Ocean City

Highlights from the Ocean City trip:

Watching Clayton with Rolan in the swimming pool
Chantel's fabulous roast beef dinner
Watching all the boys play in the surf
My ride down the boardwalk, people watching
Getting caught in that wonderful, sudden rainstorm
Seeing a double rainbow over the ocean
Seeing the love among the Calders
Seeing the love between Michele and Clayton
Seeing the love between my children
In general--feeling the love!

A Dog and a Daughter

Oscar is heading to a new and wonderful home soon. I will miss him. But I realized that I can't give him what he needs. Every time I have had to leave him, especially for an extended time, he becomes stressed and anxious and all kinds of bad behaviors ensue. But I'm past feeling sorry for him now. He's been staying with Chantel and getting all kinds of loving and consistent attention, even sleeping in Owen's bed every night. Chantel has been managing Oscar, along with her already busy life as a wife and mother and the owner of a 7 month-old lab. She's taken numerous calls about Oscar and thinks she's found the perfect home for him. I'm waiting to hear.

Chantel has been and continues to be a mother's dream of a daughter. She treats me with nothing but love and compassion no matter how stressed her life is, and she always agrees cheerfully to run any errands, bring me anything I need, visit with me at the hospital, or talk with me on the phone. She radiates love and beauty to a depth that never ceases to amaze me. I'm in awe that Heavenly Father sent her, and she agreed, to come to earth and be my girl.

Buzz, buzz, buzz

Once upon a time, again

my hair began to shed
just like cats in summertime
the mess I made, oh dread!
I flew that week from East to West
to Mama's house I went
No brush or comb I used at all
and silk scarves was I lent

When I got home I couldn't wait
to have the mess removed.
My daughter turned the clippers on;
my sanity improved.

Owen helped; his little face
it bore such concentration.
When he stopped Chantel resumed.
His look of consternation
disappeared, he laughed and shrieked,

"You look like Uncle Clayton!"

I thought I did, and maybe do
look like my youngest child,

But John and I look so alike,
as he would say, "That's wild!"
(I love ya, Bo!)
And family, thanks for the buzz party!

Christmas Time

This year I vowed that I would involve myself in as many holiday events as possible. Last year I was moving and missed almost everything. This year was a different story. I attended numerous musical events at the D.C. Visitors Center, including several choir concerts Chantel was involved in. I took my friend Kathy to see the lights. I went with the Calders to see the lights again and enjoy a barbershop quartet, and I attended two different ward Christmas parties. In addition, I made goodies for my neighbors, most of whom I barely know, but had fun leaving goodies at their doors. Christmas eve was spent at the Calders. I woke up to hear Owen, "Grammy! Wake up! It's time for stockings!" I love stocking time and always have. Once again, Chantel filled mine without my knowing it. She is an angel daughter. After breakfast we opened gifts. Later in the day, we picked up my friend Kathy and she, along with us and another family, enjoyed a ham feast complete with tablecloths and candlelight. A wonderful, lovely, Christmas day.

First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Caterpillar

The grieving process is personal and solitary, and yet, I am the MOM. And somehow, that means that I should have the answers, or can find them, in spite of my own grief, that I can kiss the hurts and make them all better. I read my daughter's blog entry recently and cried, for her sorrows and mine. I wonder if I haven't been there enough for her, if somehow in our separate journies we've put on a good front for one another when maybe we needed to cry together. Or maybe she is grieving in the best way for her and the fact that she can write about it with such honesty is evidence of strong, emotional and spiritual health. Still, I am shocked to realize that yesterday was the six month anniversary of Brandon's death and I lived the entire day--me--the one who is organized and sentimental and aways starts new endeavors at the beginning of the month or the week, yet, somenow, I missed the day's significance. How did that happen? Lying here in this room three thousand miles across the country from Maryland, I realize that Michele has made a collage of pictures for Rolan, all the people of significance in his life, and I'm grateful. She hung it low on the wall, at his eye level, and mine at this moment; thoughts of Rolan remind me of the continuity of life even when I feel the world has stopped revolving; his sweetness is balm to my spirit. One picture grabs my attention--taken in 2005 when Clayton was moving to San Diego. We had a party for him then, at the Martinez Marina and we posed together, the five of us. Fire and water. Moonlight and sun. I have a copy of that photo in my apartment in Baltimore but today I see details I hadn't noticed before. The uneven slant of Brandon's shoulders after the accident, the minuscle web of lines in Larry's and my faces, the result of full lives--the kind I haven't always prayed for, but began to, perhaps in my thirties, when I began to look back and see not just the expense of adversity, but the gifts I've received in the process. And even though my awareness of the costs grows every year, death and sorrows, divorce and illnesses, it is a full life, the only kind worth experiencing. I know that the faith my daughter wrote about has the power to heal us and our broken bodies and broken lives. It's the same faith that sent a dawn breeze through the open window this morning when only the lower edge of the night sky was turning gray, then lavendar, then pink. It's the same faith that assured me of Clayton's birth long before its reality and I can't imagine his never being here--especially now. The words "my son" have taken on a whole different meaning. The faith that turns the world on its axis is the same faith that causes trees and plant life to reach up, in spite of wind and rain and ice. And I still want that, life in all its raw beauty, even the blackness against which all other lights shine.




I look at the photo again. Brandon on one end, body language defying his limitations. A strong arm around his smiling sister who appears to be almost bursting in the joy of being with her brothers. Brandon pulls her against him, while her upper body leans slightly against Clayton. Clayton in the center, deep smile, arms wide with one around Chantel and the other around me. Larry standing on the other end, leaning into me and suddenly, I see it. We are the caterpillar. Parts that move independently, but dependent upon one another. Together in spite of our seperateness, coming together to make up the whole, even if just once in awhile. Brandon is close by. Chantel and Clayton are loving and strong. Larry is a part me. Forever. And for today, it is enough.

Joy

Being with my niece Serena when she received her endowments in the Washington DC temple was pure joy. Added to that was being in the temple with Chantel. Below, me, Serena, her mother Katheryne and her step-sister Christina.

Eva Grace

Chantel with her cousin Emily's new baby, four weeks old, Oak Ridge, Tennessee

Boogie Woogie Video

Link to video removed. (See more recent posts).
Leah suggested that I use Youtube as a place for videos, so I created a free account and uploaded the video. It took a reeeeeeeeeeeeaaaly long time, but it was worth it. Thanks Leah!

So, next techie question: How do I go about or what would one need to transfer cassette taped material to cds? I found some really cool stuff...but it's old...

Boogie Woogie

I was very fortunate after surgery to be well enough to drive to one of the Mormon DC choir concerts recently. I had been to a couple of their practices with Chantel, so I knew the music was going to be great. It was. They sang patriotic, spiritualist, folk songs and hymns. The program included a couple of soloists from the choir and a trumpet solo by Andy Alphin, who is the top trumpet player for one of our military bands. This choir always sings for free and we had a large audience. As it turned out, I got a front row seat and was able to video a special number Chantel was in: "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". However, I finally figured out how to get it off my camera and onto my computer only to discover that blogger doesn't allow videos more that 100 MB. Phooey!! Any suggestions? With the exception of the first photo, the rest are from the Boogie Woogie number done as an encore at the end of the show. The audience loved it and I loved being the proud Mama. Rachel heading to the mike for her solo line.

Chantel singing hers.

I hope that Chantel has many opportunities, if she wants, to sing and perform. She is a natural in front of an audience.

Me and my beautiful girl. Don't mind the splotchy mascara. But I did go to a salon for a 'boy hair-cut'. I couldn't stand the hair on my neck and I knew I didn't have the patience to grow it out either.

Beach Camping at Assateague Island Nat'l Seashore

Bought myself a new tent and sleeping bag. Owen shared my tent both nights. Below, Chantel talking to Owen through the tent window.Getting settled in.

Grammy, are you awake?

Owen, how did you sleep?

The beach was beautiful but it was strange to see the horizon without the setting sun. Chantel got pictures of the sunrise on the beach the next morning.

Owen running back to join me for a morning walk. "My mom loves beautiful things, so I'm going to give this [shell] to her and I'll be right back!" Notice the absence of people. Lovely.

Owen found the shell of a horseshoe crab.

Chantel and Soren later in the day.

Soren running from the waves.

Owen playing in the water.

Soren loves to climb, especially on his mama.

My view from the chair beneath the umbrella.

The boys loved being buried in the sand. Owen posed for dramatic effect.

A picture of the marsh not far from our camp. The first afternoon I saw two does and two fawns here happily munching away. The downside to the beauty of this was the mosquitoes that also live here. Thank goodness for insect repellent.

A view of the dune that separated the camping area from the beach.

A view of the camping area from the top of the dune. We had neighbors but plenty of space among us.

This island is known for its herd of wild horses. Strict rules apply regarding them which include keeping your food locked up and not feeding, touching or approaching the horses. However, no mention was made of what to do when they approached us! The last morning two stallions came into camp. Our food was all put away and our tents were down, but we still had a bag of garbage to pack out...

Hey come on, I think it's this way...

Helping himself and finding some string cheese to munch...

Oops, I guess I made a mess...

Heading to the next camp while the Calders look on. Unfortunately, the people at the next site left all their food in bags right out in the open. The horses had a feast while the unfortunate couple watched their food being gobbled up right outside their tent. They took it with good humor and it made a fun end to our stay on the island.

Potty Mouth; Same Stuff, Different Generation

I was responding to Chantel's recent post about Owen's potty mouth when I realized that I was creating an entry worthy of its own space. So here goes.

Living with the Calders is wonderful, interesting, happy, and safe, but sometimes with a little bit of "Oh, no!" thrown in. I'm referring to the things I see Owen doing that Brandon did 25 years ago. A part of me says, "No. I'm not going there. I already raised my kids. Now I just want to be Grammy." But living with grandchildren creates another whole dynamic that I didn't think much about when I was just visiting. The discipline role is mine by default along with all the other roles that being a grandmother offer. Tel and Austin and I have had talks about what works and what doesn't and I think we do a pretty fair job of being consistent. At least we keep trying. And Owen keeps trying us to make sure that we're always learning. One 'parent' might be stronger or more consistent about bedtime, or table manners, or disrespectful behavior than another, or one may ignore a little more than another before 'counting.' One really doesn't want to be "Monster Grammy" so that one finds herself giving little warnings before counting, but I won't mention which one that is. But no matter what's happening with Owen's growth (and Soren's too, although Owen tests more often right now), there's always the surprise reminder that as much as I learned as a parent, I still fall right back into the old patterns, even though it's been 19 years since I've had a 6-year-old, and almost 26 years since Brandon was one. I always thought if I had it to do over, I'd be such a great parent and so incredibly consistent and wise. Humph! I'm aware of when I'm being less than perfectly consistent with Owen. What keeps surprising me is that the older I get, I'm still just me--imperfections and all. Now having said all that, I'll get to what prompted all this to begin with.

Owen's potty mouth is slowly getting better. But progress is never made in a perfect upward line. It's always two steps forward and a step or two back. Most of the time I either ignore Owen's mouth, or I count, and he's getting better about stopping at 2 instead of going to his room at 3. But once in awhile he catches me completely off guard and I have to turn away so he doesn't see me suppressing a laugh. Once in awhile he even unknowingly creates a situation wherein the best response is to laugh.

For example, a couple of days after coming back from California, Idaho, and Brandon's funeral services, I was feeling pretty dazed. Owen and I were at the table together doing art. Chantel and Austin were outside or down the hall and Marti, Austin's mother, was somewhere in the house too. She had come for a visit. Suddenly, Owen, out of the quiet blue says, "Grammy? My Mom farts. Do you think my mom farts? And I think her farts stink. Don't you think so? Grammy? Grammy? I'm sure my Mom farts--a lot. My mom farts every day. Grammy, are you listening?" Now I didn't think this was funny, but this was one of those weird moments when I was completely ambushed by his quick little mind. I didn't say anything, nor did I even hint at a smile. In fact, I didn't even look up. I just continued to work on my painting. But I quickly realized that this one-sided conversation was getting out of hand. Just like ignoring a situation never worked with Brandon, it doesn't work with Owen either. He became more determined than ever to get my attention. And now that I'm thinking about it, given the terribly sad state of affairs at our house, perhaps he wanted me to laugh right then more than ever. But I didn't. And right about the delayed-reaction moment that I opened my mouth to say something I hoped would be effective, Marti steps around the corner and says something to the effect of, "Owen, you will stop what you're saying immediately and you will talk about something else, do you understand?" It was not only the statement, but the way it was delivered, with the perfect cadence, the precisely perfect inflections in her voice, and the slight but oh so effectively placed pause. I couldn't look at Marti, but I'm certain she had her eyebrows positioned perfectly as well. There's no way one can say something like that without having mastered the technique of precision eyebrow positioning. Owen was stopped in his tracks, while I sat there and wondered if I could have made a delivery with as much authority as Marti did.

In my defense, I claim environment and perhaps even genetics. I was the middle child, the peace maker, the "good one," and the one my younger brother dubbed "Polly Pure Heart." Talk about living up to a standard! Therefore, I have never associated myself with words like "authoritative" or "strict." Even "consistent" had a rather mean sound to it. "Sweet" is the adjective I've most often heard, in fact, as recently as last night on the telephone with my mother! I think it's too late for me. I was the kind of child that an adult had only to raise his or her eyebrow a certain way--and a single one at that--or lift a pointer finger in a silent warning, and I would cease and desist any thing remotely resembling bad or even improper behavior. I never got a spanking. I never had my mouth washed out with soap, and I can't remember even being sent to my room (unless it was for do-overs since shoving everything into a neat pile in the middle of the floor didn't constitute cleaning my room). Probably most of my biggest infractions were laughing at my brothers' potty mouths--partly because they were funny, and partly from the excitement of living vicariously through my them. But I never got in trouble for laughing.

Fast forward 40 years. Owen had just pulled a fast one. I remained stoic at the table that day, but my mouth was probably still hanging open when Marti turned around and left the room after the perfect delivery of the perfect one-liner. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I should feel embarrassed-- a six-year-old getting the better of me, and I think he had been just about to realize that if he hadn't already. Instead of putting myself down though, I felt grateful--grateful that Marti grew up as the oldest of seven children, including a set of twins. Somebody had to do it! And as fast as Owen was on the draw, Marti aimed to kill, and she didn't miss. She comes by her skills naturally just like I do. Mine just don't happen to be in the consistent parent realm. Unlike me, Marti did not grow up with illusions of the power of the eyebrows. She came. She conquered. She left. Just like that! And she made it look easy! But for me it really isn't.

In the future, for serious infractions, like the one Owen made by disrespecting his mother, I hope I'm a little bit faster in speaking up and a little firmer at how I sound. If I pretend to be someone else, I may just pull it off. If, on the other hand, you happen to be visiting and see me turn away from Owen as I try to hide a smile, know that I'm not laughing so much at what Owen has said, although every potty mouth little boy seems to think he's come up with something original. No, I'm smiling because I'm looking back over the years and realizing, potty mouth may be squelched but it will never die. It was around long before either Marti or I came along and it will be here a long time after we're gone. And yet, as parents and grandparents, we're obligated to do our best to at least keep it to a dull roar.

Potty mouth doesn't begin at six even though we continue to hope that we might have it controlled by 6 and 3/4. Unfortunately, it doesn't end at sixteen either, although it does seem to be less prevalent during the dating years, but after that? Well, you tell me. Does potty mouth ever end? Really? How many males do you know who never, ever resort to some comment about body parts or body functions as a source of humor? And I'm not saying that women don't use it too (nor am I talking about filth or abuse of the sacred masquerading as humor). It's just that in my experience, I can't think of a single male, either close friend or family member, who doesn't slip into the old funny once in awhile.

So for those of you who feel righteous indignation that I sometimes laugh at the improper, or the little boy crude I can only, in my defense, tell you that I grew up with an older and younger brother, raised two boys, and heard plenty of potty mouth from other adults (all males mind you) all in the guise of "Oh, boy, isn't this hilarious?" and age was never a determining factor. I heard it throughout my life and given certain company, I hear it still! I'll bet money that even you who don't laugh now, laughed plenty when you were a kid and you're still tempted on occasion. See if you can find someone who never slips up. But asking your boss about this when he's in a three-piece suit doesn't count. Try asking your girlfriend about her ex-husband instead. She might even tell you about the time they were playing this game called "Revenge of the Rotten Eggs"... And I don't care how old you are. When she tells you the truth--you're gonna laugh.

Our Trip Home to Idaho

Most people don't realize that we had the privilege and blessing of taking Brandon's body back to Idaho ourselves. When we found out at the mortuary that this could be done, I saw Larry's face and I knew that there was no question whether he wanted to do it or not. Clayton's face had the same resolute look. Larry and Clayton returned to the mortuary after the funeral and helped load the casket into the back of Larry's truck. It was well protected from the elements and tied in place. Chantel and Austin and I with the boys drove separately in a rental car. We met up that evening in Winnemucca, Nevada and stayed in the same motel. The next day we drove the rest of the way to Burley and went straight to the cemetery to pick out the plot. The grounds keeper was expecting us. Chantel and I got there first and enjoyed walking around the cemetery that mother had taken us to so many times. It's a beautiful cemetery near a few small acreages and lots of farm ground. We had our choice of plots with flat headstones only, or plots that allow the uprights. We preferred the uprights and found the ones we wanted with a view of the mountains. When Larry and Clayton arrived we showed them the plots and they liked them, too. Then we went together to city hall to pay for them. Larry bought not just Brandon's but three other plots next to his. One of those is mine and I'm very grateful for it. I have always wanted to be near Mother and Dad and being interred next to my first born goes without saying. Brandon's final trip. Pleasant View Cemetery, Burley, Idaho Near side: Clayton Dayley, Colten Dayley, John Bruch, Austin Calder. Far side: Dan Dayley, Larry Dayley, Kevin Neiwert, Justin Echols. A sweet graveside service was held on Friday afternoon April 4, 2008, a windy, blustery day. The city had set up the site with two heavy tarps as wind breaks, but they did little to help. Larry said that Brandon made a lot of noise and it was appropriate that he left us by making noise as well. About thirty people attended including friends from Salt Lake City and Martinez, California. Austin conducted the service and sang two verses of the hymn "Nearer My God to Thee." Brandon's Uncle John (my brother) gave the opening prayer and his Uncle Dan was the main speaker. Austin singing "Nearer My God to Thee." His clear tenor voice and willingness to sing acapella helped bring the spirit to the service. I was more than happy with how well everything went. Dan talked about Brandon's amazing ability to keep getting up after being knocked down so many times. He also praised Brandon's good humor and his determination to reach his goals no matter what. Dan identified Brandon not only as his nephew, but as one of his "very, very best friends." Members of the congregation were then invited to speak impromptu. Chantel praised Brandon for being such a wonderful uncle to her boys; she also mentioned how safe she always felt with him and referenced an experience she had taking the train to Chico to see him when she was younger; I talked about the example Brandon set for me in facing adversity and how much I'd learned from him these last ten years. My brother John shared a funny memory of a comment Brandon made at his mission return. Then Brandon's very good friend, Justin, spoke about their long-term friendship. He said, "I'm a better man for having known him." Austin shared some personal thoughts and explained the reason we dedicate or set-apart grave sites. Most of us included in our remarks our anticipation of a happy reunion with Brandon someday, as well as joy on the day of resurrection. We buried Brandon with a view of the mountains in the same cemetery as several generations of his ancestors, including his beloved grandmother and grandfather Dayley. Chantel and Clayton with their Bruch cousins: Jantzen, Queston, Kolsen and Garrett. Savanah wasn't able to come because she was ill. A family of four After the graveside service, we went to Beverly's house where she had prepared a delicious meal for all of us. She has been such a wonderful sister and friend. Beverly took care of Dad and then Mother, all the while taking care of her son, Ken, and often her granddaughters Camrai and Katela. I love you, Beverly, and I appreciate your unfailing selfless service to your family and to us these many years.