
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My parents both died of cancer, so obviously, that particular disease scares me, but in true Scarlett O'Hara fashion, I choose to not think about it.<br />
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There is one disease that I am incredibly grateful is not likely to visit me--addiction. Aside from a sweet tooth that has plagued me, I have had no affinity to addictive substances. I never started drinking, so I don't know if I could have stopped. Likewise for cigarettes, which I watched my father struggle with his entire life. The few pain killers I took as needed left me pain free, but not addicted, but that may be because of the short duration I took them. I guess I'll never know if I could have been an addict, but I love someone very much who is one.<br />
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My oldest son started smoking when he was 14 or 15. It was during the time that my then husband and I separated and eventually divorced, and drinking alcohol followed soon thereafter for this teenager who felt confused and betrayed. Illegal drugs came next and while he tried several, the only one that held on was marijuana. Only about 8% of people who smoke pot become addicted, but Cody is one of them. By the time he was 18, he was stealing things out of cars to pay for the substance abuse that was quickly stealing his future. He was caught, pleaded guilty and I was the mother of a felon.<br />
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Two disclaimers here. The universe has convinced me that I am an enabler and that Cody and I are co-dependent. Guilty as charged. All I knew for years was that I loved this boy more than words can express and he was in 97 kinds of pain and trouble. I tried to protect him. I tried to save him. It didn't work so I tried harder. I nagged. I begged. I tried to be perfect in the false belief that any blessing due me could be transferred to him. I prayed and prayed and prayed.<br />
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The second disclaimer? I absolutely positively believe that addiction/alcoholism is a disease. I didn't always believe that. At first, I fell in line with the attitude that Cody just needed to make better choices. He did. But the bottom line is that he needed treatment. His addictions are accompanied by ADHD, depression and anxiety. He's never been to rehab, but he's been in jail--a poor person's rehab to be blunt.<br />
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Two of the groups that inspire little to no compassion are addicts and felons. Cody is in jail right now for drinking and smoking pot--both parole violations. Of the poor choices he has made while on this journey through hell, I am happy to say violence has never been a road he has taken. Unfortunately, theft has, and since stealing is a definite 'no' in the 10 commandments, I'm left with little credibility to defend him. And frankly, I'm learning not to defend him. I get treatment for my MS; my parents sought and received medical treatment for cancer. Cody has not always been compliant when offered treatment. In fact, he has rarely been compliant.<br />
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I visited Cody today in prison. He is very depressed. I don't mean he feels crummy. I mean he is clinically, severely depressed. He started taking anti-depressants again, but on the second day, the guard said something snarky so he didn't go back the third day. I encouraged him to reconsider, trying hard not to enable or be co-dependent. (I truly hate those terms.) He said he can't find any hope, any purpose. The only thought that brings any happiness is his nieces and nephews, but then he crashes into despair thinking he has ruined any future relationship with them.<br />
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And so, I look across the table and see a still handsome 37 year old who has a disease. I will try not to be too sad as he continues to struggle with his choices and his lack of choices. I will try not to be too frustrated with a system that gives little care or hope to those similarly afflicted. And I will pray for a cure.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-59231110979854571842017-05-14T20:38:00.002-07:002017-05-23T21:29:59.150-07:00Gardens Take TimeI love flower gardens. I have been to several botanical gardens and am always impressed by not only the beauty, but by the number of years some plants have been growing. My grandmother grew flowers,mostly perennials and flowering bushes. Every Memorial Day she would fill bottles and cans with peonies, lilacs and snowball bush flowers (I'm sure there is a real name for that bush, but I don't know it.) and take them to cemeteries. They called it Decoration Day. My mother didn't really go in for decorating graves and made a bit of a show about leaving Utah and her youth behind her, but I realize now that the main flowers that greeted me each Idaho spring were peonies, lilacs and snowball bushes. I have planted all three as well, along with the bleeding hearts I loved when I was young. In my home of two years, I have two small lilac bushes, three peonies, and a bleeding heart plant but no snowball bushes as yet. She and my dad also grew petunias and snapdragons and a few roses. Me too. I've even added some they didn't grow--lavender, columbine, and plants I don't know the names of. But I digress. This blog is not about flower gardens--it is about THE flower garden, The Garden of Eden. And me.<br />
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Let me explain. I believe that Heavenly Father directed his son, Jesus, to create the Earth. I love the creation story and believe it is true, as far as we understand it. I think it took longer than 6 of our days to complete, and I believe that He worked through natural laws. The Garden of Eden would have taken a very long time. In every depiction I have seen, and I know these are only artists' depictions, this garden was lush with every plant, flower and tree that existed then and exists now. Maybe more. The point I am trying to make is that it took time for this beautifully perfect garden to be finished.<br />
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I am 62 years old. When I was younger (so much younger than today!) I thought my life would be figured out by this time. I thought I would be finished, not perfect, but well on my way to being something I could present back to my Heavenly Father with satisfaction. I knew I would still be polishing up the rough surfaces, but I'm serious--I thought I would be done with all the hard stuff. I was wrong.<br />
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Back to my beautiful garden analogy. It turns out that I wasn't all that ambitious about the garden of my life. I was content with some pesky weeds and as long as I added a few new perennials every year, I was good. My life's garden was a lot like my new house garden--not lush by any means, but pretty in spots. Heavenly Father had more in mind for my stay here on earth.<br />
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Gardens take work. I love working in my yard. I like to feel the soil under my fingernails. I like to dig and stretch and water and watch as my efforts make one little patch of yard beautiful. My gardening skills are novice, my budget is tight, but all in all, I take pride in my efforts. <br />
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My life garden is okay. In fact, parts of it are beautiful. But it's hard work and I am lazy at times. Good enough has been my overall philosophy. I mean, really. I'm a pretty good writer sometimes. I'm good at crafts. I can cook if I want to. I'm a good teacher. Again, it's hard work and I get tired. The most important part of my life is the honor I have been given to be a mother and grandmother.<br />
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Lately, life has been hard. I have a beloved son who struggles with substance abuse and mental health issues. It's hard to always do what's best for him and what's best for me. Weeds like inconsistency, enabling, and excusing crop up, even when I know better. Sometimes I can't tell flowers from weeds, and sometimes I just want someone else to be the gardener for a while. Turns out that, at 62, I'm not done. There's more to do, more to learn if I am to become the mother I want to be, the daughter of God I want to be.<br />
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My son's life is also a garden. He has rare and exotic plants and flowers and amazes me with his gardening skills. He also breaks my heart when he lets the garden grow wild, without the care and pruning it deserves. Sometimes I have neglected my own garden, trying to fix his. Neither garden flourishes.<br />
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I have been humbled enough by what I considered my failures at parenting, that I have finally asked for help and started listening to people who love me give me counsel and advice. I have knelt in prayer and felt loved and chastised at the same time. I have, figuratively speaking, felt my life garden be redesigned. Borders have been enlarged, soil is being improved with compost and nutrients. Weeds are being pulled out, some of which have long, stubborn roots. New varieties of plants are being brought in, and I have to admit that I'm not completely grateful for the pain of this new growth. Many tears have watered these new plants and I will not even pretend that the work is done.<br />
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Eventually, I will be finished and the life I present back to my Heavenly Father, beautified by His hand and perfected by my Savior's Atonement will be much more than I was willing to settle for. Unburdened by my attempts of control, my son will have the chance to allow his life to be changed and healed. <br />
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I hope in a few years when I look back, I will be happy that the work made things better and maybe I'll even be able to help other gardeners. Until then, I trust in the Lord and am willing to accept His direction.<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-7223182784933895662017-02-09T21:33:00.000-08:002017-02-09T21:36:31.238-08:00For KristenWhen I turned 18, I automatically became a member of the largest women's organization in the world, the Relief Society of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Among the excellent aspects of this organization is being a part of the visiting teaching program. In every congregation, women are assigned two visiting teachers. These two companions go to the homes of the women on their 'routes' once a month with a message of hope/encouragement/inspiration as a way to form friendships that will then enable them to ascertain the needs of these women and make sure these needs are met.<br />
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For example, Mary is visited by Jane and Emily. They could be the same age or not, have similar family situations or not, be devout members of the church or not. Jane and Emily probably have 2-4 women they visit. Say Mary has a baby. Jane and Emily will either take a couple of meals into the family or ask other people to do so. That's easy enough. But say Mary is battling severe depression, is struggling to take care of herself and her children, and is possibly even wondering if life is worth living. If Jane and Emily have truly become friends with Mary and love her as a sister, they have an opportunity to help this woman out of a deep hole. They listen to her, watch her children, take her to doctor's appointments, and if the situation warrants, talk to the Relief Society president about getting more help and support for her. But Jane and Emily will never know about any of this unless Mary trusts them. They can't just show up once a month, give a five minute lesson and blithely say, "Let us know if you need anything," as they hurry out the door.<br />
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When I was 23, I was the Relief Society president of a single adult ward, and thereby oversaw the visiting teaching in my ward. Every woman was assigned visiting teachers unless they absolutely refused to let them visit. Few did, even if they never attended church. Who doesn't need two more friends watching out for you? All women were asked to be visiting teachers; most accepted; some were consistent in their monthly visits; some were consistent and compassionate. Great acts of service were accomplished by these consistently caring visiting teachers. Great acts of service were even accomplished by the ones who only made visits occasionally because the important aspect was making friends with the women you taught--establishing relationships of trust that enabled them to ask you for help. Even when these acts of service weren't necessary, something pretty wonderful usually happened--lasting friendships.<br />
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I'm 62 years old. I have been a visiting teacher for 44 years. I have been visited by other women for 44 years. I have served and been served. I have been consistent in my visits at times and have been horribly inconsistent during other times. I have had incredible visiting teachers who became life long friends and others who did not visit me. We're all human and this program is as simple as it sounds, but not easy. Calling women you may not know and asking to come to their homes can be scary. Getting to know them can be difficult. Developing friendships takes time and effort. People move; there are times in our lives when adding one more duty seems daunting if not impossible.<br />
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Starting in my mid 40's, I took more than I gave. I was a single parent, worked full time, had health issues, money problems and challenging parenting issues. My visiting teachers were wonderful, but I wasn't such a great visiting teacher. The Relief Society presidents switched my companions and my routes, and there were times I rose to the occasion, but I slowly lost confidence in my ability to adequately handle my own life, let along help someone else. I still reached out to others and served in other areas, but I didn't feel like I was the kind of visiting teacher I had been in the past.<br />
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I left a ward I had been in for for over 30 years and moved into a new ward almost two years ago. I was asked to be a visiting teacher and given a companion and a route. It was slow going. They were all strangers and I was still working full time and dealing with all the same issues of the past 15 years. One Sunday, the Relief Society president let me know that a sister on my route had reached out and asked to be visited. At first I felt guilty that I had to be reminded, but at least I knew I was welcome. I visited Kristen alone a few times, with my first companion a few times, and then my next companion. Not every month, but often enough. I started making friends with this young mother of three who looked like she belonged in a Jane Austen movie. I retired almost a year ago and Kristen and I continued to form a friendship. She had a fourth baby and she and her husband moved in with his sister and her family. Four adults and eleven children lived together as Kristen and Adam helped the larger family financially while his sister's husband recovered from an illness. <br />
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It wasn't always easy for Kristen to merge her four young children with seven older cousins, less room and different family habits and lifestyles. One day, I asked if she wanted to bring her kids over to my house once a week or so, let them play in my (awesome) toy room while she and I sat in the living room with her baby and talked. It seemed like an easy offer to make, but it made a world of difference for a couple of months. I loved the feeling of helping and she felt loved and cared for. And her kids liked the toy room. She cooked a couple of times--she missed having her own kitchen and mine is largely unused. We laughed together and shared hopes and frustrations.<br />
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Kristen is moving to Florida tomorrow morning. New city, new house, new job, new friends. She'll have new visiting teachers, too. I hope they love her as much as I do. Thanks, Kristen, for reminding me that I can help another woman in small and simple ways. There's a reason that we call each other sisters in our church.<br />
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<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-51347906347532782152017-01-02T21:22:00.000-08:002017-05-23T21:30:45.276-07:00I Can't Believe It's Been This Long<div style="text-align: center;">
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I started writing in journals when I was a teenager. Sometimes I wish I had saved them, but I threw them away. Perhaps it is just as well. They were surely filled with the angst of teenage drama. I started another journal before I graduated from college and I began almost every entry with the title of this essay. Oh, there were times I wrote weekly or maybe monthly, but more often I would open up the book and realize it had been many months or even close to a year. I stopped keeping regular journals some time ago, although there are several lying around with an entry or two. This blog is not a journal. It began as a collection of essays so that I would be challenged to write, edit, and rewrite on the off chance that someone would actually read one and so it still is. But it's been almost two years. </div>
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Much has changed in my life and some of those changes will undoubtedly be reflected in upcoming blogs. Since one of my 2017 resolutions is to write more, I'm sure there will be a respectable number of essays before I stop again.</div>
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This essay, however, is about the opposite of change. </div>
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A much repeated adage about choosing one's mate is to never marry someone you think will change. It's not that people can't change; they can and do in sometimes remarkable ways. It's just that you shouldn't think you can make them change. The older I get, and I am getting there quickly, the less I believe I have changed much in my life. Sure, I have matured and improved in some areas. I have set goals and attained them; I have even successfully prayed to have certain weaknesses become strengths and watched in wonder as they have. I have also struggled with some of the same problems most of my life. Altogether, the fundamentals of my personality are much the same as they were in grade school.</div>
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I loved approval as a child and I still do. I received plenty from my parents and older brothers, so I was disappointed when I went out into the world and received much less. The problem was that as much as I liked approval, I liked sharing my opinions more. Opinions that were not necessarily in the mainstream. And sharing is the key word. A lot of people have differing political views from friends, but they don't talk about those views when outnumbered. I seem to only share them when I am outnumbered. I was a Democrat in 1972 when I started attending BYU, and I just voted straight Democrat in the 2016 election. There are plenty of Mormon Democrats, some even get elected, but the ones who want to be popular in Nampa, Idaho keep it to themselves.</div>
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I loved having pets as a child. I loved having pets as an adult. Especially cats. But when I bought my home almost 2 years ago, I knew I wouldn't have a pet cat. First of all, two of my adult sons have developed allergies to cats and have indicated they would feel less loved if I brought a cat into the home they visit once or twice a year. Seriously. The other reason if I'm honest, though, is that I like to pick up and go for a week or two at a time now that I'm retired and the last cats I neglected paid me back by ruining carpet. Cat owners know what I mean. I have new carpet and flooring in my house. It's horrible to admit that I don't want it ruined, but I don't. I also have grandchildren who are even cuter than cats. All of that said, I jumped at the chance, or maybe hopped, when a student at my last teaching job needed someone to adopt his rabbits. So, I have had three rabbits for a year now.They take neglect better than cats, and they are super cute to watch hop around the yard when the weather is nice. When the weather is very cold and snowy like it is now, they require me to change out their water bottles when frozen and convince my daughter to do so when I want to drive to Utah to see the grandchildren there.</div>
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As a child, I liked collecting things. Dolls, rocks, marbles, books and to a lesser extent, shoes and purses. I downsized quite a bit when I sold the house I'd lived in 24 years, but anyone who knows me has seen what most people would consider too many dolls, rocks, marbles, books and yes, shoes and purses in my house. And dishes. And plants. And nativity sets. That's all I'm willing to admit to right now.</div>
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So what's the point of this essay, because, I do try to have a point. It's really all about why I am writing--why it's a resolution. I started writing 50 years ago. I wrote poetry and stories as a 12 year old. I took creative writing classes in high school and college. I wrote a song or two, a roadshow or three, and have wanted to write and be published my whole life. It was third on my list.</div>
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First, I wanted to be married and have children. I'm not married now, but I have the exact kind of children I wanted and 11 grandchildren as an incredible bonus. Second, I wanted to work with other people's children. I graduated in Child Development, worked professionally with developmentally delayed children before my oldest child was born. When he was three, I created and taught two days a week in my own preschool for 15 years. When I needed to support myself and my children, I received a teaching certificate and taught middle school for 15 years. I didn't write as much as I wanted to during the years I mothered and taught and I don't regret the choices I made. I had a few things published; I've won a contest or two, but not on the level I dreamed of.</div>
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Now I'm retired. I don't have much confidence that I can write as well as I used to, but I need to try. I bought a marvelous blue leather office chair at an estate sale a few days ago and have been sitting comfortably while I have been writing this. The hard wooden dining room chair I was using made any attempt at writing painful after 10 minutes. I still have ideas; my plots for children's books are never hard to revive. I would like to write personal histories for family members and even a few friends who have excellent stories, but no feeling for how to put them on paper. And when poems form in my mind, I'd like to do the work necessary to make them real.</div>
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I don't have many regrets about my life. It has been quite wonderful. Since I have a gift of time, though, it seems silly not to chase that third dream.</div>
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Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-30557881816227778232015-01-30T10:45:00.001-08:002015-02-03T14:23:14.871-08:00Calm, Loyal, Loving, StrongSeventeen years. That's how long she's been gone if my math is correct. That is such a long time to miss your mom. Of course, since my dad has been gone almost 40 years, I guess it's all relative. I'm none too happy they didn't both stick around longer--cancer is hard to argue with sometimes. I thought of that when I turned down supplemental cancer insurance yesterday.<br />
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On her cemetery tombstone (do we still call them that or is there a more pc term?), we wrote "Calm, Loyal, Loving, Strong" because those were the four words I thought described her best. No one argued with me because I wasn't at my best that week. As I reconsider, I'm not sure I would change any one of them. Here's a snapshot of a wonderful woman:<br />
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Calm: Well, okay, I didn't get that gene. She put up with a crummy boss for 20 years. My record is two. She also didn't ever spank me. (Okay, there was the one time when I was a mouthy teenager and said something sassy in public and she slapped me. We were both shocked. I guess even the calmest person has a limit.) She didn't yell much. In fact, truthfully, I can't remember her yelling at all. She did use some colorful language once in a while; that trait skipped a generation to a couple of my kids, but only one or two favorites and they usually are apt. I have been known to yell and while spanking wasn't my go-to parenting style, I remember reaching my limit with my kids when they were younger than five and giving a few swats. I regret that. Mom took things in stride. She accepted what couldn't be changed and dealt the hand she was given. I should have tried harder to learn that.<br />
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Loyal: If someone said something to her against one of her children, I imagine they only did it once. She thought we could do no wrong. lol But it was more than that her thinking we were perfect. She was loyal to confidences. I learned only a few years ago that my neighborhood best friend's family across the street had police visits for domestic issues more than one night. I never knew. My parents didn't talk about people. Well, except for J.R.--the boss. Bless his heart. (That's what my daughter and I say right after we imply something mean about someone.) I did learn this trait from her. My best school friend in 5th grade had the last name of Kawamoto. This was in the 60s when Japanese people in Twin Falls were appreciated mostly for their restaurants. My dad was in the Pacific theater of WWII, but there was never an indication from him or my mom that my friendship with this cute girl was anything but good. Mom probably should have objected to some of my later friends in junior high, but she may have known more than I thought she did and just trusted me. She was also loyal to her family and made sure I had a good relationship with her parents even though they criticized her choice of a husband more than once. (I think they eventually realized that he was perfect for her and a great husband and father.)<br />
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Loving: Oh, but she loved us. She wasn't verbally demonstrative, but she rubbed my back for hours at a time; she snuggled with me and with my children whenever the opportunity arose. Now that I realize that she showed love through touch, I regret not rubbing her back or her feet more often. She was a widow for over 20 years; she probably missed that. She showed her love through service. She worked to give her children more educational opportunities. She sewed for me and for my vast array of dolls because I loved those clothes (and dance costumes, bridesmaid dresses, quilts, etc), not because she loved to sew. She kept herself busy in Twin Falls after my dad died partly by planting a huge garden of raspberries. She hated picking raspberries, but she knew that her children and grandchildren loved the jam. (I'm really hoping she gave some of it to my brothers! I sure got plenty!) And if bragging is a way to show love, she loved us more than anyone has ever been loved. I heard every story about my nieces and nephews as soon as she heard anything new, and I'm sure my brothers heard everything good about my kids. After all, she had the most intelligent, athletic, musical, accomplished and clever progeny in the world. And whatever we weren't good at wasn't important and should never be mentioned.<br />
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Strong: She worked hard. Her mother worked hard. Sometimes I work hard, but compared to them, I'm a lightweight. When I arose this morning, a day off, I immediately thought of doing something fun. I'd play Words with Friends with my nephew and brother; I'd read something I wanted to read; I'd find something to help me relax. Me, me, me. Then I heard the NPR radio host say it was the 30th and immediately started thinking of Mom. What did she do for herself? For fun? Um, she bowled. For my dad. She golfed for a while. For my dad. I don't remember her reading. She played games with her kids--was that for her or for us? She watched TV, but I think Dad and I chose the programs, at least when I was there. If I ever find out that Dad hated Lawrence Welk, then I'll know she chose that for herself. Mom didn't complain. She did what she had to do. Later in her life, when depression settled in like a fog that wouldn't lift, she didn't do the amount of gardening she had before, and I wonder if that had been something she liked. My kids won't have to think a nano-second about what I did for myself.<br />
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I miss my mom. I miss calling her. I miss shopping with her, especially those times when I had "forgotten" my purse. I miss knowing that there was one person on earth who loved me more than they loved anyone else. That was the gift we gave each other since we didn't have spouses that filled that role. I will honor her today by working hard and by adopting the phrase, "Keep Calm and Carry On."Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-77164596131877989952014-07-10T10:33:00.001-07:002014-07-10T10:33:55.124-07:00I Was a Stranger and She Took Me InGarneta Gee. Rhymes with Juanita--her mom's name! So, there I was. Monday, April 7 with no place to sleep that night or the next. Not exactly homeless. My soon to be for sale house in Boise still had a comfortable bed waiting for me on weekends. But alas, my job in Hansen was a 2 hour commute. Okay for a weekly drive, but not daily!<br />
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I had been living in a comfortable basement bedroom in Twin Falls with an elderly woman for the school year. I thought all was well until her daughter told me it wasn't. No need for details, but I'm sure my 4 days there 3 days gone schedule was difficult for a lovely but declining in health and memory 90 year old. Her daughter told me one Thursday night I had to be gone by June 1 (the original plan) but today would be even better. (My own daughter will be equally blunt if she ever thinks someone else's needs are impinging on my well-being.) So I packed up my belongings, loaded my car and headed to Kaysville, Provo, and Salt Lake for conference, R & R with the Smith's and grandchildren holding, not necessarily in that order. Monday morning at 4 am, I left Utah wondering where I was going to sleep that night. Some wonderful co-workers at school had been scouting around and knew that Garneta had a basement bedroom. But Garneta is shy, they said, and certainly would not want a boarder. They called her anyway, and she agreed to talk to me that afternoon.<br />
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I walked up the stairs to the front door of a 100 year old house and into a living room reminiscent of my grandparents' home. Garneta's three little guard dogs barked for 3 seconds and let me in, wagging their whole bodies as they wagged their tails. They seemed to like me.<br />
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Garneta was gracious, not unfriendly, but definitely cautious. We chatted for a while. She said she didn't cook. I said neither did I. She said she had a funny sleep schedule; I promised I wouldn't interfere with it. Pretty soon, she said she didn't know why, but she was willing to let me stay there. I said I knew why. I had been praying all day that she would. She looked at me and replied that it had been some time since she had been the answer to someone's prayers.<br />
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At that point, Garneta didn't even realize I would actually pay her (not very much) for staying there. She just answered the promptings of the Spirit. We grew rather quickly to love each other. We had much in common in our viewpoints. She is a talented artist, a loving mother and one of the most naturally beautiful woman I have met. I should look as lovely as she does in 20 years when I am her age. We attended the Temple several times together, each time a sweet, sacred experience. We watched TV together, but mostly talked. We both cried a little when I left.<br />
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If I go back to my teaching job in Hansen, I will live with her again, but I don't know that I will be going back. If not, I will miss you Garneta.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-6232936035919660252014-02-20T23:36:00.000-08:002014-02-20T23:36:05.117-08:00"She never complained," said nobody about me ever.I have heard so many people say it about loved ones. "He never complained even though his pain was horrible." "She had such a hard life, but she never complained."<br />
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I knew early on that it was no use. I'm pretty certain I started whining as a young indulged child, so I was not going to be one of those lauded for suffering in silence. Oh, sure, I've held some things in along the way--some fairly significant, even traumatic, things. The trouble was that those trials I kept to myself only got worse, while the problems I shared with friends got better. Eventually, I was a convert. Sharing pain helped. And I had plenty of pain for awhile.<br />
<br />
I've had a few health problems. Nothing awful like cancer, but when the nurse asks you for the number on the pain scale, being brave and lying just prolongs the pain. Better to tell the truth.<br />
<br />
I've had a few losses. When your dad dies when you're 22, it's okay to cry. When your mom dies before you're 70 and she's 100, it's okay to cry. Friends understand. People send you cards and bring food.<br />
<br />
I've had a few unmet expectations. Only the most cynical people in the world get married expecting divorce. I'm an optimist. I expected marriage to last for eternity. Mine lasted 17 long years and the scars reopen from time to time. Sharing that pain is not always appreciated. It gets old and there are very few people who understand. I sense that it's something I should have gotten over.<br />
<br />
I have also had a few of what I like to call first world problems. That's what I have now. There's a great You Tube video about these kinds of problems. A young man kneels by the open trunk of his nice car moaning about "too many groceries to carry. I'll have to make two trips." <br />
<br />
Poor me. I'm selling my house--it's too big. I have to give away some of my clothes--I have too many. I have to sell some of my furniture--it won't all fit into my next house. I have to say goodbye to my rose bushes, my pets, my neighborhood. First world problems all. I keep abreast of current events. I try to be aware of how people throughout the world live. I know there are millions of people who will never have a home, children who don't own shoes, and neighborhoods where bullets are fired and bombs explode.<br />
<br />
Still, while my problems are not monumental, they do exist. I don't complain to God; I don't see Him as the deliverer of problems; I see Him as the deliverer of comfort and strength. I've been told hundreds of times from the pulpit that if I serve others, I will lose myself and feel better, but I have to admit that I've never liked the idea of service being self-serving as it were.<br />
<br />
I had a few miscarriages among my four successful pregnancies. That was during my hold-things-in stage. I didn't complain; I didn't even really allow myself to be sad. After all, a miscarriage is the way the body deals with a pregnancy that wasn't meant to be. It wasn't like a still birth or, even worse, a child dying after being born. And I had other children and the promise of more. They were just miscarriages. I didn't complain or whine or ask for help or support. I just moved on.<br />
<br />
I may be more needy now when I go through painful experiences, but I think I like the me who can lean on someone and accept love and support more than the me who held everything in. I think I am more compassionate toward others in their needs. I think that it's good to be self-sufficient, but it's better to be part of a community who cares about each other.<br />
<br />
I'm moving away from that community right now. I'm leaving my Church family and my neighborhood and I'm feeling alone. I'll try not to complain too much, but I'm not going to lie--I'm about a 7 on the old 1 to 10 pain scale. <br />
<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-16510782054052798752013-12-28T20:07:00.000-08:002013-12-28T20:07:14.247-08:00Bye-bye Things!The name of my blog is my motto in my classroom as well. When my students ask what matters most, I say, "People, Attitude, Respect and Effort." Specifically, I say that people matter more than possessions.<br />
<br />
So, one month ago I received a rather shocking prompting by a wise Heavenly Father that since I was spending a great deal of time driving, teaching, playing with grandchildren, and sleeping and way too much time feeling guilty and frustrated about not cleaning, repairing and maintaining a home I hardly live in, it was time to make the difficult but necessary decision to sell my house. Since that time, Sam and Terri have decided to rent the house from me while they are here for a 7 week med school rotation, which meant that things had to happen fast! Before they move in around January 20, we decided all carpet needed to be replaced, both bathrooms needed to be redone, and the kitchen and dining room floors needed done. Whew! That means everything off of all floors in the house. I have 5 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a living room, dining room and kitchen--all full of things I thought I needed at one point in time.<br />
<br />
Jana has been amazing. She has spent ridiculous amounts of time over here in order to help me, especially while I've been home for Christmas break. She cracks the whip, but as I see what I have managed to accumulate over 25 years in this house, she needs more of a cattle prod than a whip. My goal was to keep 25% of my belongings. I'm probably more at the 40% level, but still--I'm pretty proud of myself. Jana has driven several carloads (like a dozen) of things to various thrift stores, I have thrown away a lot of junk, Bonnie has picked up many, many sacks of books for the library sales (most with the 'library sale' price tag still on them), and I am taking dozens more to school with me. In a couple of years when Quinn starts a classroom he will have more books in his class library than any 1st teacher in the world. I say that because once these wonderful books leave this house, they are never coming back! Of course, I kept hundreds. It is not exaggeration, boasting nor confession, but merely a fact to say that I had thousands of books before this process started. Of the fourteen bookcases I had in various rooms, I have taken 2 to my classroom, sold (or have listed on Craigslist) 4 more and will donate a couple more before I am done.<br />
<br />
I also like dishes. I just finished packing up 12 boxes of glass plates, bowls, sugar and creamer sets and other miscellaneous glassware for Bonnie's brother, Scott, to take to an antique store he rents a space in. Of course, I kept all the really nice Depression glass and dishes I 'love' so his offer to buy stuff he probably can't sell is a gift of friendship as well as service. <br />
<br />
We've been selling things on Craigslist (by we, I mean Jana does all the work and I collect the money). That allowed me to buy a new, used stove to replace my old one, and will pay other bills that will accrue in this crazy endeavor. Part of my provident living philosophy has always been to buy used furniture, books, etc etc, so it's fun to see items start a new life somewhere else.<br />
<br />
Cody has hauled about 30 loaded storage containers out into the garage--books and dishes are heavy--and helped Chuck and another friend, Don, tear apart one bathroom today. Chuck has also hauled stuff to thrift shops and primed one bathroom today so he can paint it next week. Cody primed the other bathroom so that Chuck can paint it too. Quinn helped get the ball rolling at Thanksgiving and Sam's rent while he's here is paying for some of what has to be done before I can list it in March. Still, Jana gets the crown. I have to wonder as she learned just before Christmas that she's having her first daughter in May if she thought maybe she'd have a wonderful adult daughter someday who would help her in her future hour (read: months) of need. I appreciate her so much.<br />
<br />
So, bye-bye green hutch, farewell glass plates with stars etched around the rim, ta-ta trains sets and toys, adios Christmas decorations that I have never/will never use, and ciao to clothes I don't wear. Hello to less stuff to dust, wash, ignore and forget. But before I get too excited, I will remember what Robert Frost said, not when he was riding home on a snowy evening on a loyal horse I suggest, but while he was cleaning and packing up a house: <br />
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"But I have promises to keep, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And miles to go before I sleep, </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
And miles to go before I sleep."</div>
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-4236512183365267832013-12-15T17:30:00.000-08:002013-12-15T17:40:30.181-08:00My Christmas Wish<div class="quoteText">
<h2 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Someone at Church read this quote by a now deceased general authority today and I really like it. It doesn't describe who I am, but it describes who I want to be. I think it's who we all want to be, but it's harder than it sounds. It's what I was trying to say in an essay I wrote a few years ago about second chances. That essay was on my old blog that I can't add things to anymore, but I've copied it and added it below Brother Ashton's quote.</span></span></span></h2>
<h3 class="quoteText">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Perhaps the greatest charity comes when we are kind to each
other, when we don't judge or categorize someone else, when we simply
give each other the benefit of the doubt or remain quiet. Charity is
accepting someone's differences, weaknesses, and shortcomings; having
patience with someone who has let us down; or resisting the impulse to
become offended when someone doesn't handle something the way we might
have hoped. Charity is refusing to take advantage of another's weakness
and being willing to forgive someone who has hurt us. Charity is
expecting the best of each other.<br /><br />None of us need one more person
bashing or pointing out where we have failed or fallen short. Most of
us are already well aware of the areas in which we are weak. What each
of us does need is family, friends, employers, and brothers and sisters
who support us, who have the patience to teach us, who believe in us,
and who believe we're trying to do the best we can, in spite of our
weaknesses. What ever happened to giving each other the benefit of the
doubt? What ever happened to hoping that another person would succeed or
achieve? What ever happened to rooting for each other?”
</span></i></span></h3>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><b><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span></b><span style="font-size: small;">―
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/193168.Marvin_J_Ashton">Marvin J. Ashton</a></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For several years, NPR encouraged listeners to write an
essay titled, This I Believe. So I did. I did not however, send it to NPR like
I wanted to. But here it is:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>This I Believe</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I believe in second chances. Not necessarily the kind that
romance novels tout, although who can’t applaud that, but second chances in all
respects. Rooted in a belief in redemption, my hope is that all of us hold fast
to knowledge that few mistakes are fatal, nor are many first attempts
completely successful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My students roll their eyes when I remind them that I expect
not just one edited draft, but several, before they turn in that final
offering. No matter how good your first draft is, I nag, your second and third
will be better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, it’s not with student essays that my hope for second
chances resonates any more than for new love. My deepest, most abiding hopes
are for those who have taken a path that is in a slow or quick descent. Too
many of these people have been led to believe that their journey is one
way—there is no way back to higher ground. Too many others, watching them make
these mistakes, turn their backs on loved ones, broken-hearted but resigned to
what they fear is a hopeless cause.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reject that negative approach. I reject the cynicism that
perpetuates the idea that people never change. I acknowledge that these doubts
often develop through seeing a loved one improve only to regress again. Perhaps
I should admit that I believe in third chances and twentieth chances. I should
also acknowledge that in the large collection of light bulb jokes I’ve heard,
my favorite is the one where we are asked how many psychologists it takes to
change a light bulb. Only one, the teller responds, but the light bulb has to
really want to change. It is an absolute truth that we cannot control another
person or their choices.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What we can do, however, is give each other permission to
become better people. I believe in suspending doubt, even though the softened
heart that results might get bruised. I believe that while we might be culturally
or chemically predisposed toward certain weaknesses, we are not powerless to
change. Some weaknesses are relatively easy to eliminate—chewing gum with your
mouth open or using words that are inappropriate or inflammatory come to this
teacher’s mind. More difficult to amend are substance abuse addictions or long
held, childhood learned prejudices. Still harder are habits that harm or
exploit others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people will need extensive help and may even need a
space away from the general population. Would that our corrections departments
truly believed in second chances. Far too many employed in these programs have
hardened their hearts to the point that recidivism is expected.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe in our ability to stand up after falling and to
climb out of the depths in which we are mired. I believe that we are stronger
than we acknowledge, but that we need others to believe in us as well. Call me
crazy, I believe that Miguel de Cervantes gave us Don Quixote as a role model.
I’d rather be accused of being delusional while encouraging a Dulcinea than be
sensible and give up on people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I teach teenagers, I mother my own children, I associate
with much loved friends and family, and I look in the mirror at least once a
day. I believe in second chances. I depend on them. I rejoice in them.</div>
</div>
<div class="quoteText">
</div>
Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-83367388132285065562013-12-07T16:24:00.001-08:002013-12-07T16:24:43.545-08:00Lightening My Load--LiterallyOne of the ways I'm going to handle selling my house and most of what's in it is going to involve writing about it. Bad news for my blog followers. Good therapy for me.<br />
<br />
Thanksgiving break: Step one-- Quinn and Jana help me get rid of stuff in my garage. Most of it was from a garage sale that Cody held in the summer. Some of the items were given to him by friends who were decluttering as well as things we were getting rid of. So now it's gone on to thrift stores along with a few more things I won't ever use again. We also threw away stuff. Not valuable stuff. Just junk. <br />
<br />
Step two--Jana and Chuck came over today to start in on the house. We packed up two or three boxes of VHS tapes. Harder than I expected. Not that I would have probably every watched most of them again, but I liked looking at the titles of my favorite movies. It was proof I'm not a hoarder though. When it came down to it, I waved all but a few goodbye. My facebook post: <i>Took a step into reality today and packed up almost all of my VHS tapes.
Fine, I watched other people do it for me. Kept a few: It's a
Wonderful Life, Chicken Run, Waking Ned Devine, Wallace and Grommit, A
& E Pride and Prejudice--you know, just the essentials. The rest
will be at a thrift store near you!</i><br />
<br />
We also packed up a ton of fabric I was sure I'd make quilts out of someday and games I haven't played in years. Even a few tablecloths<i>--</i>not all, this is the first time through. When I realize how much a storage unit is going to cost and how quickly it will fill, I'll go through everything again.<br />
<br />
Tonight I'll start on Christmas bins. My strategy will be that every Santa or Snowman figurine I get rid of will mean one more nativity set I get to keep. The last count of Nativity sets was 60. Some are tiny!<br />
<br />
I know why most people make their children do this after they die. I'm not a hoarder, but I'm a collector. As I say to my students: We can do hard things!<br />
<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-67285550157454058432013-11-28T09:19:00.000-08:002013-11-28T09:30:12.596-08:00Thanksgivings Past and FutureI've always been a nostalgic writer. I've had three blogs in mind to write over the past several months, but here I am, writing on Thanksgiving as memories of past years and thoughts of the future fill my mind. Plus, I have to do something--I woke up too early and am midway through making my layered jello salad and can't go back to sleep. I've watched numerous you-tube videos with David Tennant and had previously finished all of Jacqueline Winspear's Maisie Dobbs books (sorry, Kate Morton--we can still be friends, but I have a new <i>favourite</i>), and I'm too tired to do anything productive like grade papers.<br />
<br />
This year is my last Thanksgiving in my house and Thanksgiving isn't even at my house. This Christmas will be my last Christmas in my house, but I won't have Christmas at my house either. My house will go on the market this spring after I have packed away what I love into storage--about 20% of my belongings--and I will move on to the next phase of my life. It was a very difficult decision for me, wrenching in a way, and there will plenty of tears shed during the next several months. It's not what I want to do; it's what I need to do. No one is pressuring me to sell my house, but no one is arguing with me either. The impetus to do it came about both gradually and abruptly. I have considered it in the past, but it was less than a week ago that a sudden awareness during prayer led me to believe it was time.<br />
<br />
Allow me to wallow in past expectations for a moment. Both my maternal and paternal grandparents lived in the same houses their whole lives. I only knew my mother's parents, but visits to their house were the stuff of childhood memory. I even wrote a tribute to my grandmother called "Over the River and Through the Woods." Oddly enough, I wasn't that sad when my mother sold my childhood home. The lilac and snowball bushes were gone, but I would miss the vine covered carport and the new addition of raspberry bushes and the jam my mother made from their bounty. Of course, I was 40+ years old and it meant that she could move to Boise where one of my brother's and I live. She was happy in her new residence and my children loved visiting her with great frequency (weekly if not daily).<br />
<br />
I moved into the house I live in about 25 years ago. It's where I lived when my last child was born. It is where I taught preschool for some 15 years. It's where my mother came to live her last few days of mortality. A positive memory, if tinged with sorrow. It is where my children grew up and every inch tells a charming or hilarious story of the joy of their early years.<br />
<br />
This house is also where my marriage died a slow and painful death, where my oldest son spiraled down into depression and then addiction and where I weathered unemployment and my own days of depression. Those events could have ruined any positive memories, but the incredible love I received from my friends and neighbors during those times made my house all the more loved. With the divorce came an opportunity to re-establish who I was and as I covered my walls with hearts and flowers and pictures of children and grandchildren and hung lace curtains at my windows, my house became a refuge. <br />
<br />
My property is covered with trees, rose bushes and dreams of beauty--and a couple of pet burial places. Of course, I can't afford to maintain the trees, so my church family has paid for necessary removal of dead and dangerous trees. My roses don't get enough sun or attention, so they aren't magazine cover material and the dreams of landscaping remain dreams one hot summer after another. My neighbors will be happy to welcome homeowners with time, energy and money. Which is the salient point of this decision.<br />
<br />
When I took the teaching job in Hansen 3 years ago, it was not meant to be permanent. One hundred and twenty miles from home is not a good commute. This year I am living in my third weekly 'home away from home.' For the third year in a row, I rent a room. The first two years it was the upstairs and then the downstairs of an older widow's house. She is very pleasant and was happy for the extra income. This year it is the downstairs of a much older widow's house; she is also very pleasant and happy for my paltry company at the end of long days at school.<br />
<br />
It turns out I like my job in Hansen. It just doesn't pay enough to continue this lifestyle. I make about $7,000 less than I did in Boise and Nampa. Given rent, gas costs and the necessity of a reliable, comfortable car, I can't do it. I borrow money intermittently from friends and family. I pay it back, but it's embarrassing. My house needs repairs that I can't afford. Meanwhile, my cats have overtaken the place in response to being neglected. They shed; they don't always use the litter box. My son lives here part-time, but despite his best intentions, my house has become more and more dusty and cluttered in my absence. No one comes on a regular basis except the ever loyal Farnsworths and I'm pretty sure they're okay with not having to worry about my frequent neediness. I'm not even home enough for my grandchildren to hang out here on a regular basis. I so very much wanted it to become a 'grandmother's house' where my
family gathered, but that has not been the case and for many reasons
will never happen.<br />
<br />
But I digress and sink into a deeper than necessary pit of self-pity. For, as is almost always true, there are plenty of open windows involved in the closing of this particular door. First of all, I will be free of financial strain. I plan to continue to be a gypsy during the week and live in rented rooms. On weekends I will stay with my daughter, her patient husband and their adorable children. Summers? Who knows? Maybe a week here, a week there. Maybe Scotland in a year or two when I've paid off doctors, car loans and have a bit in savings. And most importantly, I will be ready to serve a mission in a few years when I retire. It has been my desire to do that since I was 21 and owning this house would have prevented that from ever happening.<br />
<br />
Eventually I'll buy another house. A smaller one. Maybe I'll even have one cat to live there with me. Up will go my lace curtains again, and out of storage will come the 20% of dishes and furniture I love and my grandmother's double wedding ring quilt. And more memories will be made!<br />
<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-78550284220628962642013-07-06T22:10:00.000-07:002013-07-07T14:22:33.774-07:00It's Kate Morton's FaultIn the Biblical parable about talents, where talents are a monetary unit, people are questioned and assessed as to how they used the talents they had been given. Did they invest well? Did they increase their original bestowal? Or did they bury their gifts in the ground fearful of losing what they had?<br />
<br />
In most modern interpretations, talents become actual talents and we are expected to increase and illuminate our gifts. So, for the record, here's my future answer to the assigned assessor concerning how I did.<br />
<br />
"What were your talents, Pamela?"<br />
<br />
"Working with kids and writing."<br />
<br />
"That's it?"<br />
<br />
"Hey, we were told it didn't matter how many we were given."<br />
<br />
"Oh, yes, that's right. So, what did you do with them?"<br />
<br />
Sensing how this discussion is going to end, I begin strong, "I started teaching developmentally delayed preschoolers when I was in high school, graduated with a degree in Child Development in college, gave birth and did my best rearing four lovely children and later did my best at grandmothering (which I know won't count because it was so much fun, but I went for it anyway), opened a private preschool, went back to school and received a teaching certificate, and then taught school, mostly middle-schoolers, I will add, hoping for extra credit, until yesterday when I died."<br />
<br />
"Okay, not too bad."<br />
<br />
Great, I think, a former English teacher is my assessor.<br />
<br />
"How about the writing?"<br />
<br />
I know immediately that none of my paltry successes are going to impress this person, since they don't particularly impress me, so I go with the decision I made back in 2013. "After reading one Kate Morton book and listening to a second, I decided I would rather read and reread her books than make any attempt to write again."<br />
<br />
"Oh, I completely understand. Was <i>The Forgotten Garden</i> your first one?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, and then <i>The Distant Hour</i>." <br />
<br />
We then spend a lovely afternoon talking about how absolutely awesome Kate Morton's books are.<br />
<br />Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-76012659950054251892013-06-16T18:52:00.000-07:002013-06-16T18:52:05.028-07:00Clyde Earl HunterIt's a special day. Most people I know are doing something today to honor the fathers in their lives. Unfortunately, my father lives somewhere else. Not here . . . on Earth. So, as I did on Mothers Day, I will honor him posthumously in this blog. Because, boy do I have a great dad! And I love him so much--I was a lucky little girl.<br />
<br />
I was his groupie; I followed him around everywhere. It was with his permission and invitation, I now realize. Many fathers are quite successful at ditching their children. He took me golfing, shopping, driving, used bookstore browsing (where we looked for books, not bookstores, to buy--he bought westerns; I didn't) and I helped paint his new classroom and organize papers when he started a new career when he was in his forties.<br />
<br />
I was about 15 when he was hired to teach in Murtaugh, a farming community about 15 miles from Twin Falls. I think it came about when he was golfing one summer. Someone said, "Hey, Clyde, we need a Vo-Ag/Shop teacher. Want to do it?" "I don't have a teaching certificate." "You have a Masters degree. We can make it happen." And so they did. He took some classes at CSI and taught with a LOA (letter of authorization) for a year or two. So, while I went to high school in Twin and then to BYU, he went to 9th through 12th grade over and over every year. The spring I graduated from college, he left teaching. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in April and died in August. He taught for 7 years and was as happy doing it as the students and other teachers were that he did. I have been a teacher for 11 years and also started this second career in my forties. I guess I'm still following him. (The stories I have heard about him from former students echo the stories my former students tell about me--go figure that we're both known for telling funny stories!)<br />
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My dad whistled. A lot. Everywhere. Me too. A lot. Everywhere. I also hum. I'm not positive about whether my dad hummed or not. I think he was too busy whistling. Here's how else I'm like my dad, in no particular order: Sway backs. Round noses. Arched eyebrows. Joke telling and appreciating. We talked a lot. (In fact, once when I was young and we were driving to Utah to see family, he offered me 5 cents if I could be quiet for 5 minutes. I earned no money that trip.) Solitaire playing. (He used actual cards, I use the Internet.) Reading. I also play golf, but instead of 5 days a week in the summer, I play once or twice. The whole summer. I play with one or both of my brothers. We walk around the course playing The Clyde E. Hunter Memorial Golf Tournament, quoting his advise to us: "Keep your d*** head down, Pam!" "The saddest words I've heard today; it's your putt, you're still away." "Pam, keep your head down!" "Always let people play through." "Shhh!" "Replace your divots." "Seriously, Pam, we'll watch where the ball goes. Keep your head down and follow through." "If I had your luck, I wouldn't need a license to steal." "Nice shot, Pam! See what happens when you keep your head down?"<br />
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He had other great one liners too. When I stood in front of the TV, "You make a better door than a window." When one of us was laughing over something silly, "Little things amuse little minds." When we made an excuse for why we didn't do something, "If frogs had wings, they wouldn't get their fannies wet hopping through mud puddles." (Thanks to my brother Larry for that one--I don't remember it--I probably did everything I was told.) I guess I lied a bit though because he had a whole repertoire of those--"You'd lie if the truth sounded better." "You lie like a rug." "You know, you can go to Hell for lying just like for anything else!" "You lie just hear your own voice."<br />
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He taught me how to play gin rummy; he tried to teach me what different crops looked like. Everything looked the same to me. I couldn't tell the difference between sugar beets, beans and potatoes, wheat and other grains, hay bales and straw. I usually got corn right. He gave up. I was pretty good at gin rummy, after all.<br />
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Mostly, he taught me things I didn't know he was teaching me. My best friend in 5th grade was Japanese. As a WWII vet, he could have said things that might have made me feel differently about her. In fact, I don't remember him ever saying anything about any group of people that indicated one color of skin was better than another or that one nationality was superior. Just a few years ago, I learned that some of our neighbors were having serious marital problems and that police were called from time to time. My parents never talked about it. Their daughter, one of my best friends back then, told me at a conference we both attended. I guess my parents didn't think it was my business or that gossiping about neighbors was a worthwhile activity. One day, after a long day of teaching school, he came up to me and simply thanked me for being such a good kid. He treated me like that all the time. I never doubted his love for me and always felt that he was proud of me. When he introduced me to his friends, I could hear it in his voice.<br />
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I wish he had lived longer. I wish he had met my children in mortality. I wish he were around to call me Suzy Q again. I wish I could hear him whistle. <br />
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Miss you Dad. Love you lots. Thanks for being a great dad.<br />
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Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-11410064067299569722013-05-12T09:34:00.000-07:002013-05-12T09:34:05.876-07:00Carma LeilaI have a wonderful mother. She no longer lives in the same sphere as I do, and I miss her, but there is no doubt in my mind that she is happier where she is. She would have been 89 this year and she would not have enjoyed it. Still, had she lived a few more years, I would have appreciated it. Of course I would have; she took incredible care of me and I probably took advantage of the fact, youngest child and only daughter that I am.<br />
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Some of my favorite memories:<br />
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When we went to baseball games to watch Larry, she would draw pictures for me. I realize now that she was very talented. I wish I had some of those pictures now.<br />
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She would wash my hair by putting the ironing board up next to the kitchen sink and letting me lie on it while she washed my hair. Just when I was little. Later I would bend over and put my head in the sink. She always made my hair look cute even though I complained constantly when she combed out tangles.<br />
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She rubbed my back. I wouldn't be surprised if she did it every night. I loved it. <br />
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She won a "Make it With Wool" contest in 4-H when she was 16. She won the state contest and got to go to Chicago. She told me once she was never proud of the honor because it wasn't perfect and her mother tore some of the stitches out and put them back in. I don't know what the reality is, but I'm sure my mom did 99% of the work and deserved the prize. But she didn't think she did and didn't enjoy sewing in her adulthood. She made clothes for herself, though and I think she knew how talented she was. She made the most amazing doll clothes for my Barbies. I still have those. For a woman who said she hated to sew, it's incredible to see the little tiny zippers and buttons on pants and shirts and sequins on formal dresses. She later made cabbage patch clothes for her grandchildren's cabbage patch dolls. She also made dance costumes for me every year while I was in elementary school, awesome bedspreads and curtains for our bedrooms, clothes for me in elementary school and junior high (she was probably relieved when I could wear the sizes Ropers carried). She made a quilt for me when I got married, the tablecloths for my wedding reception, and a Temple dress for me to wear even though she didn't have a Temple recommend. (She does now!) She made bridesmaid dresses for me when my friends got married, maternity clothes when I was pregnant and the cutest 'jams' ever for my children when those wild knee length shorts were popular. She made quiet books for grandchildren to play with in Church. I'm forgetting everything she sewed for us, and I don't remember hearing her complain, but I'm old enough now, finally, to realize how much work everything was. To do something you don't love to make other people happy is a characteristic that my mother demonstrated very often.<br />
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She worked for an unkind boss so my brothers and I could go to college and have material comforts my father and she never had. The week after I gradulated from college, we went to the bank and she paid my entire student loan for me. This is when my father was dying from cancer and she could have saved the money for herself and the future.<br />
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I never saw her happier than when her grandchildren started arriving. Since I was her closest confidant by then, I heard everything she said about them. "Risa is so petite and cute! Ryan looks just like Larry!" When they got older, "Janessa is so beautiful! Justin reminds me of me--he's shy and sweet!" "Bryn plays the violin now--she's amazing! Oh, I love David's curly blond hair--he's just like his dad when he was that age." Amanda and Andrea were perfect--she loved it when they visited her when she moved to Boise--"They are so cute! Amanda is like you were--chatty and full of life. Andrea is quieter!" Well, she was then! She loved hearing all of them play their instruments--none of her own children were musical, so she was so proud of her grandchildren who were. She loved my children and much as I did and because essential to me as I stayed in a difficult marriage. She took us on car trips to see their cousins. She did Christmas shopping with me, she attended all of their sports events so I didn't have to go alone. <br />
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She was my best friend even though I was more like my father. I told jokes and read while I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner. Maybe I was a comfort after my dad died at 53 years old. She was definitely a comfort to me as I navigated through raising children on my own. I wasn't able to be the mother she was to me in all ways, but I'm doing my best to be the kind of grandmother she was. <br />
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Love you Mom! I know when your spirit hovers near me and am eager to spend time with you again.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-54821870963669452152013-04-14T16:53:00.003-07:002013-04-14T17:27:05.063-07:00Taking the hint or heeding a prompting? Either way, it's a good idea. A few days ago, my daughter blogged about blogging. It was very good, as are all of her blogs. She's a writer. She needs to write. 'Tis her fate to write. Seriously. She could go pro, but she's busy doing what she does even better than writing--mothering. Her blog encouraged others to write, to blog specifically. She reminded all of us that we have stories to tell and important events to record, and that it doesn't so much matter how we write, but that we write. Easy for a gifted writer to say.<br />
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Today at church, we had two speakers who also spoke about the importance of keeping records. One speaker read from his journal. It was a nice entry about his little boys and how they tend to learn by experience instead of instruction. Something about not believing their dad when he told them that breaking up chunks of obsidian will create sharp, jagged pieces that might cup fingers. Two boys and four cut fingers later, they believed him. It will be a journal entry read over and over and will probably be used in upcoming talks by various members of the family.<br />
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I am also a writer. Or was. No, I still am. I started writing when I was in elementary school as my daughter did, and I, too, may have been able to go pro had I dedicated more time to the prospect. Whether it is that frustration of a dream not fulfilled or not believing that my stories, real or imagined, matter anymore, I have stopped writing. It's time to start again.<br />
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I also agree with my daughter. We all need to consider putting our stories into some format that will last. Journals are fine, blogging is great, and even scrapbooking can be a valid form of family history. It all has value. We gain perspective and clarity when we write and looking back on those writings can often add even more clarity in hindsight. I'm also old enough to have multi-generation experience with diaries and journals. I'm grateful for my grandmother's diaries and moreso her family histories. I'm relieved that I interviewed my mother and wrote a short history, because she was not a diary writer. I actually believe that my grandchildren and even my children may read my various journals some day with appreciation.<br />
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So, I think I'll take the hint; follow the prompt. I have several journals I can add to, a dozen unfinished scrapbooks, numerous creative works in progress and this blog. Thanks everyone. I feel better already. Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-49636560004355778582013-01-13T07:50:00.000-08:002013-01-13T07:50:20.573-08:00Multiple SclerosisA little while after my MS diagnosis, someone gave me a book called <i>Taking Charge--Overcoming the Challenges of Long-Term Illness</i>. I looked through it. It was depressing. I decided I didn't need it since my MS was never going to be bad. According to me. And since my neurologist still is pleased as punch that I can walk two or three miles with only a little left leg weakness (actually quite a lot of left leg weakness--I limp by the time I'm done and I walk really slow), it's easy for me to keep believing I dodged the MS bullet. And I did in so many ways. At least so far. Hey, I don't use a cane. I don't use a walker. I don't use a wheel chair. Things could be so much worse. But, it doesn't mean I don't have MS. I have plenty of symptoms. Mostly invisible to most people. I need to read the book. I'm having a really hard time right now that I feel guilty that I can't do everything I used to do and I'm tired of pretending I can. I've actually convinced the most important people in my life that I must just be lazy and that's why I don't do everything. I also fear I may need to cut certain things out of my life--owning a home and pets, for example. Oh, well. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Or sadder. The challenge is to still be me in the best way I can. Heavenly Father will help.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-41796960446981733072012-11-22T11:56:00.000-08:002012-11-22T11:56:34.259-08:00<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Bucket List</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It's Thanksgiving, 2012. I'm at home, making my jello salad layer by layer, and am, by tradition, running late. Will it have all 10 layers? Maybe, maybe not. I had full intentions of getting an early start last night, but Larry and Iris called me at 7:00 saying they had an extra ticket to an ice hockey game, so I went with them. Time well-spent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My mortality has been harder to ignore lately. What with doctors prescribing things like compression stockings (honestly!) and tut-tutting about my blood pressure, and adding to my prescription list ad nauseum, I have realized I may not, in fact, live forever. At least not in mortality. Don't get me wrong; I still plan on living until I'm 84 (the age at which I decided all of my grandchildren would be at least 12), and death itself is not really even on the agenda then (heard of twinkling?). However, in the interest of full disclosure, there is this survey I took yesterday on my personal life span that is haunting me a bit. Because of recent good habits--exercising and losing weight--and my life long abstinence of drugs and alcohol, my biological age came back at 48, a full ten years younger than I am. My life span number was 98! Wahoo. Way older than 84. Unfortunately, my age of feeling healthy and acting healthy was 58. Dang. Does that mean ten years from the 48 number or does that mean right now? Well, who knows? But it sobered me. (It should sober my caregivers for the last 40 years of my life; btw, great program on NPR yesterday about the value of multi-generations living under one roof!) </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, in the interest of realism, I have decided to at least make a bucket list. </span> Things I want to do before I die:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">1. Read all of the Newbery Medal books.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">2. Finish Trick and maybe a couple of others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">3. Visit Scotland again. At least once.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">4. Go on a mission. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Hmmm . . . This is harder than I thought. That's all I can think off right off the top of my head. Surely there are more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">4. Read a lot more books. Duh. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">5. Oh, I know--finish all the scrapbooks I've started. Well, there's ten years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">6. Have a flower garden from April to September that I'm proud of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Seriously. Have I no sense of adventure? Most of this stuff I can do while I'm sitting up in bed at the nursing home. Okay, I'm being realistic. Maybe I'll think big, but I have no intention of getting to do all these things.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">6. Visit Africa and China.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">7. Publish a children's book and become sort of famous.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">8. Visit every single Temple.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">9. Wear a size 10.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">10. Get married. Haha!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Mostly all I want to do is be as happy as I am right this minute! If I can make a difference with the students I teach, pay my bills and see or talk to one of my children or grandchildren almost every day, I'll have a very nice life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span>Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-82384113926416538912012-08-12T22:53:00.002-07:002012-08-12T22:53:13.832-07:00Happy Birthday To MeWhen I was a teenager, I used to write in a journal quite regularly. Often, I would light several candles in my room at the same time and listen to melancholy music. I wrote special entries two times a year. Inventories. One was on New Year's Eve and the other was on my birthday. Sadly, but perhaps wisely, I threw out those journals, filled with teenage angst as they were. In later years, I wrote in journals and continued, for a while at least, the yearly inventories. Unfortunately, they devolved into really sad accounts of everything I was failing at. They would always end with goal setting. Lose weight. Read my scriptures more. Be nicer. Keep the house cleaner. I stopped writing in my journal.<br />
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Still, it is in my nature to write. I've attempted comebacks from time to time. Vacation journals. Spiritual thoughts journals. Scripture memorizing journals. Food and weight loss journals. And most entries start the same way--"It's been so long! I can't believe I haven't written in so many months!" Then blogging came along. I decided to write essays to satisfy the life long dream of writing; my thinking being that if I wrote semi-public blogs, it would inspire me to edit and re-write and thus improve a talent. I blog less often than I write in my journals.<br />
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It is less than an hour before my 58th birthday. Inventory time. I'm still trying to lose weight, still not reading my scriptures as often as I could, I'm still not nice to everyone all the time, and I will never have a house to which I'm comfortable having company visit unannounced. I have not fulfilled my goal in writing fiction for children. Well, that's not true. I've written plenty, but never worked hard enough to be published. I'm a decent teacher, my students know I love them and most of my co-workers like me. Not all of them. I'm single, wish I were married but can't imagine how that could ever happen. I have four children and six grandchildren on whom I am too dependent for love and approval, but are unquestionably the greatest joys in my life.<br />
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I sound as though I am filled with middle aged angst. Perhaps I am.<br />
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Oddly, one thing saved me as a teenager when failure and discouragement weighed me down, and it still saves me today. Forty some years ago, I had a deep knowledge of a Heavenly Father and Savior who loved me. I knew that no matter how imperfect I was, they would always love me. And despite my other failings, I pray often, and am subsequently blessed and comforted. <br />
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So, when I lose 5 pounds and then eat banana bread muffins all day and gain it back, when I waste time watching TV instead of writing or cleaning or exercising, even when I am unforgiving or cause offense, I can honestly say that it's a wonderful life. I will get up in the morning, feeling a little older, and spend time with friends, talk to family on the phone, and count my many, many blessings. Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-83398229963442278492011-11-25T10:33:00.000-08:002011-11-25T11:05:03.396-08:00Acknowledging Him in All Things"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways, acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy paths." Proverbs 3:5<br /><br />Day after Thanksgiving acknowledgements. I am thankful for and acknowledge my Savior for:<br /><br />1. The basic necessities of life given in rich abundance: food, shelter, clothing. I have immediate access to nutritious food and clean water; I have a warm, safe house with lots of stuff I love; I have clothing for every need and every season.<br /><br />2. The love of family and friends--considered by many the fourth basic necessity of life.<br /><br />3. My children. Kind, loving, interesting, compassionate, and humorous--one and all. They make me proud and allow me to experience the love my Heavenly Father has for all of His children.<br /><br />4. My son- and daughters-in-law. I love them as much as I love my children. Which says a lot.<br /><br />5. My grandchildren. For me, as close to a fifth basic necessity of life as possible. I know that many people never are given the blessing of children and grandchildren, so I am even more grateful that Heavenly Father has allowed me this opportunity. My fondest desire is that my love for them can help them in their lives in whatever way is needed.<br /><br />6. Temples.<br /><br />7. My students who teach me to listen and love while I teach them the order of operations and when to use commas.<br /><br />8. Books.<br /><br />9. Chocolate. I think it's more than just food.<br /><br />10. Cats. Really. I know it makes me sound lonely and pathetic, but I really really like cats.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3445029923921558430.post-47770034838000156352011-08-01T18:03:00.000-07:002011-08-02T05:40:54.993-07:00Give Peas a ChanceRecently, President Obama (whom I like, for the record, even though I am willing to accept he may be like President Carter, whom I also like, when it comes to getting things done--or it may be that no one in Wash DC has the slightest interest in working together, I just don't know) said we should all cowboy up and eat our peas. Actually, he said something about eating our peas as an analogy for doing something difficult but that may be good for us. He didn't say 'cowboy up' but he should have because a plethora of pea growers got into a little snit because he was implying that no one likes peas. I don't think the cowboys would have minded being used in a presidential analogy.<br /><br />Anyway, I know people who don't like peas and I'm just here to say that they are loaded with fiber and protein, have no fat and not many calories and they come in really cute little packages. So, people, cowboy up and eat your peas. I love them and I'm not afraid to let it be known.Pamela Hunter-Bradenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07613593808412527090noreply@blogger.com1