tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74528022880222174152024-02-07T06:19:10.569-08:00ON TOUR WITH HERMeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-61455422435352987922018-06-24T18:13:00.001-07:002018-07-18T20:52:42.811-07:00The Day I was Born<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This week's prompt for the <a href="https://familysearch.org/blog/en/52stories/">#52stories</a> Project: "<b>What do you know about the day you were born?</b>"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've always been sucked in by jigsaw puzzles.</span> Lay out the pieces on the table, and I'll come back to them again and again until I've made the picture on the box. I just can't leave a puzzle alone. Incompleteness isn't right. The pieces in front of you <i>can</i> and <i>ought</i> to become the picture</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a child of a closed adoption I couldn't leave my life puzzle alone, though I had been warned many times to do just that. There wasn't a picture to guide me, and I didn't know where pieces were. But I kept coming back. Incompleteness isn't right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>What did 5 year-old me know about the day I was born</i>? Well, neither my dad or my mom were there the day I was born, so they couldn't tell me anything. Except this: the woman whose body I came out of, sternly referred to to as my "natural mother," couldn't take care of me because she was not married. But she was brave. She loved me enough to put me up for adoption, to give me to someone else to raise. She was a vessel for me to come to earth, and I was a Chosen Child. I felt special being the Chosen Child, apart from other children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>What did 15 year-old me know about the day I was born</i>? The first time I saw my birth certificate was in the spring of my Sophomore school year, when I needed it to apply for a driver's permit. I read every line of that thing several times, looking to learn more about the day I was born. A legal Birth Certificate should be a record about your birth. According to the document, I was born on November 17, 1966 at 12:38am at San Francisco General Hospital on 22nd and Potrero Avenue. William P. Young, MD attended the birth and signed the birth certificate. It was a single birth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">12:38 am. Thirty Eight. Specific down to the minute. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">SF General Hospital on Portrero and 22nd. Specific street address. Documenting simply <i>Mission District,</i> or even <i>San Francisco</i> might have been good enough, but the certificate reports location with exactness. It was comforting not to find out that I flopped into a gas station toilet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">William P. Young, MD. Middle initial P, a Doctor of Medicine, was in the room.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Single birth. So, it was only me and my placenta in the womb, no evil twin. Good to know. Or was <i>single birth</i> referring to my natural mother's marital status?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But THEN... there are the names of my adoptive parents. Aberrations, because neither of them were around that fall day. The Birth Certificate became an irritant. I did not question that my adoptive parents were really my parents, but the document put them in a time and place where they weren't. The State of California demanded that the rest of the birth certificate be accurate. Then why fudge on the names of the mother and father who were involved with my birth? This document is a fraud.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Were a <i>Certificate of Legal Parentage</i> to exist, I'd have no problem having my adoptive parents' names on it. But a <i>Certificate of Live Birth</i> is supposed to be a record about your birth. Mine is a deception, a lie I am compelled to perpetuate if I am to drive, work, pay taxes, and travel overseas. It wasn't even created until I was almost 2 years old.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And why does William P. Young get his name on my birth certificate, but the woman who actually gave birth to me does not? Huh?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Years later I learned that another Birth Certificate exists for me, my Original Birth Certificate or OBC. It is locked away in a vault in Sacramento, a vault more secure than the one that holds the recipe for Coca-Cola. I guess I really was a Chosen Child, apart from other children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>What did 25 year-old me know about the day I was born?</i> By the time I was 25 I'd learned the names of my first parents even without accessing my Original Birth Certificate. I'd just kept coming back to the puzzle until I found that piece. Though I hadn't been able to meet either parent yet, I did have a single correspondence with my first father, and he revealed to me that my first mother had held me the day I was born. That knowledge alone comforted me. I felt less like a Chosen Child, and more like a normal person.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shortly after finding my first parents' names I had read a story in the San Francisco Chronicle about the '67 Summer of Love. 100,000 idealists, mostly young adults, had descended on the Haight-Ashbury District, ushering in the 1960's counter culture. I was born mere months before the Summer of Love in the very same city. Whoa. Maybe the Summer of Love was a piece of my adoption puzzle. My birth mother was probably a radical hippie. Why else would she be in San Francisco? Maybe she was wearing love beads when she gave birth to me. Maybe she was high on pot when she signed the adoption papers reliquishing all rights to me. This all made sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The thought of a bead-wearing, Aquarius-seeking, flower-powered birth mother was appealing to me. It changed what I thought I was. Or more exactly, it surfaced what I felt down deep but didn't think about, because it was so, so apart from what I had been raised to be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>What did 35 year-old me know about the day I was born? </i>I had met my birth mother by the time I was 35. Her name is Jane. She told me everything about it. She was living alone in the seedy Tenderloin District of San Francisco. She had no family support. They didn't know she was pregnant. A Peruvian man who befriended her drove her to the hospital. It was rainy. The doctor, William P. Young, M.D. was a young medical resident. Everything detail was mine for the asking, much to the dismay of my adoptive mother Roberta.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I learned that my first mother was not a flower-powered hippie, not really. Jane was a Duke University graduate student. She'd come to San Francisco, a strange city, for my birth because of the liberal political climate. But though she was idealistic, she did not feel very brave. She wasn't high on marijuana when she signed the adoption papers, just depressed and alone. Her family didn't even know she was pregnant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Puzzle pieces rained from heaven for me when I met Jane. I knew the facts. My puzzle would soon be complete. But no... I keep coming back to the puzzle, finding more pieces.</span><br />
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After our reunion Jane came to her understanding that she should have raised me herself. She needed me to also understand this, but I disappointed her. I felt really angry that Jane needed this of me, it was so unfair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I also began to see how false the adoption narrative told to me by Roberta had been, and I resented being deceived. The world where birth mothers are courageous, adoptive parents are saviors, and God has one (and only one) plan for my family life never existed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Each of my two mothers needed me to feel a certain way in order to validate herself. I wasn't free to feel what I felt, because no matter what I felt one of my mothers was quick to shame me. And I allowed her to do it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not feeling at all is easier. Feeling anger is hard. Feeling shame is even harder. When the anger became too much for my sanity I chose instead not to feel anything. I hung out in numbness for a while, but this, especially this, did not complete the puzzle.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">45 years old and beyond...</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sorrow seems to be the puzzle piece that has been most elusive for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Only recently have I opened myself up to feeling sadness for Jane's and Roberta's ordeals. Giving birth alone in San Francisco, sacrificing your first-born to societal expectations - the sadness is vast, easily the size of the Grand Canyon. I've also felt for the mother who struggled with infertility but desperately wanted a life that others would see as normal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even more recently, and perhaps more remarkably, I've felt sadness for the newborn girl. She may have been a Chosen Child, but she certainly was not a Child Who Could Choose. Acknowledging that I'm not in control and never have been since the beginning is an expression of self compassion, my internal peace offering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Will I find more pieces? I don't know. Incompleteness isn't wrong. But I will love myself and all of my parents. Perhaps the puzzle piece of LOVE is the grace to finally accept things as they are. Incompleteness isn't wrong.</span><br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-88834855595593605652017-07-09T17:08:00.001-07:002018-06-27T11:23:36.538-07:00The Worst Childhood Chore<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Back in March I published a post entitled <a href="http://ontourwithher.blogspot.com/2017/03/working-and-learning-part-1.html">Nectarine Jam Day</a> describing lessons learned from my mom about work. I concluded the post by stating that I would shortly write about working with my dad.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dad's acupuncture practice was really a family business. Mom did the accounting and later became the receptionist. My brothers cleaned the clinic, or "office" as we called it. When they left home, I assumed the janitor role and I cleaned just about every weekend throughout High School. I was paid $100 per month to do so. It took me a couple of hours each week to vacuum the waiting room and hallways, mop the exam room floors, clean the bathroom and all of the sinks, and dust. Like most teenagers, my weekends were often packed. Occasionally I'd arrive home from a Saturday school activity in the evening, then drive myself to the office to complete the cleaning by 10 o'clock at night. It taught me to plan ahead. If I was going to be gone an entire weekend I was expected to go over Thursday night before or Monday night after and get it done.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Having kids do the work saved my parents money because adult laborers would have demanded higher wages. Still, we didn't work for free, and we learned at a young age how to save, budget and make purchasing decisions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One bit of trivia: Vernon, a classmate who made creepy advances towards me in during Mr. Svinth's 7th grade camping trip to Mount Lassen, worked in the Dental Lab that was attached to my Dad's Clinic. I would sometimes see him there on Saturdays. By the end of High School we were good friends!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My Brush with Death</span></b></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Prior to the janitor job I sometimes worked at my dad's acupuncture clinic cleaning dirty needles so they could be re-used on other patients. This started when I was 11 years old. I got paid about $2 per hour, which was great because babysitting only paid $1 per hour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I felt very grown up and competent wearing latex gloves and sitting on a real lab stool. I'd pick out the needles one at a time from the basin where they soaked in pink, sweet smelling antiseptic solution. The liquid and the needles felt cold through the gloves. Sometimes the tips of the needles would go through the gloves and prick me.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQMePHwoR8Ah2llzzTmMl3h8KP-KlXit9xgfBp2vMkKStg-zzFYjZR7U-U_oguAvlkcdty8RU1kkgyOrw_lApeQ1Jy7TVCrUWJZxIH-FbZ0M_yVWtKvR9aBsS_foNfG8pFAOUTWgtmGbxd/s1600/auricular1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQMePHwoR8Ah2llzzTmMl3h8KP-KlXit9xgfBp2vMkKStg-zzFYjZR7U-U_oguAvlkcdty8RU1kkgyOrw_lApeQ1Jy7TVCrUWJZxIH-FbZ0M_yVWtKvR9aBsS_foNfG8pFAOUTWgtmGbxd/s200/auricular1.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I would run an alcohol wipe up the needle to remove any blood or human tissue (Sometimes little hunks of human flesh would be attached.). If the wipe caught on the needle it was considered barbed and was to be thrown away. If the needle passed the wipe test I wove it through a strip of cotton gauze. This was hard to do at first, as my young hands were awkward, but eventually I got the hang of it. I could fit about 8 needles on one strip of gauze. These gauze strips were placed in plastic bags and then into a machine called an autoclave, which was supposed to sterilize the needles. I was taught how to start the autoclave myself, which involved the handling of dangerous, yellow-glowing chemicals.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I felt very useful at the office, and enjoyed being around my Dad who often</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> spent long hours there. Mom would drop me off after school some days, and then I would ride home with Dad when he finished seeing patients.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Around 1980 Dad switched to disposable needles, which were new to the market. The single use needles were safer for Dad's patients, but the real reason he switched was because sterilizing needles was a hassle.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Analysis: What the #@%&#*&!!</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Today I work for a healthcare system as an analyst and project manager. I receive training annually on Infection Control and Standard Precautions. Knowing what I do, there is NO WAY I would let a child handle dirty needles. Ever. Oh my gosh, that was risky!! Killer viruses lurk on the tips of dirty needles. In fact, as I am writing, I keep asking myself, <i>"Are you kidding me?! You played with dirty needles as a child?" That is up there with just about anybody's worst childhood crap work story.</i> The Lord must have been protecting me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If someone working in a healthcare environment in 2017 gets a needle stick, they are required to report it immediately. There's a lot of paperwork involved and they have to undergo all these tests and take medications and whatnot. Needle sticks are a Big Deal!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am sooo blessed to have survived the experience without contracting HIV, Hepatitis C or Hepatitis B. We lived in the San Francisco Bay Area of all places, where the AIDS epidemic first broke out during the same time period. Who knows what viruses I might be carrying around due to my pre-adolescent brush with clinical stupidity!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Looking back on the experience of cleaning needles , I have to ask myself, "What was Dad thinking?!!" Jeepers. Fetch. <i>I'm laughing hysterically now, 'cause how else I gonna process this? Please laugh with me. In honor of the good old days of the 1980's.</i></span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My dad had a wonderful sense of humor and used to laugh, sometimes until tears ran down his cheeks, when telling stories of his own childhood working an Idaho potato farm. So, I publish this with deep affection for my father, who embraced the task of teaching his children life lessons, who loved his work as an auricular acupuncturist, and who touched thousands of people with his optimistic outlook on life. The more I read this, the more I am laughing, and I think Dad is laughing with me.</span></i></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't believe for a minute Dad would have knowingly put his daughter at risk for contracting a killer blood borne pathogen. But how could he have not known? The answer is simple. Most clinicians didn't know the dangers of needle sticks. Or at least they didn't know how easy it was to get a needle stick.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Prior to taking up acupuncture, Dad had been a surgeon for years, so he knew about and had practiced infection control techniques such as hand-washing and sterile fields. However, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) didn't issue guidelines for preventing healthcare-acquired HIV and Hepatitis infections until around 1985. Needle sticks and other sharps injuries were common in healthcare professions owing to practices such as re-capping dirty needles, mishandling of surgical instruments and other stupidity.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">cdc.gov/sharpssafety</span></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When Writing Gets Away From You</span></b><br />
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I had intended to entitle this post "When Work is Your Passion." I was planning on describing how my Dad was driven in his work. Whether it was his medical/ acupuncture practice or gardening, work for Dad was a labor of love. But then I started on the dirty needle thing, and felt compelled to get the entire story out. It does illustrate how much times have changed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Writing can be both exhausting and therapeutic. The truth seems to push its way to the surface, where it sets us free.</span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-47957841519857015182017-07-09T13:33:00.001-07:002017-07-09T13:33:44.879-07:00Back at itTook a 3 month leave of absence. Didn't intend for it to be that long. It may not have been necessary for it to be that long. Back at the beginning of the year I wrote that sometimes we get off track on our goals, but that we need to be self-forgiving. This allows us to Keep Moving Forward.<br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-10150538255476738212017-03-26T18:52:00.000-07:002017-03-26T19:09:41.033-07:00The Smiling Grandma<div class="MsoNormal">
This post is in honor of Annabelle "Peggy" Bakaitis, my mother-in-law. Every child should have a grandma like her. I feel so blessed she was in my life and my children's lives for so many years. When I was sifting through photos, I noticed that every picture I have of Mom shows her with a smile on her face. We miss her, but rejoice in the sure knowledge that her Spirit lives in peace now.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP49YCYV76RVmg1lG60PwFWNEL3s5Rfq21Y34QAtSCdAJiysUQBfEU4ZGtQ61F6KgyxrH-F7fBJ05dvQfMfAoBQ7fGkuxK9mCWyf5GIK9JT8L8S2BDvQeJgl3zVoR_EfQP3Rkfa1USGVx/s1600/Sept+1994+pony.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP49YCYV76RVmg1lG60PwFWNEL3s5Rfq21Y34QAtSCdAJiysUQBfEU4ZGtQ61F6KgyxrH-F7fBJ05dvQfMfAoBQ7fGkuxK9mCWyf5GIK9JT8L8S2BDvQeJgl3zVoR_EfQP3Rkfa1USGVx/s320/Sept+1994+pony.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5 year-old Rachael with Grandma Bakaitis, September 1994<br />
Love Grandma's smile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The first time I met my future husband’s family was December
of 1986. Jim and I drove across the country the day after Christmas, from
Petaluma, California to Detroit, Michigan. We had just gotten engaged a few
weeks before. It was the first time I had been in the Midwest. To be honest, I
thought the rest of the nation revolved around California, and that Northern
California was superior in every way. Little did I know that 20-30 years later,
I would begin to feel sorry for some of my California friends who had never
lived away from the West. Seems like it’s hard to be “for real” if you’re not
from the Midwest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Everyone was welcoming in the Michigan and in the Bakaitis
home. I don’t know what I was expecting. Jim kept telling me not to worry about
meeting his family. His mother especially was “accepting.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I was a little surprised that Joe and Peggy had three adult
children ages 24, 26 and 28 living at home though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At the dinner table the next evening John and Marlene, Jim’s
brother and sister, got into a discussion about whether one would turn orange
if one ate too many carrots. The discussion turned into a heated argument. As their voices got louder, John argued
passionately that it was totally possible. Marlene argued that no one was
physically capable of eating that quantity of carrots; you’d die or pass out
before you could eat enough carrots to turn orange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This was a funny argument to have, but what made it funnier
was that after we married and returned to Michigan I witnessed John and Marlene
having this same argument at the dinner table on at least three more occasions in
1987-1988. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Lively discussion about all sorts of topics were a regular
feature of the Bakaitis family during those early years of my marriage.
Sometimes Mom would leave the dinner table right in the middle of a meal and bring
the encyclopedia back to the table to look something up in order to settle an
argument. This surprised me, because my own mother did not allow us to leave
the table during mealtime as she considered it poor manners. But Mom Bakaitis liked to be a peacemaker. Too, the entire
Bakaitis family, perhaps inspired by the Matriarch Peggy, has always been seekers
and keepers of random facts. That’s something I really enjoy when spending time
with all of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">(Remember, there was no Internet in those days, so we
couldn’t google “turning orange with carrots.”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mom often gossiped about Ronald Reagan. She did not like
him, and actually diagnosed him with Alzheimer’s Disease while he was still in
office, though it wasn’t officially announced in the media until a few years later. But both Mom and Dad Bakaitis were avid newspaper readers and they kept abreast of every move the POTUS made. (Dad was a little obsessed with Michael Jackson's activities. I considered it poetic justice when both Dad and Michael died the same year).</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97txTthlKFuT8bIBsTgZrCUJdN3sWIa03l3UI7uo4ddTt_zLGU7-tWhFib5h5FuNNITfljwgHT78zHgaOtPLVcMzJTYDGbEeDgcxU97hlNgcEsJvygy4Z-E0QsSdH34jPjh-i0U6NDnzb/s1600/Sept+1994+back+porch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97txTthlKFuT8bIBsTgZrCUJdN3sWIa03l3UI7uo4ddTt_zLGU7-tWhFib5h5FuNNITfljwgHT78zHgaOtPLVcMzJTYDGbEeDgcxU97hlNgcEsJvygy4Z-E0QsSdH34jPjh-i0U6NDnzb/s320/Sept+1994+back+porch.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Grandma Bakaitis' back porch, September 1994</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A big event for the family in those early years of my
marriage was Allen Park Days. This was an annual community carnival celebration
which culminated in a firework display. We got a great view of the fireworks
from the Bakaitis backyard. The family would barbecue, talk about everything
under the sun, and watch the fireworks every year. Mom would phone to remind us
every year. “Are you coming for the fireworks?” Jim and I never missed an Allen
Park Day when we lived in Michigan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mom had a lot of self-reliance skills. She was an incredible
seamstress who could sew just about anything even without a pattern. She helped
me sew the covering for Rachael’s bassinet when I first became a mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mom liked to stock up on certain food items, like canned
soup. I think sometimes she forgot which items were stocked and which she
needed. One time I found 5 full containers of cinnamon in her spice cabinet.
That was when she was older and it was hard to bend down to the low cabinet
where the spices lived to take inventory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She liked to sit and talk for hours, cigarette in hand. She
told a lot of great stories about her childhood in Cleveland, Ohio, as well as
life as a young mother in Allen Park. She was from a large family, Irish on her
mother’s side. She was close to her four sisters and some cousins, nieces and
nephews.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Later in life she got Internet, with the assistance of her
devoted son Joe. She took to it. Mom liked to read the Irish News online and
talk about all things Irish. On special
occasions like Easter she would cook Corn Beef and Cabbage for dinner. Mom also
used the Internet to do extensive genealogy research.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RpvkvdqQmOLQWCF4rhoFUf0M5MxhO9YObPq2bYTVjzPCLp4EHU5xJgPXrx9_Q-f2KA_0J3K5UmH9E3UfLfaC9uL-uVGtuK2h7KC3cKRkX74gYH1L8U2kSxpBsZIT9CVi21UTNxKBcrRQ/s1600/1987+Jim-Megan+Wedding.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RpvkvdqQmOLQWCF4rhoFUf0M5MxhO9YObPq2bYTVjzPCLp4EHU5xJgPXrx9_Q-f2KA_0J3K5UmH9E3UfLfaC9uL-uVGtuK2h7KC3cKRkX74gYH1L8U2kSxpBsZIT9CVi21UTNxKBcrRQ/s320/1987+Jim-Megan+Wedding.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peggy and Joe Bakaitis at Jim&Megan's wedding reception,<br />
Petaluma, California May 1987</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mom almost always had a smile on her face. Sometimes she
would just watch me or her grandkids with a smile. Those were the times I
thought perhaps something was on her mind but she thought it wise not to speak.
Though she spoke her mind on plenty of occasions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She passed peacefully from her mortal existence on March 1,
2017, the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday, the beginning of a 40-day fast. It
is a season to give up, to go without, to leave behind some earthly pleasure to
seek atonement for our sins. We leave behind Mom this Lent season. We are
forced to be without her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">During Lent, we purify ourselves as we prepare for Easter,
that wonderful celebration of life everlasting. Just as I remember Mom during
Lent, I will remember Mom this Easter. I will remember the promise of Eternal
Life given to us by Jesus Christ, and will look forward to the day I can be
with her again to see her smile and listen to her stories.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-39511222629535476112017-03-02T20:57:00.001-08:002017-03-26T19:02:53.141-07:00Nectarine Jam Day<b><i>This weeks prompt: Who taught you to work? What would you want your children and grandchildren to learn from their example?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
My mother, Roberta Larsen Cordon, taught me to work. Oh boy, oh boy did she teach me to work! Assisted by my father, of course.<br />
<br />
Here are a few of the lessons I learned from my mother that serve me today:<br />
<br />
1) <b>Set a routine and clear expectations. And start the day by making your bed.</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxIsQ4kpCNY-QDYYTUGUTecEE5k3nfZrSJhHLsyBjj1XBEgdGLlf-r3wYzCy7ifocfHfIbjBQYRLw5-BpKXvPfjPWLHjoAdXiCbjIs3gFOOBy8d31d3xCYU8IpBt2p7kjoA1tSVb_nT6y/s1600/place+setting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxIsQ4kpCNY-QDYYTUGUTecEE5k3nfZrSJhHLsyBjj1XBEgdGLlf-r3wYzCy7ifocfHfIbjBQYRLw5-BpKXvPfjPWLHjoAdXiCbjIs3gFOOBy8d31d3xCYU8IpBt2p7kjoA1tSVb_nT6y/s200/place+setting.jpg" width="200" /></a>Mom expected all of us kids to do our part in the home. In the mornings we were to make our bed, pick up our rooms, and do one additional chore before school. After school we each had an assignment to help with the daily family meal -- Four kids, four discreet tasks. Set the table or empty the dishwasher before dinner; clear the table or fill the dishwasher after dinner. These chores rotated weekly and were defined on a color-coded chart taped to our refrigerator. Shelly was red, Scot was green, Derek was yellow and I was blue. Before I learned to read Mom would draw pictures on my chore chart.<br />
<br />
When I was very young -- and very short-- I set the table each evening. Mom organized the kitchen cabinets so the dishes were down low where a Kindergartner could reach them. She made a diagram of a place-setting to help me. She was always and forever a teacher. I would carry the picture around the kitchen table with me as I placed each plate, cup, fork and knife.<br />
<br />
On Saturdays Mom would write out a personalized chore list for each of us. We weren't allowed to play with friends or do fun stuff until we'd finished. One chore she seemed to give me a lot was pick up the garbage in front of our house.<br />
<br />
Once when I was 8 years old I was writing a story at school when I got a call to come to the office. "Your mother needs you to go home." We lived across from the school, so I skipped on home. Mom was waiting for me, a stern look on her face. She told me I had left the house that morning without making my bed or emptying the dishwasher. In fact, I had done this on several mornings recently. Not acceptable. Mom told me I could go back to school when my chores were finished. I did them! After that, I was more regular about morning chores.<br />
<br />
<b>2) Use your whole team </b><br />
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There were special days unique to the Cordon household, in which Mom would corral us kids to work together. Walnut Day. Nectarine Jam Day. Fruitcake Day.<br />
<br />
In the late fall our walnut tree would drop its fruit. Seems like the ground was always wet, fresh from rain, when we'd put on our jackets and go out to pick up the nuts. The nuts required husking. Sometimes the husks were green and easy to peel, but often they were dried and shriveled on the outside and filled with black slime. The black goo could stain your hands for weeks and I didn't care for it, but Mom made us all help. After rinsing the nuts we'd place them on wire screens to dry. A few weeks later, Mom would sit us around the table to crack the walnuts and pick out the meat. We always had delicious walnuts for baking treats to give to people.The walnuts were resource Mom used to reach out to others.<br />
<br />
<b>3) Do your work even when you don't want to. You will enjoy the fruits of your labor.</b><br />
<br />
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Nectarine Jam Day happened in the summer when the tree in our front yard would start dropping nectarines. Mom would wake us all up early and set us around the kitchen table to peel, pit and slice the nectarines. (Many years later Shelly and I learned that you don't have to peel nectarines for jam. But Mom was ignorant to that). <br />
<a name='more'></a>Mom would scald the fruit by immersing it hot water for a few minutes. Then she'd pour out the water and give us the nectarines to peel. Once we had prepared the fruit she would take it from there. She rushed about the kitchen on overdrive, mixing and canning the jam, her face sweaty, her hair messy, cursing under her breath occasionally. Unfortunately, she moved so frantically that she'd inevitably burn herself with the hot water or hot jam.<br />
<br />
On one Nectarine Jam Day none of the jars sealed. I watched her test every lid, and as each one came loose she'd jerk her head and mutter "damn" over and over again.<br />
<br />
Years later on another Nectarine Jam Day, Shelly would overhear Mom say, "I hate to can." This was a revelation. Well, why did she put all of us through it, if she hated it? Several reasons come to mind. First, it was what she knew as a farm girl from Idaho. Put up your produce. Second, she did didn't like waste, and the fruit would rot if not processed. Third, she wanted to teach her children the values of hard work and self-reliance. Fourth, she could look beyond her present discomfort to the future -- jam-filled pantries, ready to eat or be given away. Fifth, she was wanted to be obedient to the counsel of LDS prophets who preached about growing and storing your own food.<br />
<br />
<b>4) Your work blesses others. Oh, and don't sleep in when there's work to do</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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Fruitcake Day would typically begin around 6:30am on the first or second day of Christmas break. We kids would be awakened by a shout down the hall. "I NEED SOME HELP!" Eventually we'd all drowsily shuffle into the kitchen. She'd make us a breakfast of eggs fried in bacon grease. Then mom would get out the containers of candied cherries and some of the walnuts we hadn't been able to crack in the fall. The red and green candied cherries all had to be cut in half for the fruitcake, and the nuts had to be chopped itsy bitsy. Cups and cups of this stuff. Like two thousand cups of nuts, it seemed it. Mom and Shelly would mix up the batter, pour it in the loaf pans and bake.<br />
<br />
Every time I hear jokes about nobody liking Christmas fruitcake, I get quiet. You didn't dare dislike Mom's fruitcake.<br />
<br />
Making Christmas treats was one of the ways my mother kept Christ in her Christmas. The fruitcakes were for friends and neighbors.
She had a big list. For a few years I served as fruitcake messenger to all of the neighbors.<br />
<br />
But much of Mom's planned fruitcake deliveries could not be accomplished on foot. There was our cleaning lady Vera, our gardener Mr. Kamioka, some single sisters from church who Mom regularly checked in on, and some larger families. Some of these people were close friends, but others she didn't know well; she just wanted to include them. She avoided bringing the treats to church to pass out, instead preferring doorstep delivery. Most often the recipients would invite us inside to visit, so the fruitcake delivery took several hours.<br />
<br />
Mom's tenacity about Christmas treats highlights one of Mom's signature virtues: She noticed individuals, perhaps those who might feel left out or forgotten. She put a lot of energy into it. That's why she was admired by so many people.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Coming up in Part 2: What I learned from my father and others about working.</i></b><br />
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<b><i><br /></i></b>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-40157454617956957422017-02-25T14:33:00.001-08:002017-02-26T05:18:34.195-08:00Best FriendsThis week's prompt: <i>Who was your first best friend? Are you still in contact with each other? What do you remember about the friendship?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqGQks1_3wxrVbgRs5mbBmrEAEqPJwKaoxXQAf2RBSfhVcx8Dkb2dvLm8VsOiTCbUiMr2CF39j2rHTq2M0moNqdHVt902f8XhZ15LzsdWN6X5ekFmHbk1zKKEgLigyeGmv1NJQdjUXtES/s1600/Millenium+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqGQks1_3wxrVbgRs5mbBmrEAEqPJwKaoxXQAf2RBSfhVcx8Dkb2dvLm8VsOiTCbUiMr2CF39j2rHTq2M0moNqdHVt902f8XhZ15LzsdWN6X5ekFmHbk1zKKEgLigyeGmv1NJQdjUXtES/s400/Millenium+Park.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megan and Teresa, Millennium Park in Chicago, 2015</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i>
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
It started with a sleepover at her house on B Street in Petaluma in 1976. We were both in the 5th grade. She invited me. I don't recall when Teresa came to McNear Elementary, but I think 5th grade with Mrs. Butler was the first time we were in the same class.<br />
<br />
<u>Grade School</u><br />
<br />
California schools had terrible budget issues in the 1970's. We had large classes by today's standards -- about 35 pupils. No gym, art, or music teachers. The main teacher did all of that, as well as teach us to dance. The only prep time elementary teachers got throughout the day was recess and lunch, which were were longer than they are today. We got a few 15 minute breaks morning and afternoon, and an hour in the middle of the day to eat and play. <br />
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Our class that year was a hybrid of 4th and 5th graders because the district was too broke to hire another teacher. There was one totally 4th grade class and one totally 5th grade class in the school, and then there was ours. My mother didn't like my class at all. I don't know how I got assigned to the hybrid class, because I was one of the best students in my grade. It was probably because I could work independently. Mrs. Butler would give us reading assignments, worksheets, and math problems. It was all "go at your own pace" with not much group work or classroom discussion. I taught myself most of the math that year by reading sample problems from the text book. If I had a question I could approach Mrs. Butler's desk and stand in line until it was my turn to ask for help.<br />
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Next year in 6th grade I was a little disappointed when the teacher, Mrs. Gardener, got in the front of the classroom and actually wrote problems on the board to teach us math.<br />
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Although I resented being put with 4th graders, I came to like the learning structure that year. It was perfect for me. The number of minutes per day we were required to sit, be quiet, and focus up front was greatly reduced from a traditional classroom, so we kids had more time to socialize. That's how it came to be that Teresa invited me over.<br />
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<u>The First Sleepover</u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready for the dance! 1979</td></tr>
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It was an older house that her parents rented, painted white and with a small oval-shaped stained glass window in the front. There were wood floors, I think, in the living and dining room areas. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom in-between with a tub but no shower. Teresa and her mother Jackie slept together in one of the rooms, and her father and brother Shawn slept in the other. She said her parents didn't sleep together because her father snored. I thought it was cool she shared a room and clothes and makeup with her mother. The kitchen was in the back, and behind it a screen porch led to the backyard area.<br />
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Teresa's parents were from Missouri and spoke with a Southern drawl of sorts, which made them seem exotic to me. That first evening Jackie made Southern fried chicken for us kids. Yum. But she cooked hamburgers for Teresa's dad because he didn't like chicken. Right then I knew she was a different sort of wonderful mother than mine. At my house, whatever my mom was cooking, we were eating, my dad included. Mom would not cook a separate dish for just one of us. None of my family dared to be a picky eater.<br />
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<br />
<a name='more'></a>After dinner we got in our PJs and watched TV. I recall watching lots and lots of episodes of <i>The Love Boat</i> and <i>Fantasy Island</i> with Teresa through the years, but I don't remember what we watched during that first sleepover, since <i>Love Boat</i> didn't air until the following year. <br />
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We sat there on her couch and wrote notes back and forth on a pad of paper, swapping comments on many subjects including which 5th grade girls were stuck up and which boys were foxes. At some point she wrote to me, "<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Megan is my friend</i></span>." I wrote back, "<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Teresa is my friend</span>."<br />
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Then she wrote, "<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Megan is my best friend</span>." That was the jumping point for me. Up until that time, this was a pleasant evening with a nice girl from school. I didn't see her as a "best." I didn't see anyone as a "best." But I somehow I wrote back "<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Teresa is my best friend.</span>" Then the magic happened. Truly magic. I had a BEST FRIEND!! Forever and ever. God and Teresa gave me a gift that night.<br />
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In my adult life I've had encounters with women who told me they didn't have many friends. Some were new to the area, or trying to make life changes, or just shy. We should all be so bold as to tell others, "You're my best friend!" Everybody could use a best friend. Maybe we don't need just one best friend. What a difference we could make in the lives of others if we could do as 10 year-old Teresa did and declare undying friendship to someone we don't know well. Trust-doubt and experience gets in the way, I think.<br />
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<u>The Wonder Years</u><br />
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Monday came at school, and there was my best friend Teresa. Day after day, I had a best friend. We hung out before school, during school, after school, and on the weekends. We spent hours and hours talking on the phone when we weren't together. Having a best friend was awesome.<br />
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I remember junior high as being the Wonder Years of our friendship. There were school dances and band concerts, roller skating at Cal-Skate in Rohnert Park, walking around downtown Petaluma, eating ice cream at Swenson's parlor, going to the mall and encouraging each other to get a boyfriend (We didn't manage to accomplish the boyfriend thing very well until high school, but we learned how to tease.). We did each others' hair and makeup. We plotted school pranks together, like hanging a bra in Lincoln's locker. Once we met Lincoln and Steve at Petaluma Junior High for a secret date of tennis (My parents were out of town that Saturday).<br />
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We conned the Vice Principle and Mr. Svinth, the science teacher, into switching our schedules so we could take Earth Sciences together. The goal was to be lab partners in the same class as Lincoln and Steve, which paid off because the four of us got to dissect a frog together at the end of the semester. Lincoln did most of the cutting. Since his dad was a surgeon we made him do it.<br />
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After I became best friends with Teresa, it was easier to be friends with many of the other girls in school. We had a great group for slumber parties, roller skating and forums during school recess. The group members changed over time, depending on who moved in or out, or just moved on. Kim, Doris, Teresa K., Josephine, Tarim, Chris are some that were in my home in 5th and 6th grade. I risk mentioning names here, because I don't remember everybody after 40 years, but every childhood friendship is precious.<br />
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Teresa and I both had painful conflicts happening in our own homes during the pre-teen and early teen years. I would sometimes retreat to Teresa's home to get away from it. Perhaps she occasionally came to mine for the same reason.<br />
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<u>High School</u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">class reunion, 2010</td></tr>
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Things got crazy during the high school years. I was put in a different academic tract than my closest girlfriends so I didn't see them as much during school. Then we didn't hang out as much at lunch or after school. Doris started going to wild parties and we had nothing in common anymore. Kim and I distanced ourselves from each other. Teresa moved out of her home, changed schools, and started calling herself "Terry."<br />
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My involvement with the high school music program met many social needs. Marching band at football games in the fall, jazz band at basketball games in the winter, and school musicals in the spring kept me busy and engaged with peers. But I didn't have my best friend beside me anymore.<br />
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My church had a phenomenal youth program. I was thrown together with the church kids for Sunday worship, Tuesday night meetings and many Saturday activities. I became close to the "church kids" from the Petaluma Second Ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and still have relationships with many of them. We shared a bond of faith, but I wish Teresa was there too.<br />
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By my Senior year I had had a couple of older boyfriends and worked after school at a pharmacy. In my spare time I practiced the piano to please my parents and a whole bunch of people at church. I didn't do much with my peers outside of school and church activities. Still, Teresa and I stayed in contact and got together occasionally. I never stopped loving her as a best friend.<br />
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<u>Beyond</u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megan and Teresa out side the Chicago Theater<br />
2015</td></tr>
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Neither one of us have forgotten those junior high days. Life has been full and rich for both of us - husbands, children, careers, heartaches, joy. We both married young, Teresa at 18 and I at 20. We've faced obstacles that many marriages do not survive. But our marriages have both lasted, I think in part because we learned about friendship when we were young.<br />
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I moved out of California and don't get back much. We don't talk as often as either of us would like. But when we do talk it's still a very intimate experience for me. I can be completely open about my thoughts and feelings.<br />
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We've been to several class reunions together. She was there for me when I traveled to California for my father's memorial service. Every time I get back to California I find time to visit Teresa. My son Aaron observed us together once. "It was like you talking to you, Mom. You're two are exactly the same," he said.<br />
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(I really ought to be calling her Terry, because everybody does now, but she is still Teresa to me.)<br />
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Teresa came to Chicago a while back with her daughter Whitney. I met them downtown; we visited some sites and went to a Broadway show. Hanging out in Millennium Park with her felt like hanging out in Petaluma back in the 1970's. It was wonderful to be able to spend some time together in one of my neighborhoods.<br />
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I think sometimes I have forgotten how to be me, as strange as it sounds. These days I play so many different roles for so many different people. If we don't pay attention we can stray from the core of ourselves. That's where having a very old friend is an enormous blessing, because I feel more like me when I'm with Teresa than when I'm with any other person.<br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-62520226483115006222017-02-12T13:59:00.002-08:002017-03-26T18:33:49.003-07:00How He Met My Grandmother<b><i>This week's prompt: Do you know how your grandparents met and fell in love?</i></b><br />
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I know some. My parents and their parents grew up in a very small community in Idaho -- the Teton Valley, close to the Wyoming border. My father once told me The Valley (as he called it) was the most beautiful place in the entire nation in which to have a childhood. The Larsens and Sorensens lived in Darby (Mom's family); and the Cordons and Nelsons in Driggs (Dad's family). They all went to the same high school, did barn raisings, farmed, and traded with each other. My grandparents probably had many encounters together in the community prior to forming an attraction. My (adoptive) parents actually lived next door to each other in Driggs for a few years, which led to their romance.<br />
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My Grandfather Alfred LeVoy Larsen wrote a personal history which I cherish. This work is one of the things motivating me to do this #52stores blog this year. He wrote about the every day life of his childhood around the turn of the 20th century. social gatherings, Halloween pranks, local superstitions, church work, farming. Born in 1899, ordinary life for Grandpa seems extraordinary to me. For example:<br />
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<i>In my memory were the hours we spent grating potatoes. This was done by driving many, many holes in the bottom of a tin milk pan; then turning it upside down, and grating the potatoes across this rough surface onto a board. They were then put out to dry. This was the way we made starch for our clothes. The best puddings were made with milk, eggs, sugar, and flavoring thickened with this starch. Seems like the food that Mother cooked was the very best.</i><br />
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Here's another memory:<br />
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[When he was about 8 years old] <i>Mother took nurse's training. They would travel from Darby to Driggs each day with a team and buggy. She was called as a mid-wife. She helped bring many babies into this world of whom many are still living. She was called day and night and was always willing to go whenever help was needed. She also helped dress and lay to rest those that had passed on. The epidemic of measles, diphtheria and various other diseases took their toll. There was only one doctor in the valley and enough work for two or more doctors, so mother was called on real frequently. I remember when the kitchen table was used for an operating table to remove the tonsils.</i></div>
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<u><b>How my grandparents got together:</b></u></div>
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My grandfather Larsen wrote briefly about his courtship with my grandmother. He was my only grandparent to pass down such a story. In 1919, at age 20, he was called to be a Mormon missionary in Oklahoma. He recounts many wonderful experiences, including miracle healings. I believe before he left on his mission, a spark had been ignited with 18 year-old Naomi Sorenson.</div>
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<i>All this time I had continued to write to the girl of my dreams at home. My inferiority complex was dwindling, and I had more courage in my letters than when face to face, so I suggested marriage to her; only time was the answer. </i><i>I remained on my mission for 26 months, the whole time being a spiritual experience. </i></div>
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After his mission he returned home to Darby for a few months, then took a job as a "sheep man" during the winter of 1922-23. The summer of 1923 he moved 370 miles away to Nampa, Idaho near the Oregon border. He worked as a short order cook for a flour mill for almost 2 years. Naomi eventually showed up in Nampa, which moved their relationship along. </div>
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<i>In the fall of 1924 I was very happy when Naomi Sorensen and her sister Ruth came to live with one of their girl friends in Nampa. The girls both got a job packing apples and other fruit. They worked there until December. This gave us more time to complete our plans, and we set the date for our marriage. </i></div>
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I wonder if Naomi went there 'cause she wanted to hang with her sister and needed money, or if she went primarily to be closer to Alfred. I'm guessing the latter. I also wonder why Grandpa didn't stay in Driggs to be closer to Naomi. Maybe there was no work. Maybe their relationship was kind of on again - off again. Or maybe Naomi was seeing another guy during part of that time. The time lapsed between when Grandpa proposed to Grandma in that missionary letter until the time they got married was 5 or 6 years.</div>
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<i>I could hardly wait until the first of March so I could again be with the most precious girl on earth. She was also very faithful to her belief in the gospel, which drew us closer together. On March 10, 1925 we boarded the train in Driggs. Without family or friends we went to Salt Lake City where we were married March12, 1925 for time and all eternity. Two very happy people returned again on the train to Driggs.</i></div>
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They lived for many, many years in the Teton Valley, farming in several different locations. My grandfather writes of loosing their first-born son Lawrence who was born premature. He also lost the first farm he and Naomi purchased.</div>
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<i>Due to the frost and hail storms that visited our crops the following years and completely destroyed our cash crops, we were unable to make the payments on our place so we had to give it up.</i></div>
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I want to leave this writing today with words of Grandpa describing life during The Great Depression. He farmed with his family after losing his own farm.</div>
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<i>While on this place we farmed as a family group, which consisted of my father, two brothers Charles and Edgar, and myself. This was the start of the depression which met its climax in 1933. These were hard years; everyone was in the same condition, bills to meet and not much money to meet them with. Thank goodness we lived in a community where we received so much joy and happiness living together as one big family sharing each others' joys along with the sorrows. We didn't have much money, but we lived for the love we had for each other and as a community.</i></div>
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The thing that kept him going, the thing that brought him joy and happiness, was love. Happy Valentines Day everyone!</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at age 4 with Grandpa Larsen, Christmas 1970</td></tr>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-49326282270347197812017-02-05T15:14:00.000-08:002017-02-05T15:22:28.060-08:00Overcoming Chronic Pain: My Personal Journey.<br />
<i>This week's prompt:</i> <b> What has been your greatest physical or athletic accomplishment? An endurance race, a difficult hike, a personal health goal? How did you stay motivated to reach the finish line?</b><br />
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<i>I overcame chronic pain, and somewhere in the process got muddy.</i> I am so, so very proud of that. <br />
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I have experienced sharp pains in my neck and shoulder since my early teens. Sometimes it made me not want to do things or to socialize. Sometimes I couldn't focus at work, in the grocery store or sitting at church. My father was an acupuncture practitioner and a medical doctor; I tried all of his suggestions and treatments, as well as medications, chiropractors and steroid injections. There was never any permanent relief for my pain. I wondered if something was wrong in my head. MRIs at ages 35, 40 and 45 have revealed disc degeneration, disc herniation, spondylosis, and stenosis. Looking back, I believe the pain was exacerbated because I chose to play the piano instead of doing sports for many years. I had never seen myself as athletic. I would get picked last for every team in Physical Education. I was just a skinny girl. Trying to be athletic was just one humiliating experience after another. Instead, I spent long hours at the keyboard, which was not good for my upper back and neck, though it did teach me discipline and beauty.<br />
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In adulthood, doctors kept referring me to physical therapy. In PT they teach you exercises to help strengthen the muscles between the shoulder blades. This is supposed to alleviate pain. But the minute you say the exercises are working they stop PT and leave you on your own. If you don't keep exercising the pain returns and becomes harder to treat the next time. I had never seen myself as athletic, so I had not developed any habits related to regular exercise.<br />
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In 2013 I hired a personal trainer after I got kicked out of PT again for improving. I hoped paying a trainer would motivate me to continue to strengthen the targeted muscles. For a year the workouts seemed to help and I felt strong; but then something went terribly wrong and I was in excruciating pain, worse than ever before. I have since learned that planking isn't for everyone. I gave up training and went back to my pain doctor. I was hoping for some steroid injections and medications, but instead he sent me back to PT yet again. <br />
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About that time a friend was putting together a team for a 5 mile mud run called Mudderella. Impulsively, I volunteered to do it. Despite my pain issues, I was as strong as I'd ever been after my personal training workouts. The mud, the climbing and crawling just looked fun and I forgot momentarily that I had chronic pain and that I was not athletic. <br />
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I've never been able to run any distance. In elementary school the lunch ladies made you run laps around the field during recess if you were rude to them. I was never rude, but some kids were and one day they made all of us run for the entire 30 minutes of recess. One of the recess monitors grimaced at us the whole time. I was breathing so hard I was sure I would die, but she didn't let me walk. We didn't have gym shoes at school back then either, or gym clothes or sports bras. I ran in my oxfords and bell bottom pants, and got them very muddy. My mom was angry that I came home muddy and she yelled at me. From that day forward I never liked running. <br />
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But look at me below. 35 years later, I got muddy while running again! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBz_GxcxtWM-iYlXCNvvcRKVKIUk-aqMbDe8qxCZBl-D5v-qWI5dC4Ggb0tX3PjGNCXBZ-vDJ5g7qvxIdX2R1Sji-y5YH3RPiuHgeyhZ6DIM509WtpEnFun-O8sC-J-Zte48cHD4ZYQ1E/s1600/Muderella+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQBz_GxcxtWM-iYlXCNvvcRKVKIUk-aqMbDe8qxCZBl-D5v-qWI5dC4Ggb0tX3PjGNCXBZ-vDJ5g7qvxIdX2R1Sji-y5YH3RPiuHgeyhZ6DIM509WtpEnFun-O8sC-J-Zte48cHD4ZYQ1E/s320/Muderella+2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right: Molly, Amber, Andrea and ME at Mudderella 2015.</td></tr>
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The day I signed up for Mudderella, I started trying to run. The first 6 months I got a bunch of running injuries<br />
<a name='more'></a> -- plantar fasciitis, IT band syndrome, piriformis syndrome, shin splints, chr<span style="color: black;">ondromalacia patellae, bunions, arthritis</span>. My legs hurt, my butt hurt, my lower back hurt, my knee hurt, my ankles hurt. I was in pain all of the time from running injuries; this was on top of my constant neck and shoulder pain. I would get very out of breath after just a few yards of running. But I didn't give up, because I didn't want to humiliate myself at Mudderella. Running eventually got easier. I learned new stretches to prevent and heal every one of those running injuries. I started doing yoga. I got better shoes and supports. Over time, all of the injuries healed and running didn't hurt much anymore. Then the miracle happened. My neck and shoulder pain went away too! IT WENT AWAY! It was just gone. Running and yoga were the key.<br />
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Three years later, I'm pain free most of the time. I have crossed the finish line of 5 mud runs. Big smile here. People that do mud runs aren't any more athletic than I. We walk a lot of the course. Some of us enjoy the climbing and crawling and mud more than we enjoy running. I have pushed myself to run some of it, though. Feels good.<br />
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Whenever my shoulder starts hurting, it's usually because I haven't run in a couple of weeks. My remedy is to go to the gym and do 3 miles on the treadmill. I walk about half of it and run as much as I can. Today, people see me as athletic for a 50 year-old. It is a wonder and an amazement to me, because until 5 years ago I had never seen myself that way.<br />
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<i>My earliest memories of athletics.</i> In elementary school we didn't have a gym teacher. For PE our classroom teacher would take us outside to play kickball, dodgeball or softball. Typically they would pick two boys to be team captains (never girls) and the captains would go back and forth choosing people to be on their teams. I was always one of the last ones picked. For kickball and softball they placed me way in the outfield. Whenever a ball came to me, I would put up my hands to be ready to catch it, and a boy would push me out of the way and catch the ball himself. The schoolteachers did not interfere much, which left me feeling like girls, me especially, couldn't be athletic. We didn't change shoes for gym, so I was trying to run or whatever in my oxfords. In junior high school we started wearing gym clothes and shoes, but we didn't have sports bras. The bouncing around that resulted from wearing underwire bras reinforced my distaste for athletics throughout my secondary education.<br />
<br />
Once a year they'd line us up and test us for the Presidential Physical Fitness award. Running, situps, pullups. It was a requirement for the public school system, I believe. The teachers weren't very encouraging though. Few kids did well enough for the award. I wish teachers had set goals with us and trained us so we could be as strong as we needed to be for the award. Many of us kids could have gotten the award if we had trained for it.<br />
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On the positive side, I excelled in the gymnastics section of junior high PE. No balls or running were involved. As an adult I studied karate for a few years and did well up until my 9th month of pregnancy with Aaron. I earned my blue belt in Shao Lin Kempo. Currently, I ace my yoga class, as I manage poses few others can do. It rocks to be 50 and to be discovering new talents.<br />
<b></b>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-63496232997246027972017-01-21T19:43:00.002-08:002017-03-07T19:58:04.663-08:00Bible in a Year<i>Prompt for week #3:</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i>What would you want your children or grandchildren to learn from your example about making and achieving goals? (</i><span style="color: #660000;">I am uncomfortable writing about me me me. But here I go</span><i><span style="color: #660000;">):</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #660000;"></span><br /></i>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCcdxFHpph7biOFcRaM0l5FMfQfcfx17Yr52JVKWgnsros8pPBg2B4WROTeEuASldbOd4_1NsBfhGWcNfmNAZ9asxuH_T4vKXr3AFzQ6RYdJY3z_SZADyprvuK7k2J_CQKCLgGvyZX3tH8/s400/Teichert-Suffer-the-Children.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
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"Suffer the Children" by Minerva Teichert</div>
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This artist gives me inspiration to KEEP MOVING FORWARD</div>
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<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12">Here's a goal I've done that I'm very proud of:</span></div>
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<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12"><b>I read the entire Bible in a year</b>. I thank my friend and former coworker Sue Taylor. Back in September of 2012 her pastor at the Long Point Methodist Church challenged his congregation to read the Bible in a year. Sue was fired up about it, and her enthusiasm drew me in. Actually, I had wanted to do it for a while, and all I needed to be successful is a reading plan and a buddy to hold me accountable. Sue provided me with both. Every week she would bring me the reading schedule printed in her church bulletin.</span><br />
<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12"><br /></span>
<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12">I highly recommend reading the Bible in chronological timeline order rather than reading it in the order the books are arranged. A chronological schedule may be found at <a href="http://www.oneyearbibleonline.com/readingplan/oneyearchronologicalbiblereadingplan.pdf">this link</a>. </span><br />
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I didn't just read the Bible, I took it further and read all four of the LDS Standard Works -- the Bible, the <a href="https://www.mormon.org/free-book-of-mormon">Book of Mormon</a>, the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price-- in about 16 months. And when I finished, I was so fulfilled that I jumped in and read them all cover-to-cover a second time, this time completing the task in 15 months. <br />
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There's a time and season for goals. In 2013 I only had one child at home and he was a teenager who barely came out of his room. I had the time and the concentration I needed for all of the reading. That's not to say a young mother couldn't read the Bible in year. I'm just saying I was able to succeed when I no longer had the distraction of a passel of children.<br />
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I will confess I got off track for a time. I was way, way behind Sue and was embarrassed to admit it to her. In March I took my Bible to Ireland on a trip. I had a nasty head cold the first two days and the weather was so blustery I stayed inside our cottage and <br />
<a name='more'></a>caught up on my Bible reading. I blew through Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. Didn't retain much, but I got through it. I am glad that I managed careful reading of many Bible passages during my goal, but I didn't always read that way. Not every day's reading was amazing. But keep doing it. Pray to love the scriptures if it doesn't come easy for you. The important thing with goals is that you stick with them and KEEP MOVING FORWARD, not that you do them perfectly. <br />
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Artist Minerva Teichert set a goal to illustrate the Book of Mormon. It took her about 10 years to paint 42 amazing mural panels. She yearned to see her paintings in book form. This dream was not realized in her lifetime, but today I have a <a href="https://deseretbook.com/p/book-mormon-paintings-minerva-teichert-john-w-welch-3818?variant_id=106803-paperback">book of Teichert's mural paintings</a> in my living room. It is one of my favorites. <br />
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Don't give up! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!<br />
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<b>What I learned: </b>If you truly want to understand God's dealings with His people, read the Scriptures! Even if all you really want to know right now is whether there is a God, read the scriptures! Daily, prayerfully. Don't rely solely on devotional books from Barnes and Noble, or Christian radio, or LDS Gospel Doctrine discussions, or conference talks for your testimony. Avoid anti-religion websites because they disseminate false information, and you can't always tell the lies from the truth. Don't step in poop.<br />
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Read the whole of the scriptures. Yourself. Ponder. Connect the dots. It will change you. It changed me. Some people close to me say they don't believe in God. They don't believe in prophets. What I say to you is that if you want to get to know a person, you have to spend time with them. Spend time in the scriptures and in prayer, so you can get to know God. He is very close to you all of the time. You will find him right next to you as you read His words and talk to him in daily prayer. Don't give up! He really is right there.<br />
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Both the New Testament and the Old Testament are important. If you neglect the Old Testament you won't get the full picture of God's relationship with mankind/womankind. I have heard some people describe the O.T. God as vengeful and punishing and the N.T. God as only merciful, loving and all-forgiving. In fact, the themes of God's mercy and love are played out over and over and over again in the O.T. It's the same God in both testaments. If you think the messages of two testaments are so very different, you haven't studied the Bible in its entirety. <br />
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Abraham Lincoln said of the Bible: “<i>This Great Book … is the best gift God has given to man. All the good the Saviour gave to the world was communicated through this book. But for it we could not know right from wrong</i>” (<em>Speeches and Writings, 1859–1865</em> [1989], 628).<br />
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In <a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2007/04/the-miracle-of-the-holy-bible?lang=eng">April <span id="goog_1488513093"></span><span id="goog_1488513094"></span>2007 Elder M. Russell Ballard</a> said of the Bible.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCcdxFHpph7biOFcRaM0l5FMfQfcfx17Yr52JVKWgnsros8pPBg2B4WROTeEuASldbOd4_1NsBfhGWcNfmNAZ9asxuH_T4vKXr3AFzQ6RYdJY3z_SZADyprvuK7k2J_CQKCLgGvyZX3tH8/s1600/Teichert-Suffer-the-Children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCcdxFHpph7biOFcRaM0l5FMfQfcfx17Yr52JVKWgnsros8pPBg2B4WROTeEuASldbOd4_1NsBfhGWcNfmNAZ9asxuH_T4vKXr3AFzQ6RYdJY3z_SZADyprvuK7k2J_CQKCLgGvyZX3tH8/s1600/Teichert-Suffer-the-Children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<i>"I love the Bible, its teachings, its lessons, and its spirit. I love the Old Testament’s compelling, profound stories and its great prophets testifying of the coming of Christ. I love the New Testament’s apostolic travels and miracles and the letters of Paul. Most of all, I love its eyewitness accounts of the words and the example and the Atonement of our Savior Jesus Christ. I love the perspective and peace that come from reading the Bible...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Brothers and sisters, I am sure many of you have had the experience of hearing people say that 'Mormons are not Christians because they have their own Bible, the <a href="https://www.mormon.org/free-book-of-mormon">Book of Mormon</a>.' To anyone harboring this misconception, we say that we believe in the Lord Jesus Christ as our Savior and the author of our salvation and that we believe, revere, and love the Holy Bible. We do have additional sacred scripture, including the Book of Mormon, but it supports the Bible, never substituting for it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>... The more we read and study the Bible and its teachings, the more clearly we see the doctrinal underpinnings of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. <b>We tend to love the scriptures that we spend time with. We may need to balance our study in order to love and understand all scripture</b></i><i><b>."</b></i> <br />
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<b>What I want my children and grandchildren to know about setting goals:</b><br />
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A revelation from God given to the Prophet Joseph Smith in 1831 says "<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" id="chunk260001" node="260001" paranum="26" wrapper="1">Verily </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260002" node="260002" paranum="26" wrapper="2">I </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260003" node="260003" paranum="26" wrapper="3">say, </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260004" node="260004" paranum="26" wrapper="4">men [and women] </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260005" node="260005" paranum="26" wrapper="5">should </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260006" node="260006" paranum="26" wrapper="6">be </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260007" node="260007" paranum="26" wrapper="7">anxiously </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260008" node="260008" paranum="26" wrapper="8">engaged</span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260009" node="260009" paranum="26" wrapper="9"> in </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260010" node="260010" paranum="26" wrapper="10">a </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260011" node="260011" paranum="26" wrapper="11">good </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260012" node="260012" paranum="26" wrapper="12">cause, </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260013" node="260013" paranum="26" wrapper="13">and </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260014" node="260014" paranum="26" wrapper="14">do </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260015" node="260015" paranum="26" wrapper="15">many </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260016" node="260016" paranum="26" wrapper="16">things </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260017" node="260017" paranum="26" wrapper="17">of </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260018" node="260018" paranum="26" wrapper="18">their </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260019" node="260019" paranum="26" wrapper="19">own </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260020" node="260020" paranum="26" wrapper="20">free </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260021" node="260021" paranum="26" wrapper="21">will, </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260022" node="260022" paranum="26" wrapper="22">and </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260023" node="260023" paranum="26" wrapper="23">bring </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260024" node="260024" paranum="26" wrapper="24">to </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260025" node="260025" paranum="26" wrapper="25">pass </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260026" node="260026" paranum="26" wrapper="26">much </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk260027" node="260027" paranum="26" wrapper="27">righteousness; f</span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270001" node="270001" paranum="27" wrapper="1">or </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270002" node="270002" paranum="27" wrapper="2">the </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270003" node="270003" paranum="27" wrapper="3">power </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270004" node="270004" paranum="27" wrapper="4">is </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270005" node="270005" paranum="27" wrapper="5">in </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270006" node="270006" paranum="27" wrapper="6">them, </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270007" node="270007" paranum="27" wrapper="7">wherein </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270008" node="270008" paranum="27" wrapper="8">they </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270009" node="270009" paranum="27" wrapper="9">are </span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270010" node="270010" paranum="27" wrapper="10">agents</span><span class="chunk" id="chunk270011" node="270011" paranum="27" wrapper="11"> unto </span><span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" id="chunk270012" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12">themselves." (D&C 58:27-28)</span><br />
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<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12">1. My best advice is to be anxiously engaged. Anxiously. Think to the future. </span><br />
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<span class="chunk hl-id-44628728" node="270012" paranum="27" wrapper="12">2. Don't let other's expectations steal you away from your passions. If you neglect the things you love, you can't truly know yourself.</span><br />
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3. David A. Bednar said, "Ordinary people who faithfully, diligently and consistently do simple things that are right before God will bring forth extraordinary results." No goal is too simple, no effort too mundane. You can master both the great and the small.<br />
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4. Don't dwell on your failures. Learn from them and the KEEP MOVING FORWARD. In the early 1990's I heard a presentation by motivational speaker Tom Hopkins. He taught us a little ditty that still goes round in my head to this day. Here are the words.<br />
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<i>I am not judged by the number of times I fail, but by the number of times I succeed; and the number of times I succeed is in direct proportion to the number of times I can fail and keep trying.</i><br />
<i><br /></i> <i>Keep trying. Keep trying. You will succeed if you keep trying. Keep trying. Keep trying. You will succeed if you keep trying.</i><br />
<em><br /></em> Yes, keep trying, don't give up. You're always learning. Embrace your failures. Love them. They make you better.<br />
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5. Pull yourself away from YouTube, Facebook, Reddit, Netflix, and whatever else is sucking at your brain. Time is a thief and it has a contract with every social media and entertainment site. Those things can pull you down, away from your potential, take away your ambition and motivation. KEEP MOVING FORWARD.<br />
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6. The goal can change as you come to know yourself better. Let the goal be what it needs to be for you.</div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-19050749155825185072017-01-15T17:29:00.000-08:002017-01-15T20:05:25.899-08:00What Grandma Taught Me.<i>The prompt this week was: "What is something you taught yourself to do without much help from anyone else?" However, the memory that came to me most strongly and most immediately was not of what I taught myself, but rather, something my Grandmother Audrey Nelson Cordon taught me. I have had so many wonderful teachers in my life.</i> <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDuwgpsTlYukgxEfrATr0kdP9vt7O58BcZOnsYXBiT8HSOQG4Vgd0_2h53RErLp8ZvbY1mwlswtpk5Ni0XmvM6XmXd0xmx8i8V7VgHW1QwTvgJpFkG7wyqhKlTiat13IesmytGdW-OlW/s1600/embroider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDuwgpsTlYukgxEfrATr0kdP9vt7O58BcZOnsYXBiT8HSOQG4Vgd0_2h53RErLp8ZvbY1mwlswtpk5Ni0XmvM6XmXd0xmx8i8V7VgHW1QwTvgJpFkG7wyqhKlTiat13IesmytGdW-OlW/s400/embroider.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My latest flower embroidery project, unfinished.</td></tr>
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When I was around 9 years old Grandma Cordon came and stayed with us for a whole month to get acupuncture treatments from my father. I think it was March of 1976. It was a happy time for me. I was not blessed to be raised near grandparents. They lived in Idaho and Utah and we usually only visited them once per year. Grandma's vis<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDuwgpsTlYukgxEfrATr0kdP9vt7O58BcZOnsYXBiT8HSOQG4Vgd0_2h53RErLp8ZvbY1mwlswtpk5Ni0XmvM6XmXd0xmx8i8V7VgHW1QwTvgJpFkG7wyqhKlTiat13IesmytGdW-OlW/s1600/embroider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhDuwgpsTlYukgxEfrATr0kdP9vt7O58BcZOnsYXBiT8HSOQG4Vgd0_2h53RErLp8ZvbY1mwlswtpk5Ni0XmvM6XmXd0xmx8i8V7VgHW1QwTvgJpFkG7wyqhKlTiat13IesmytGdW-OlW/s1600/embroider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>it to our California home bolstered my self-esteem. I felt unconditional love from Grandma which was something I needed. She was so patient and so fun. I always felt important and confident around Grandma. I loved her very much. <br />
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Grandma was tiny, around 5 foot tall. She felt a little soft when you hugged her, but she was not really plump. A big nose held up glasses through which peered melancholy eyes. The sadness on her countenance was juxtaposed with her loud laugh and penchant for dressing in bright colors like hot pink and orange. She had a wonderful sense of humor, like all of my father's family, but she cried easily. When I was older I learned that she suffered from<br />
<a name='more'></a>that tough depression that sometimes afflicts geriatric people. She never shared her sorrows with me however. I also remember she had a collection of zip-up robes or "house dresses" (fashionable in the 1970's) that she wore in the mornings and evenings. One was rose colored, another was aqua green.<br />
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One time I took Grandma shopping in downtown Petaluma. I felt so grown up taking her into different shops. As a pre-teen I knew my way around downtown and each of its stores, as I'd often walk the 2 miles there by myself or with friends, just to look around. <br />
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During that visit when I was 10 Grandma taught me embroidery. She sat down next to me on the couch and carefully, gently demonstrated how to make each type of stitch. When it was my turn to try, I got it! Grandma was never hurried. She watched and waited, and gave encouragement. I don't remember exactly how many lessons we had, but by the end of her visit I had mastered several stitches and was making flowers. The outline stitch was used for the stem, the chain stitch for the petals and leaves, and three French Knots filled in the flower's center. I felt accomplished. I could create something that looked good with my own two busy hands!<br />
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I think of Grandma every time I embroider something. About 30 years later I was attending an LDS Temple session in Portland, Oregon. Pondering how I could help my children be ready to attend the temple when they were grown, the impression came to me to embroider a temple clothing item for each of them. Maybe it was Grandma Cordon talking to me. Soon after, I ordered my first kit, and began a project for my oldest daughter who was then about 16 years old. I have now made items for five of my own children, three nieces, a son-in-law and a daughter-in-law. All of these form a tribute to Grandma Cordon's patience, kindness, and her ability to bring out confidence in me. She taught me much that visit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBeaTGk88xviNRHC2e-emcuz79MLb4-bGYaO0ySggufGpwieqBjhA1g4DwXDvm8eQyZj2zDaZNFr3f9iGS_E0ejCmRoOS7U8VTUZFJZpbOOaCFAjGe1e5JWYz7o3u7QyAJhKQ8v4S9Jje/s1600/embroider2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBeaTGk88xviNRHC2e-emcuz79MLb4-bGYaO0ySggufGpwieqBjhA1g4DwXDvm8eQyZj2zDaZNFr3f9iGS_E0ejCmRoOS7U8VTUZFJZpbOOaCFAjGe1e5JWYz7o3u7QyAJhKQ8v4S9Jje/s320/embroider2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Each flower bears the name of an influential woman in my life. </div>
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This one is dedicated to my Grandmother Audrey Nelson Cordon.</div>
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Now I will answer the original question, "What is something you taught yourself without much help from anyone else?" <br />
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My answer is:<b> Math shortcuts.</b><br />
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I was taught by schoolteachers how to add, subtract, multiply, divide, etc. Long division and fractions in 5th grade became algebra in 7th grade and quadratic equations in 10th. Senior physics class frequently used exponents. In MBA school calculus was used to figure stock and options prices. Math instruction often included a lot of tedious steps and "showing your work." I equated "<i>show your work</i>" with "<i>complicate the assignment so that I won't be able to focus long enough to finish it</i>" or "<i>remove the mental challenge and torture me with boredom</i>." Combining steps in my head led to finding the correct solution faster. If pressed to write everything out, my hand would start cramping and I was less likely to produce the correct answer because I was prone to transcription errors. What was supposed to be six steps I taught myself to do in two or three. <br />
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This post is week 2 of LDS Family Search's <a href="https://www.lds.org/church/news/familysearchs-52stories-project-can-help-you-write-your-family-history-in-2017?lang=eng">#52Stories project</a>.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-20790138829621154022017-01-07T11:28:00.000-08:002017-01-07T21:19:32.913-08:00Defining My Dash in 52 Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0i1x2St-AGcb-HZ6tuA42BMt1i3LMzAF4YRO8BvHZ-sYvr2d4RaZEwd7gNIDRDM93omEC9BbBwO1N6-HyIN9KBzfa4M8AzY9NO2cmwuwI2gCMUkkQp9022Ry3wc0dKMhcTchoUSlX06_/s1600/52+stories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX0i1x2St-AGcb-HZ6tuA42BMt1i3LMzAF4YRO8BvHZ-sYvr2d4RaZEwd7gNIDRDM93omEC9BbBwO1N6-HyIN9KBzfa4M8AzY9NO2cmwuwI2gCMUkkQp9022Ry3wc0dKMhcTchoUSlX06_/s1600/52+stories.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This blog is my effort to take on the challenge from LDS Family Search's #</span><b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">52Stories Project</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">, </span><a href="https://familysearch.org/blog/en/define-dash-start-writing-personal-history-52stories-project-2/?repeat=w3tc&__prclt=frj3ko4Z"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Define Your Dash</span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">. The dash refers to the space between birth and death, such as one might see between dates on a grave marker. Years and years from now, my marker might read something like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Megan</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Devoted Wife, Mother, Friend</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>1966 - 2076</b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The dates can tell you some things about me. For example, thirteen LDS temples were standing the year I was born. The newest one was in Oakland, California, just across the bay from the liberal mecca of San Francisco. There was high political unrest in the US in 1966-- civil rights demonstrations, war protests, stirrings for expanded women's roles in society. The Black Panthers and the National Organization for Women were both founded the year I was born. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">However, the dates don't tell you that I was born in that hotspot San Francisco to a mother who travelled there from Alaska to give birth, because she wanted me to thrive in a liberal political climate. The dates don't tell you that I did not get much instruction in liberal politics because Idahoan Mormons adopted and raised me, or that </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Priesthood Power sealed me to those adoptive parents in that shiny LDS Temple in Oakland. A grave marker won't reveal my own life experiences with rights, war, and gender.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And so, I am writing about my dash. This serves two main purposes. The first is to leave a legacy for others and the second is for me to know myself better. The article at </span><a href="https://familysearch.org/blog/en/define-dash-start-writing-personal-history-52stories-project-2/?repeat=w3tc&__prclt=frj3ko4Z"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">this link</span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> lays out the argument very well, so I won't elaborate here. Using a blog rather than a personal journal makes me more accountable, so I'm blogging this. I want to succeed.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Family Search #</span><b><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">52stories Project</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> was kind enough to include writing prompts for each week of the challenge. I plan to mostly use them. If there is a topic that I cannot or will not write about, I'll pick something else that week, but it's still an opportunity to probe sensitivities and explore fears personally. Even prompt #1 was hard to write, but I did it. Here it is:</span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Prompt #1: What do you hope to achieve this year? (responses are in no particular order)</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1. Write 52 stories about my life. The general plan is one per week, but if I am late one week I'll do two the next week. If you make a goal too rigid you will more easily get discouraged. Always set goals that make you accountable, but also let you be self-forgiving. Keep moving forward. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2. I hope to travel out to California and Oregon in the spring. Fly into Oakland. Visit the temple there. Spend a few days visiting with childhood friends in the North Bay and family in Portland. Drive to the giant redwoods, check out a small plot that I inherited. Some would say the property is nearly worthless. You can't build on it without first securing water rights at a high cost. However, maybe someday I'll bring water to the forest and build a retirement home there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">3. Do my best in my church calling. I currently help support children's Sunday instruction and programs for 12 LDS church units throughout Central Illinois. Helping children come to know our Savior, and commit to choosing right is vital to the future of the world. Inspired teachers and leaders are needed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">4. Continue my exercise routine of cardio and strength training. Running is probably the most humbling thing I do on a weekly basis. I am not good at it, but have been blessed for trying. I cannot go fast nor far, but I always feel better after the attempt. It has been my remedy for sorrow and physical pain. I'll do another 5 mile mud obstacle course in 2016. I did Mudderella the last three years, but it isn't coming back this year so I'll find another.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">5. Learn more about laughter. In 2014 I focused on Gratitude. 2015 was Forgiveness, and 2016 was Faith. I feel drawn to deepen my understanding of laughter this year. I think I'll watch more comedies and less action flicks for starters. Seems counterintuitive to read a book about it, because academics don't seem funny to me. But I'll find something to broaden my perspective. I probably will read a book. I will also do a scripture canvas and document humor in the Bible and the Book of Mormon. Elijah showed a sense of humor when he taunted the Priests of Baal. Did Peter show his sense of humor? Or Alma? God has a sense of humor, this I know. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">6. De-clutter my closet and my attic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That's it for this week. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>I believe the original concept of The Dash came from the poem by Linda Ellis. It is copyrighted, so I will not provide a transcript here, but here is a clip of the author reading it. You will find it inspiring:</i></span><br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-23736566064270266492014-06-22T15:31:00.001-07:002014-06-22T15:38:41.107-07:00The Power of a Woman<div style="text-align: center;">
by Rachael Bakaitis</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xoZ4yj-AZ0DkodyoaUPejhf2XLBiX6n2oyDZOl9J7WWIU40yGVECSsx1e1U3VjYnWVrNnnuyIH5kVgyOKwTrQzIHXF201d-JiUTOIDtpDwqo5gxFE3YzcOD2vGjBILY33mYGgQP4OZcp/s1600/Rachael+-+mission.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xoZ4yj-AZ0DkodyoaUPejhf2XLBiX6n2oyDZOl9J7WWIU40yGVECSsx1e1U3VjYnWVrNnnuyIH5kVgyOKwTrQzIHXF201d-JiUTOIDtpDwqo5gxFE3YzcOD2vGjBILY33mYGgQP4OZcp/s1600/Rachael+-+mission.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachael as a missionary in the Trujillo Peru Mission, 2009<br />
with friend Luz Nancy<br />
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We first met Maria because we were looking for someone to do
our laundry. I was a brand new 21 year-old greenie missionary for the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and my trainer and I were opening a new area.
In my Peruvian mission we didn’t do our own laundry because of the time it took
to do it by hand in a country where washing machines were not main-stream and
you could hire someone else to do it for very little. We asked the bishop who
in the area lived close to where we rented and who would benefit from a little
extra income. He suggested Sister Maria. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maria lived just across the courtyard from us. When we first
went over to visit she let us in whole-heartedly. “Oh! What a blessing it is to
have missionaries again in this house!” We started to ask some friendly
questions to get to know Sister Maria a little better. She was born and raised
in the church and was still very active. She got married at age 18 to a
returned missionary. She showed us a wedding picture and a picture of her
husband as an AP with his mission president. She had four sons, all active in
the church. She was struggling financially to keep up with the demands of a
large family after her husband’s recent business venture had failed. She seemed
to live the sugar-coated LDS life, with a small hardship mixed in. We decided
that the money we would pay her to wash our laundry each week could help her,
and so we gave her the job. As a missionary of only one week’s experience in
the field, little did I know that that was not the only thing she needed.
Little did I know that that was not the only way we would help her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t long, after interacting with her twice a week for
laundry pick-up and delivery, that she gained the trust to confide more in us.
We soon learned that she was experiencing much more than just financial
hardship. Her husband had been in a long-term affair. She was deciding if she
should stay with him or leave him. On top of that, he was physically abusive to
her and she had bruises to prove it. “Sisters, I know that you were set apart
as representatives of Jesus Christ. I am grateful to have you in my house so
often and am grateful I have someone to talk to.” She explained that she tried
to talk to her bishop but felt that he favored her husband. She needed a woman
to talk to. We listened and gave her the best council we could. I started to
learn that the Holy Ghost really was there to help me teach and counsel in my
role as missionary. My companion and I, even with my limited language
abilities, felt inspired in the counsel we were able to give in every
conversation we had with Maria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maria's desire for the counsel of a woman leader was
not rare. I soon learned that, at least where I served my mission, it was common
for sisters to pull us aside privately after church to ask, “Missionaries,
pleeeeeaaaaase, can you stop by my house this afternoon?” We tried our best to
come, even with our busy schedules. We heard about abusive husbands and
boyfriends, disobedient children, problems with communication with the bishop,
young women deciding if they should serve missions, hurt feelings because of
gossip, financial difficulties, children in prison, women deciding if they
should say yes to a marriage proposal, alcoholism, absent fathers, feelings of impotence
towards church service, pregnancy out of wedlock, suicide attempts. So many
things! “What a blessing to have SISTERS in this area!” was such a common thing
to hear. One terminally ill sister requested that we come just to sing hymns to
her. She could not talk or communicate, but she too greatly felt the need of
some kind of interaction with a woman during a difficult time. One day she
requested an urgent visit from us. That was our last visit. She passed away as
we finished the last line of the hymn “Jesus, Once of Humble Birth.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am thankful that I not only taught the gospel to those who
did not have it, but I was also able to be available to many women in the
church who felt like they had no one to turn to. I am also thankful for the
power and guidance my Heavenly Father gave me when counseling these sisters. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvBNivTTopdwqbWGeOAfPT-7yJF9NmEOIF2nAitBpFbrNQLaXCUELFn1g0UUMpnvsny9D8KFDinyKkokmuPttEWyeMpB7RucmulO8QHj6DWv-hPRVJwBOWbV8bku3QSFDDh7ycWVOpwu0/s1600/Rachael+and+Heather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvBNivTTopdwqbWGeOAfPT-7yJF9NmEOIF2nAitBpFbrNQLaXCUELFn1g0UUMpnvsny9D8KFDinyKkokmuPttEWyeMpB7RucmulO8QHj6DWv-hPRVJwBOWbV8bku3QSFDDh7ycWVOpwu0/s1600/Rachael+and+Heather.jpg" height="311" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachael and cousin Heather, 2012<br />
Draper, Utah</td></tr>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Besides sister missionaries, the LDS church organization has
another program in place that can help God manifest His power through His
daughters on this earth. I believe that Visiting Teachers can play an effective
role. The problem is that often they do not visit as assigned or do not always
have the trust of the sisters they visit. Gossip can also be very damaging for
sisters. Most of the sisters who requested our visits said that they did not
have or know their visiting teachers or did not feel comfortable sharing things
with those individuals assigned to them for whatever reason. This year’s
general women’s session focused on the need for us, as women, to be united. I
encourage all sisters to find ways to fulfill this counsel through visiting
teaching. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PrKKNJYb-yZvus75YFNBzwBCO-emmCpEksejUZj3LhXxz1SEYc2U2EKEu-MEwy1QCKt5bWJmcOTqLkl6AaVBuBqsfi_cpYQ7mGEQayDCAm9-ycg0p12YQCX9n2Myyw3WPOUk-GOgNmyI/s1600/RS+Temple+Trip+2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PrKKNJYb-yZvus75YFNBzwBCO-emmCpEksejUZj3LhXxz1SEYc2U2EKEu-MEwy1QCKt5bWJmcOTqLkl6AaVBuBqsfi_cpYQ7mGEQayDCAm9-ycg0p12YQCX9n2Myyw3WPOUk-GOgNmyI/s1600/RS+Temple+Trip+2009.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women's Temple Trip, 2009<br />
Nauvoo, IL</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On my mission, members would joke that we had the
“mujerdocio”, a word combining the Spanish word for woman ,“mujer,” with the
word for priesthood: “sacerdocio”. It was said lightheartedly but with some
truth. Maybe there isn’t a word for it, but I think most members of the church
can agree that there is something special that sisters hold. It’s more than
what is commonly called “being a wife and mother”. No, it’s a power ALL
faithful women hold. (I am neither a wife nor mother. While I feel that wives
and mothers pull from this power to fulfill these amazing roles, by saying that
those are a woman’s special callings, comparable to priesthood for men, we are
ignoring a large segment of the LDS female membership). I found that power
within me as a missionary, but, even though I have been released from that
calling, I still feel that same confidence and strength within me. I also now
can recognize that I had it even before my mission. Sisters that are reading
this, find this power within you. It is there. Is it priesthood? Is it some
sort of special ‘nurturing’ power? Is it the ‘Mujerdocio’? Or does it matter
what we call it? Sadly, I have seen many members of the church who do not
appreciate its potential. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have had brethren
treat me as if I were not an equal and exclude me from opportunities to lead. I
have known sisters who have taken a back-seat in their own spiritual
development.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bjef_ZXFSiLNvH4Az1v8IUV14F_wxVYBcbRDCTf6KIR4r8wHNKNYQYOMRfPXRmD-lBajrndMd5wlqnjgOyRNf5bZvx3pLEeuNVjpNqTp-9qNQ5m08JCAwfauO4b_r4UBf32hcVwp9FqU/s1600/Bakaitis+women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bjef_ZXFSiLNvH4Az1v8IUV14F_wxVYBcbRDCTf6KIR4r8wHNKNYQYOMRfPXRmD-lBajrndMd5wlqnjgOyRNf5bZvx3pLEeuNVjpNqTp-9qNQ5m08JCAwfauO4b_r4UBf32hcVwp9FqU/s1600/Bakaitis+women.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother Peggy, daughters-in-law Megan and Rena,<br />
daughter Marlene 2004, Allen Park, Michigan</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can be frustrating
realizing that there is not a lot of canonized scripture directly addressing
the special role women play within the gospel of Jesus Christ. I know we talk a
lot about it in Relief Society (the LDS church’s organization for women), but
as for scripture, I always am hungry for more than what’s available. Because of
that I, along with many women who may be reading this, can often feel lost
within the gospel. “They say I’m special, but HOW am I special? I certainly am
not treated that way!” I have found myself thinking many times. All I can say
for sure at this time is that I do have a special kind of power. Those that
treat me as a lesser person because of my gender are wrong. God wants me to
develop the power he has instilled in me to serve his children here on earth.
This is my testimony of the power of a woman.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVikY4PoZUChm9QjOQ4FZ3PPbTmguZhOvrxgXgXmQt0Zoet6ry5htUBBQSYYYGTcME4pNJk0YlSaiJnVGPVtWwDPi07tZLaRMxokZUp_SIp-20JJkCY7MOzoNxf8UGieMhqBXPAEU7ody/s1600/Rachael+and+Mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVikY4PoZUChm9QjOQ4FZ3PPbTmguZhOvrxgXgXmQt0Zoet6ry5htUBBQSYYYGTcME4pNJk0YlSaiJnVGPVtWwDPi07tZLaRMxokZUp_SIp-20JJkCY7MOzoNxf8UGieMhqBXPAEU7ody/s1600/Rachael+and+Mom.jpg" height="200" width="194" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Megan and daughter Rachael, 2007<br />
Parklands Nature Preserve, IL</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chelsea and Mother Megan 2010<br />
Bountiful, Utah<br />
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-6643341586382781422014-06-15T15:19:00.000-07:002014-06-16T05:00:29.778-07:00Tribute to My Dad<em>Based on the Life Sketch I delivered at my dad's memorial service in Petaluma, California on April 17, 2011</em><br />
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Nolan Ralph Cordon was born in Driggs, Idaho February 3, 1930 to Audrey Nelson and Edgar Cordon. He was the fourth of six children. He died April 6, 2011. <br />
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Let me back up a minute. Dad's life didn't really begin in 1930, nor did it end in 2011. Before he was born into mortality, he lived with his Father in Heaven, as did all of us. It was God's plan for Nolan to come to this earth. When he departed in 2011, he was taken home to that God who gave him life. My father is now in a state of peace and happiness, and he rests from all his troubles and from all his care and sorrow. (See <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/bofm/alma/40.11-12?lang=eng#10">Alma 40:11-12</a> in the Book of Mormon)<br />
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Let's return to my father's mortal life... Born on a potato farm at the start of the Great Depression, he grew up in humble circumstances. He spent his childhood at the foot of the Great Teton mountains, which he described as being the most beautiful place on earth.<br />
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He had a wonderful childhood - riding horses, working on the family farm, and finding ways to get into mischief. For a few years the family lived above the town drugstore. One day Nolan and his brother climbed up to the roof of the building, and they brought balloons filled with water. Can you guess what they were doing up there? You see, they weren't actually trying to strike anyone with the balloons; they were aiming for the pavement. They wanted to see how close the balloons could land without hitting anyone. A police officer brought the boys home.<br />
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Dad had a wonderful sense of humor which developed and thrived in Driggs, Idaho with the large Cordon family.<br />
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My father learned how to be a hard worker during his childhood. When he was 13 he dropped out of school one January day. He informed his father he wasn't going back to school. Rather than argue with Nolan, my grandfather, Edgar Cordon, told him that since he was going to be home, he could hitch up a team of horses the next morning and open up a hay stack. It was the middle of winter and bitter cold. The haystacks were covered with ice so it was necessary to break the ice off the surface first. The hay underneath was very wet and heavy. The job took Nolan all day. The next morning he informed his father that he decided he wanted to go back to school.<br />
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Dad attended school in Arizona for a couple of winters. His family lived in a 10' x 6' homemade trailer in his Uncle Nuel's backyard during the cold season, as the Arizona air seemed to be friendlier to Grandpa's lungs than the cold Idaho air. He was instructed by his mother never to go into Nuel's home; she said that they had troubled Nuel's family enough by being in their backyard. Consequently, Dad spent a lot of time outdoors during those Arizona winters.<br />
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When Dad was 14 and 15 he spent two summers high up in the Tetons herding sheep. I believe those were lonely times, but also a great growth experience as Dad learned about personal responsibility.<br />
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The next time my father dropped out of school was to join the US Navy in 1947. He was 17 years old. His high school sweetheart Roberta (and future wife) cried her eyes out because she had no date for the prom that year. She was mad for a very long time.<br />
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Joining the Navy was one of the most important decisions of Dad's life. While Dad was serving in San Diego, California, the Korean war broke out. His active duty time was extended and he was deployed to the Sea of Japan. He served as a hospital corpsman on a Navy Destroyer.<br />
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Dad didn't talk about his war time much, but there was one story he liked to tell. During basic training Dad earned the Sharp Shooter distinction, owing to the fact that he had practice shooting squirrels up in the Idaho wilderness. However, he was prohibited him from using firearms in military conflicts because he was a Medic. But one day a barrel was found floating in the water close to the ship. The crew did not know if it was booby-trapped to be a bomb, or just a random barrel. Dad's commander handed him a rifle and ordered him to shoot the barrel, hoping to explode any bomb before it collided with the ship. So Dad shot, violating the Geneva convention. He made his mark, but the barrel never did explode.<br />
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Dad's experiences in the Navy gave him confidence to pursue a career in medicine. After honorable discharge, he attended college at Idaho State University in Pocatello, and married his childhood sweetheart, Roberta Larsen in 1953. They were sealed for Eternity by sacred Priesthood Power in the LDS Idaho Falls Temple.<br />
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During the summers Dad helped to build the Teton Dam.<br />
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Dad attended medical school at the University of Oregon in Portland. During this period Shelly was born in 1959 - her parents had hoped, prayed and waited seven years for her. Two sons, Scot and Derek joined the family while Dad was completing his residency in San Bernardino in Southern California in 1963-1964. After residency the family settled in Petaluma, California, and Megan (me) was adopted in 1966.<br />
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Nolan, my dad, was one of the last general practitioner Country Doctors. He treated sore throats and gout, delivered babies, removed tonsils and appendix, repaired hernias and even made house calls.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibviMktTd_3kJ93vMgxUn9_2rA__lRmeoUhhRzXbT0maENS8z1dC6NL3lOIemnHpCKIqBkRhjMKwBXz4AcbyVW4deCqZV2jjUuYQnUDe3a08MEhANSYfNMTqkzgHgCKa4duRg_ftB0w61g/s1600/earacupoint.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibviMktTd_3kJ93vMgxUn9_2rA__lRmeoUhhRzXbT0maENS8z1dC6NL3lOIemnHpCKIqBkRhjMKwBXz4AcbyVW4deCqZV2jjUuYQnUDe3a08MEhANSYfNMTqkzgHgCKa4duRg_ftB0w61g/s1600/earacupoint.gif" height="200" width="140" /></a>While practicing general medicine for about 15 years, Dad experienced frustration that he couldn't help everybody. He was a sensitive man who felt for people's suffering. His own father had been ill for all of Nolan's life, having contracted tuberculosis in World War I. At the end of his life, conventional medicine could do very little for Edgar. In the late 1970's Dad became interested in alternative medicine as a way to relieve people's suffering. He attended acupuncture school in San Francisco at the American College of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and also became a pupil of Dr. Paul Nogier, an ear acupuncturist in France. Dad quit his general medicine practice and became one of the first medical acupuncturists in the United States. He was the very first auricular (ear) acupuncturist in the US, and introduced the discipline to many North American healers as he traveled and lectured all over the United States and Canada. He was a pioneer in the field.<br />
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My father taught me to think outside of the box. For example, he grew Vitamin C crystals in his office, which he attached to the end of bent glass rods (we called them "wands.") Whenever I had any sort of physical complaint, he would pull a Crystal wand out of his front shirt pocket and grab my wrist to feel my pulse. He'd wave the wand around to diagnose, check for changes in my pulse and treat the problem by directing energy from the crystals. Sometimes he would also use colored slides to "tune up" my Aura (personal energy field).<br />
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My father taught me to challenge conventional thinking. He challenged theories of allopathic medicine. He challenged official versions of history. He liked to discuss politics and was quite the conservative. He always did it in a nice way however, and had more tact than I'll ever possess. But Dad never challenged things he considered to be matters of faith or God. I never heard him express one word of doubt regarding any Gospel teachings.<br />
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During Dad's time as a doctor, and later as a Bishop and Stake President for the LDS church, he took a lot of phone calls. This was before the era of text messages or even pagers. Patients would call Dad at home. Church members would call him at home. Sometimes with the church members, the calls were both about church business and some physical complaint. Dad listened and helped as best he could.<br />
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During the last few years of his life, Dad turned his healing intentions to me, as I was swimming through a difficult period. He would always ask "How are you doing?" "How are those wonderful kids of yours?" He was always encouraging "You're a good mother... I don't know how you do it all." "You're wonderful." "I'm proud of you."<br />
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People looked to Dad as a spiritual and medical advisor. He had dark periods in his own life when he felt very blue. Most people were unaware of the extent Dad suffered from depression. But no matter what was happening internally, my father made time for people. He listened, told jokes and was very patient. His kind and gentle nature endeared himself to many over the years. His blue eyes would often twinkle, and he had a sincere smile. He found amusement and laughter in simple things. Children and teenagers related well to him.<br />
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There was a period of about a year that a disabled young man phoned my father daily just to talk. He would phone at dinnertime, right after Dad got home from work. He called Dad daily, and Dad talked to him daily, always patient and loving.<br />
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After retirement, my parents served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 2002-2003. Nolan was the medical advisor for 13 mission on the Eastern seaboard of the US. He took calls from missionaries all day long. I was able to witness this first hand, as I visited him in Connecticut a couple of times. The last visit was to help my parents pack when they departed the mission. Missionaries were still calling him up until the day he left, and Dad was patient and kind to them, naturally.<br />
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My mother, Roberta passed away in January of 2004 after an extended illness (she was in the hospital for four months directly after returning from Connecticut). Dad was devastated. He spent one long, lonely year -- the longest in his life. Then, he hooked up with Peggy King Roberts, and she saved his life! I am only sorry that Peggy wasn't involved in our lives earlier. Nolan and Peggy had five years together and we couldn't ask for a more loving stepmother and grandmother.<br />
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Dad's heroes were his father Edgar Cordon and his Uncle Nuel. Dad would say, "Uncle Nuel was the kindest man I ever knew... Except for my father; he was the kindest man I ever knew." Uncle Nuel was a barber, and Edgar often couldn't work because of his illness. These two men, Edgar and Nuel, had little in terms of the material possessions, status or education; yet my father looked up to them because he valued one attribute above all others - KINDNESS.<br />
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Once Dad died, I realized that he, Nolan Ralph Cordon, was the kindest person I ever knew. Now that he is gone, it is up to all of us to become the kindest person that someone knows.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American Legion Honor Guard. Dad was buried in Driggs, Idaho along side of<br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01386268512599829234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-7796250292883741962014-06-07T10:01:00.001-07:002018-06-24T13:48:25.665-07:00Chelsea's College Graduation
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Dana Jensen, photographer. <a href="http://www.panoramio.com/user/287805/tags/BYU">credit</a></td></tr>
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Change</h2>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I attended BYU from 1984-1987, we reverently referred to this building as "<em><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Kimball Tower</span></em>." The edifice was only 3 years old when I arrived as a 17 year-old Freshman. It was named after our beloved prophet <em>Spencer W. Kimball</em>. It's abbreviation on campus maps was SWKT (Spencer W. Kimball Tower). The tallest building on campus and in the entire city of Provo, it was a sort of beacon, a reminder to look to the living prophet. In my sophomore year President Kimball died, and I felt devastated as did many BYU students. He was such a caring man, a hero to me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thirty years later, the students refer to the building as the "SWI-kett" irreverently phoneticizing the building's acronym, not acknowledging nor likely even aware of the legacy of the building's namesake. How did this happen? One of Chelsea's professors who was perhaps 15 years my junior, opined that building is an architectural disappointment with poor lighting and a claustrophobic interior. Surely not! <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since my BYU departure the campus has welcomed new buildings named after the prophets that succeeded Spencer Kimball - The Ezra Taft Benson Building (1995) and The Gordon B Hinckley Alumni and Visitor's Center (2007). I hope no one characterizes them as design disasters!</span></div>
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Graduation Day!</h2>
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It was a wonderful ceremony, with pomp, circumstance AND elation! Uplifting speakers and a musical number, of course. But then on to the main event. We watched approximately 600 students from the College of Family, Home and Social Sciences march up and be recognized for the wonderful achievement of completing a college education. I loved watching the walk of the students - erect, swift, balanced.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am trying to imagine it now from each student's perspective. Lined up outside the Marriott Center according to major - then herded inside. Sitting in assigned seats amongst a sea of energized students in blue. Waiting one's turn, lining up, flipping the tassel from one side to the other and shaking hands with the Dean and other important people. Receiving a diploma cover, but not the actual diploma (that comes in the mail!) Smiles, pride, confidence, expectations, nervousness, HOPE (Chelsea's middle name).</span> </div>
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-2300856221719744492014-05-11T06:58:00.001-07:002014-05-12T12:51:52.777-07:00Breakfast for Mom: Fulfilling the Unwritten Mother-Child ContractIt is 6:15 am on Sunday, May 11. Mother's Day 2014 is upon us. The house is quiet. Only Shadow, our pet schnauzer-poodle is awake with me. I am thinking about Mother's Days past, when my children were in grammar school. The times I would awaken earlier than the children but was obligated to stay in bed and pretend I was asleep. There would be happy noise, excitement streaming from the kitchen as my children and husband worked to prepare breakfast for me. For meeee! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAesDXYXy7PzwLA5rBnEEyW5Y2YlaBkbmlrhT46IMg7ku97ou_sBgHaKpzIy2bxCQncXTdWtWBhQvBcgYrDSqqJNalBR1TqFQOt7UKMtEcLFHGXFJLWcrLW-BGP4gQBrAz7rpdzhCV_6_F/s1600/MothersDayBreakfast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAesDXYXy7PzwLA5rBnEEyW5Y2YlaBkbmlrhT46IMg7ku97ou_sBgHaKpzIy2bxCQncXTdWtWBhQvBcgYrDSqqJNalBR1TqFQOt7UKMtEcLFHGXFJLWcrLW-BGP4gQBrAz7rpdzhCV_6_F/s1600/MothersDayBreakfast.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>Sausage airily sizzling with occasional interrupting <em>Pops</em>. Wooden spoon t<em>ap-bapping</em> against the side of a glass bowl as a small hand stirs the pancake batter. Brass spatula scraping scrambled eggs from our old black cast-iron skillet: <em>clank-pfft</em>, <em>clank-pfft</em>. Bright, G-pitched <em>pinging</em> of silverware dropping against a ceramic plate. <em>Shuuup</em> - bread placed in the toaster plunges downward to the awaiting toasting coils. <em>Blam-blam</em> footsteps that seem to shake and vibrate the entire neighborhood like a timpani. Beautiful, chaotic cadence, a symphony of love, a symphony of anticipation, but also a symphony of hope and anxiety. The children hope Mom will approve of their efforts and accept their offering. They hope Mom will like it.<br />
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I feel the pressure. It is my job to appear grateful enough, impressed enough to bolster the budding self-esteems. This has got to be the most wonderful breakfast in the world, and I, not them, have got to make it so. No matter what sort of breakfast I have idealized, I've got to help them feel like the actual breakfast is exactly what I wanted. They have to know that they did a good job taking care of me this morning. This helps them grow into serving, happy, well-adjust persons. It's my job as a Mom to be impressed. Thankfully, I don't have to act too much. This <em>will be</em> the most wonderful breakfast in the world. Because they made it. For me. My opinion matters more than anyone else's in the world. And so the breakfast cannot be anything less than more wonderful than any other.<br />
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The clanking and clattering goes on for a while. When it becomes quiet, it is my cue to relax down in the covers and close my eyes. Soon I hear child-soft voices outside my door. The door bursts open and then it's <em>HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!</em> Dad carries the tray of hot food - a token of love as well as expectations - and places it on the bed next to me. I open my eyes. "<em>Oh, wow</em>!" I say. OH WOW. The children have made cards for me, or small gifts assembled at school. They are decorated with some sort of flower. The cards say you're a good cook, thank you for taking me places, I like playing games with you, I appreciate you, you're there for me, I love you Mom. You're the hero today. Tears fill my eyes as I read those cards.<br />
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"Tell me about the breakfast you have made!" I am saying. Who was it that cooked the sausage so perfectly? And who picked the flower? And who thought of placing the nice dab of jam on the plate? And who guessed that I wanted strawberries today? All four children have contributed something. I praise their talent, their creativity, their thoughtfulness. Just as they hoped their offering would be accepted, I hope that I have responded well enough, sincerely enough.<br />
.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-32591899425234798282014-04-06T21:18:00.001-07:002014-04-25T12:12:10.235-07:00Random pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sheep! I found myself taking so many pictures of sheep. They were everywhere we went. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Here they are on the road next to our rented cottage.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ju-alhcPtH507WDtw7jdtCekoRhrxB77tJzQt9aP0_qVk2OEWw6LzymXTCH0rnK7o0mSdsDKBQ5QOJ2t9iEGIc850ihtgPus5Tv7uMHhThx-hXK7h7ftKgyIg7T1hmyXYOlGMrvYYlNx/s1600/mom+and+baby+sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ju-alhcPtH507WDtw7jdtCekoRhrxB77tJzQt9aP0_qVk2OEWw6LzymXTCH0rnK7o0mSdsDKBQ5QOJ2t9iEGIc850ihtgPus5Tv7uMHhThx-hXK7h7ftKgyIg7T1hmyXYOlGMrvYYlNx/s1600/mom+and+baby+sheep.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Newborn lamb nursing. On one of our hikes up the hill, we got to watch a teenage sheep farmer lure a mama sheep into his a truck by holding her bleating newborn lamb in front of her as he slowly led her to the road. She followed the sounds of her baby until both were safe on the truck bed. We asked him how old the lamb was, and he said about 20 minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> It was an unusually cold spring, and the lad's father told us they risked losing lots of lambs born up in the mountains if they did not get them inside quickly after birth.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLI8f0SqAnGdAFh2v-4Vs5Ab4NS-YrKy0Z3xJ4A52i3ygBKEQcVZrXXhAOufbznWBJAjTS6k0wVvQV8W8dyD_6AGLIDcnPBBCGHF_8eTMesqA6joryekmlPWXev3y2_geprIYjQjDwSfp-/s1600/Megan-Ireland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLI8f0SqAnGdAFh2v-4Vs5Ab4NS-YrKy0Z3xJ4A52i3ygBKEQcVZrXXhAOufbznWBJAjTS6k0wVvQV8W8dyD_6AGLIDcnPBBCGHF_8eTMesqA6joryekmlPWXev3y2_geprIYjQjDwSfp-/s1600/Megan-Ireland.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The only head shot of me from the trip. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I just have to say that this is not a glam shot.</span> </td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: small;">Jim at the beach near Keel. The sound of the waves on shore made me homesick for California.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">One evening I bought fish from a local seafood market. The woman who served me said her husband and father were both professional fisherman, and this was a same-day catch. She recommended the Turbot and the Brill, species I had never heard of here in the States. She said don't do anything fancy to prepare the fillets, just fry in butter. Oh my, it was delicious!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Having grown up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I have always considered myself to be a judge of good seafood; I miss it dearly living in the Midwest. And this was the best!</span> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jim, Aaron and Ben with a random donkey</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stuffed suitcase!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Let it be known that I am not bringing sweaters back for everyone and their dog next time I travel internationally. I've done it when I've been to Ecuador, Scotland, Peru and now Ireland. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ROOM SWEATERS TAKE UP IN THE SUITCASE? WELL, DO YOU? A lot. Irish wool sweaters are beautiful, but way overpriced at the tourist stores. One sweater costs about $75. Just get one at TJ Maxx next time. We ended up buy like 6 sweaters for family (some had given us money ahead of time, we're not so much spendthrifts). I think we paid the store owner's rent for the month. </span><span style="font-size: small;">I'll buy you all scarves or jewelry next time.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cigarettes sold at the London, Heathrow Airport. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I wish tobacco products in the U.S. would come with such prominent warnings.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pictogram at the London, Heathrow Airport. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">As we walked by, Jim said, "Hey, that man has airplanes coming out of his head," </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Ben simply said, "Antler Man."</span></td></tr>
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-10532625144022793852014-04-06T20:23:00.000-07:002014-04-25T12:12:29.354-07:00Coal Mine Museum and a Flat TireOn the second day of our stay in Ireland, Saturday, the pouring rain put a damper on our plans for some hiking. We decided to visit an old coal mine that was a 2-hour drive away, since Ben was studying geology at college and expressed an interest. It was my turn to drive. I gripped the steering wheel tensely as I tried to stay in the center of my lane on the narrow, winding Irish roads. All three of my passengers complained about my driving-- they said I hugged the shoulder too tightly. I was doing the best I could, but not adjusting well to driving on the left side of the road. Funny, I had done it years ago in Scotland without much difficulty, but I suspect my eyesight wasn't that keen in 2013. I finally got eyeglasses a month ago in March 2014 and can see roads and signs a lot better now. No wonder the Irish rental car companies charge Americans such outrageous insurance costs.<br />
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And then there were the confounded Roundabouts! In Ireland there are very few normal left turns at intersections. Instead there are these circular roads with spoke roads coming out. You drive around in this circle until you see the road you want and then you take a risk and follow the spoke. Roundabouts are actually more efficient than timed traffic lights common in the US, and certainly genius compared to Michigan Lefts. Even so, I was quite white-knuckled driving around them, always worried that I'd take the wrong spoke or that I'd turn into the wrong lane to see traffic barreling down at me. It's easy for an American to become flustered with roundabouts.<br />
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Well, we got into the town of Boyle, and with all the traffic and roundabouts and I hit a curb rather hard, which pissed me off because I did not want fulfill the stereotype of the "woman driver" with my male heckling passengers. I just knew what they were really thinking. My passengers scolded me for hugging the edge of the road too tightly of course, but I continued on driving and eventually got us to the <a href="http://arignaminingexperience.ie/">Arigna Mining Experience</a>. <br />
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After lunch at the coffee shop we took the tour, guided by a retired miner -- a real subject matter expert. The mine began operations in the 1700's and finally closed its doors in 1990. I regret we probably came across as ignorant, arrogant Americans. The truth was, Jim, Ben and I hardly understood a word our guide said. Prior to coming there, we had believed we were somewhat proficient at deciphering Irish dialects, but the Roscommon Coal Miner accent was too unfamiliar. I suspect it would be a similar experience if an Irishman learned New York City speech and then was transported to a Mississippi Bayou. <br />
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14 year-old Aaron however, understood it all. You see, prior to going to Ireland I had advised him to watch some Irish videos on YouTube so that he could become familiar with the accent. He took my advice to heart and apparently had become proficient at Irish speech. I should have done the same, and spent some time on Irish Youtube instead of watching reruns of <em>Deep Space Nine </em>on Netflix. Chief O'Brien's speech did me no good at Arigna.<br />
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Despite the language barrier, we learned one thing for sure: You drill 18 meters in one direction and then 18 meters in the other. Our guide repeated that phrase several times, very slowly, as if that was the key to understanding the entire mining operation. We nodded politely every time he said it. Despite the Tower of Babel experience, we had a lot of fun on the tour (we love rocks and caves in the Bakaitis family!)<br />
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When we arrive back to the car we notice that the front drivers-side tire is low. Thanks to me hitting the curb back there in Boyle. We head back to the town and put air in the tire. However, by the time we get there, the tire is flat. Really, really flat. We try filling it with air, but it won't hold. Rain is pouring down and the temperature is dropping as dusk approaches. <br />
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We find no spare tire in the trunk. Instead, there is this tire repair kit thing that blows air and latex into the tire. "Here," Jim says, handing me a compactly folded piece of paper, "would you please read the instructions and tell me how this thing works?"<br />
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After getting our tire inflated and treated with latex, we find out that the only tire vendor in town closes at 5pm on Saturday. It is now 5:30. The only thing to do is to try to make it back to our cottage on Achill Isle. We bow our heads as a family and offer a prayer that the tire will carry us home. At first the prayer seems to go unheard, as the air doesn't stay long. We call Enterprise Car Rental, who advises us to drive to Knock airport where, they say, we can exchange our rental car. We arrive at Knock airport only to find that all of the car rental booths are closed.<br />
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It is now very dark and wet, our tire is flat again, and there are no hotels in sight. We are in the middle of nowhere. I am contemplating how it's going to be to spend a cold night in a car in the rural Irish Countryside, and what we are going to do the next morning. I am not seeing the fun in this.<br />
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I am almost in tears by now. I feel terrible. "I am sorry," I say, "This is my fault. I was a bad driver." (It takes a lot for me to admit I am a bad driver. Ever!)<br />
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"Mom," says Ben, "None of us cares that we have a flat tire. We're on vacation. This is just another adventure. It's just all the Tourist Experience... Don't worry. ..." <br />
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"Yeah Mom," Aaron chimes in. "It's OK. We love you, Mom." With that kind of optimism, my kids must be Irish.<br />
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We stop at a gas station, and Jim gets an inspiration to buy three cheap latex tire spray things. He fills the tire up with more air and latex and we head off again towards our cottage. He somehow knows the tire is sturdy enough to make it home. We stop a few more times during our journey home to repeat the procedure. Driving 40 mph (64 kph) or less the whole way, we arrive back to our cottage around 11pm.<br />
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Our prayer was answered, not by having the tire fixed, but by enlightening Jim's mind to know what to do.<br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-55001895385144307322014-04-06T07:09:00.000-07:002014-04-25T12:08:49.535-07:00The Deserted Village at Slievemore and the Old Keel Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MDYtV2M6jtJFeleWeyskKWmABaRc16KEpQrhjqSknzo2-Sv5RlOBrjmNxH4bSimsKngCcJMBZpaOlWPU1KwhlTMmeYAXjglAZDDGGEqvP3aHqhgjEJli5tp6srU2WTAOLZ705L2iWaXD/s1600/boys+at+abandonned+village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>For some reason I had it in my mind that this place was called the "abandoned village," but "<a href="http://www.visitachill.com/en/desertedvillage.html">deserted village</a>" sounds so much more mysterious and lyrical. In recent history, the stone cottages at Slievemore were used as summer homes so families could take their cattle up the mountain to graze. (The proper term is ""Booleying".) A few old-timers on the island can even remember when they were used for such. However archeological evidence suggests that some of the structures up on the mountain have been there from at least the Medieval times. </div>
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It was a very soothing to walk around the dismembered stone homes. There is beauty as well as intelligence in piled up rocks. There really is!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNQ8Z0Czde6_dg4cgQbw_TL31K78InELL9sWjAXeKgWTXT43WsQKqi7BUZ0bQ2v1v33jkv_XnYhlwwCphOLoq_TGFytVAws7VsiJ3nQY1xwzU27Y5exT5m3P8G_R6flBqKJ6fBQWB9Jr2/s1600/village+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNQ8Z0Czde6_dg4cgQbw_TL31K78InELL9sWjAXeKgWTXT43WsQKqi7BUZ0bQ2v1v33jkv_XnYhlwwCphOLoq_TGFytVAws7VsiJ3nQY1xwzU27Y5exT5m3P8G_R6flBqKJ6fBQWB9Jr2/s1600/village+window.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Window</td></tr>
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Our family likes to pick up rocks. Through the years we've amassed quite a collection of geodes, petrified wood, small fossils such as trilobites, Native American arrowheads and stone tools. It seems like we bring rocks home from any family outing. So it was quite a delight to us to find an entire village make of rocks! The photo ops were endless! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MDYtV2M6jtJFeleWeyskKWmABaRc16KEpQrhjqSknzo2-Sv5RlOBrjmNxH4bSimsKngCcJMBZpaOlWPU1KwhlTMmeYAXjglAZDDGGEqvP3aHqhgjEJli5tp6srU2WTAOLZ705L2iWaXD/s1600/boys+at+abandonned+village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MDYtV2M6jtJFeleWeyskKWmABaRc16KEpQrhjqSknzo2-Sv5RlOBrjmNxH4bSimsKngCcJMBZpaOlWPU1KwhlTMmeYAXjglAZDDGGEqvP3aHqhgjEJli5tp6srU2WTAOLZ705L2iWaXD/s1600/boys+at+abandonned+village.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben, Aaron and Jim in decapitated stone residence.<br />
Ben is ready to pose for a magazine cover</td></tr>
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The boys' patience soon ran thin with my requests for pictures...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yAbjWw_LKMeUKIYLs7UFb1d3QWDWTMu6Sht1ClNQnEW44QILSZNKs5x0gKXFU8D2HyToBeGUquqAmXjchPRyssqVUKkDp6DtPXSlHgLr6JmLBwZ69OAjbtW9rhg0nJID3j_ja6KhWyRy/s1600/Aaron+village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_yAbjWw_LKMeUKIYLs7UFb1d3QWDWTMu6Sht1ClNQnEW44QILSZNKs5x0gKXFU8D2HyToBeGUquqAmXjchPRyssqVUKkDp6DtPXSlHgLr6JmLBwZ69OAjbtW9rhg0nJID3j_ja6KhWyRy/s1600/Aaron+village.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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So I resorted to photographing sheep. At least they didn't run away.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBO_JVBS1g9b7Tp4TSMN4FSBYIyMCLdVe9BtnrqHCZCP0zGQWeYhBHfssIxlGbF7Pfv1biH12PMBBWpCJiWfBUuHXLoAXaxgpigYRfzRFVj3IKOuJZXflH-qkjkP8TXjtbD8ZXvb8eTw5/s1600/sheep+w+horns+and+village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBO_JVBS1g9b7Tp4TSMN4FSBYIyMCLdVe9BtnrqHCZCP0zGQWeYhBHfssIxlGbF7Pfv1biH12PMBBWpCJiWfBUuHXLoAXaxgpigYRfzRFVj3IKOuJZXflH-qkjkP8TXjtbD8ZXvb8eTw5/s1600/sheep+w+horns+and+village.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a> </div>
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Well, some of them did run away...<br />
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So, I finally put down my cell phone camera and just enjoyed the serenity of the place.<br />
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And my husband's habit of bringing souvenir rocks home... Well, I don't want to tattle over the Internet or get the customs folks suspicious. Let's just say that my mother-in-law's home now displays an interesting keepsake from the Island.</div>
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The Old Keel cemetery was full of familiar surnames we recognized from Jim's family tree - Corrigan, Kilbane, Mylott, Burke, and of course - CALVEY, his maternal grandmother's surname. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ63zj356cQzeVXy0x4xfzmXvoyiXgiqG6vhaWx1ZrfF92Wmr1k9tA_25wGTuXX_eXybGBmDqpxF3WuAJq7lXNnddD8SC6zFlSnN-v1efWL3rxhe9QMfGov1FF9tmicIr-e0gAXKuw0xym/s1600/tombstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ63zj356cQzeVXy0x4xfzmXvoyiXgiqG6vhaWx1ZrfF92Wmr1k9tA_25wGTuXX_eXybGBmDqpxF3WuAJq7lXNnddD8SC6zFlSnN-v1efWL3rxhe9QMfGov1FF9tmicIr-e0gAXKuw0xym/s1600/tombstone.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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There is a certain reverence one feels when walking through cemeteries. There is a connection between the dead and living. </div>
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Many of the tombstones in the Old Keel cemetery are disintegrated so badly that you can't decipher the names. I think the tombstones of Jim's ancestors probably are among some of those. The names and dates are all cataloged on the Internet though. It is these old, unreadable stones that fascinated me most of all. Not quite forgotten memorials. As in the Deserted Village at Slievemore, stones remind us of the past.</div>
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We gained a gem of information about his great-great-great grandmother's surname. John Richard Calvey (b.1844) was the guy that immigrated to Cleveland from Achill Isle in the 1860's. Oral family tradition was that his mother's name was Maude <em>McMannon</em>. However, Jim and I could find no evidence that any McMannons ever lived in the area: no McMannons in the cemetery, and none in the vital records. But... we did find was the surname <em>McManamon </em>in abundance! I took the liberty of changing Maude's surname to McManamon on Jim's digital family tree at <a href="http://www.familysearch.net/">www.familysearch.net</a>. I hope that grandma Maude is smiling there on the other side, satisfied that we finally got her name right! </div>
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When doing Family History work, sometimes you just have to be there, walk the roads your ancestors walked in order for things to finally make sense.</div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-23476192024758978242014-04-05T19:57:00.000-07:002014-04-25T12:11:48.636-07:00What? No Shamrock shakes?In the United States on St. Patrick's day, one can find green Guinness beer at the bar, green soda pop at the grocery store, a green river in Chicago, and of course green shakes at McDonald's. Something about green liquids must make some of us feel like we're Irish. The citizens of Ireland however, need no such validation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNvHShxZcyy-rw1wPHQrvTrMdl3cMYmvOD2uFmXwtGKtdZKOpyPSiwa6vUZs6nRz_XrDDcVve2V-SxTexEfufNaozAaW5Y9u9u8i3JXVpPPU0mukRkeShB6NFV-0ylE57c4B6QVevPgrU/s1600/shamrock+shake.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNvHShxZcyy-rw1wPHQrvTrMdl3cMYmvOD2uFmXwtGKtdZKOpyPSiwa6vUZs6nRz_XrDDcVve2V-SxTexEfufNaozAaW5Y9u9u8i3JXVpPPU0mukRkeShB6NFV-0ylE57c4B6QVevPgrU/s1600/shamrock+shake.png" height="320" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No shamrock shakes in Ireland</td></tr>
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<br />
Instead of Shamrock Shakes during the month of March, we saw that McDonalds sells Easter McFlurries. We never actually bought one because every time we drove by a McDonald's there was a long line at the drive-thru. Some things are the same in both countries.<br />
<br />
McDonald's in the States wouldn't dare use a Christian holiday like Easter for marketing; they might offend some of their agnostic or other non-Christian patrons. But Ireland is very much a Christian nation, with about 85% of the nation identifying with Roman Catholicism. So they can use the word "Easter" without fear of driving away customers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWlLiZLPOLZHN1d76iy6PB8vLwrI3pWm9N8QzxwmEoDiJA1K5IVMgUdv-SfgQ5ndgqGn6ASvMFZwTxHBjTtP57UxfKPw38pC0rCKocD44f8mUBIQqvTjttMm2Dwqp-ZvnbGVYdY3EHBBix/s1600/easter+shake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWlLiZLPOLZHN1d76iy6PB8vLwrI3pWm9N8QzxwmEoDiJA1K5IVMgUdv-SfgQ5ndgqGn6ASvMFZwTxHBjTtP57UxfKPw38pC0rCKocD44f8mUBIQqvTjttMm2Dwqp-ZvnbGVYdY3EHBBix/s1600/easter+shake.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter McFlurry!</td></tr>
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<br />
The blatant Christianity of Ireland is refreshing, and very much reflected in the personalities of the people. They are very welcoming, helpful and friendly, and seem to practice the golden rule.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-72522984945633934392014-04-04T07:41:00.001-07:002018-06-27T04:20:54.548-07:00The Hearts of the Children, the Celts, and a Poolside Conversation.<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">"Mom, I love your blog...but you need to put up some updates. Soon. I want to see Ireland or anywhere else you've been. It might not be a very exciting blog if you only post once every two years or so" my 25 year-old daughter Rachael messaged me last week.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">You can tell your child has become an adult when she can scold her mother. </span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">Rachael is correct. I should have posted more travelogues since the 2011 Peru trip. In my defense, between 2011 and 2013 I also authored a second blog incognito. I called it <em>EarthStains. </em>It was my place to share stories and jokes about my experiences as an adult Mormon adoptee, as well as some experiences of others in the adoption community. In 24 months and 150 posts, EarthStains attracted over 54,000 page views and hundreds of comments. Not exactly viral, but enough for me to feel like I was heard. Through blogging I swapped stories with other adult adoptees. Our experiences can be so bizarre, yet so similar. Themes emerge of identity, belonging, not belonging, bewilderment, secrets, loyalty and deja vu as we hop between relationship landmines. Keeping all those stories around finally wore me out.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">So one day last April 2013, </span></span><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">shortly after I returned from an Ireland trip, I felt tired and took the blog down. My brain had gone toxic. I'd had enough. I stopped writing. It was time to do something else.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">Now a year later, it's time to get back to writing a bit. <em>On Tour With Her</em> will not be an adoption blog. However, as I contemplate my trip to Ireland last spring, one more personal story about being an adoptee seems relevant. Perhaps I should publish this one too. Just one more story.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">--------------------------</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">It is a warm summer day in 1985. I am 18 years old and weigh 118 pounds; I am wearing a pink and gray one-piece Calvin Klein swimsuit (one-piece because Mormons girls with standards don't wear bikinis); tanning beside a swimming pool in someone's Northern California backyard, sipping 7-Up in a can (7-Up because obedient Mormons don't drink the wine coolers offered to them). A tall, intelligent, shirtless, well-formed young Irishman is lounging next to me, holding my hand, quizzing me. He's got the Dublin accent which, according to one poll, is the <a href="http://travel.cnn.com/explorations/life/worlds-sexiest-accents-130333">6th sexiest accent in the world</a>, so I don't mind the personal questions so much. We've been entangled for, oh, 2 weeks; been all over first base, but not much farther (because single Mormons with fortitude don't go as far as second base). </span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">"Are families important to Mormons? Children?" he ventures. Family is very important to us, I tell him. Did you know that in America, it's only Mormons and Catholics that have large families anymore? Mormons have this thing called Temple sealings, where parents and children are joined together and stay together in families even after death. I feel awkward talking about it. I am not a very good evangelist in my CK swimsuit.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">"I see marriage as a like a vocation," he's saying. "What I mean by that is like how Priests in the Church make vows for life. Do you understand?" I don't really understand what he means. I know nothing about Catholic vocations. I say that Mormons marry in a Temple to be sealed together as an eternal family. Temple marriage is a new and everlasting covenant; necessary for exaltation in the Celestial Kingdom. He doesn't really understand what I mean. </span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">Why the talk of marriage and family? I do worship the ground he walks on... I'll love him 'till the day I die. .. But what's up? Is he thinking immigration? The</span></span> Irish economy is depressed. Tens of thousands of Irish citizens have made their residence in America in the past decade, many of them illegally. An easy path to citizenship would be to marry an American. A young man's got to weigh his options for the future. Or maybe he is just that taken with me. Or maybe he is trying to say he isn't ready consider this stuff yet. I am probably reading too much in to this. This talk is way over my head. This is just casual chat after all.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">Next question is one I've been asked many times before, a question I despise because I don't know the answer. I hate not knowing so sometimes I lie. "<em>What country did your ancestors come from</em>?" Often when people ask about my nationality, I say I am Danish and English, my adoptive parents' ancestry. But I am feeling quite close and trusting as his steady hand holds my hand and his blue eyes hold my eyes. So I tell the truth. I want to tell the truth, and I never could pass for Scandinavian anyways. Mormons with character don't lie.</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">"I don't know," I say. "I am adopted. My sister once said maybe I am Welsh because of the shape of my face." Darn guessing games! I shouldn't have told him what my sister said, it was silly. Still, her conjecture is the most I've had to go on. I break away from his gaze and look down. "I don't know what I am. Sometimes I think about finding my natural parents but I don't know if they would want to meet me."</span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">As is his way, the Irishman changes the conversation back to happy optimism. "Well, if you're Welsh at least you're Celtic then," he teases. He's made it clear that heritage is important to him. The Irish are Celts of course. <em>If this guy holding my hand is a Celt then the gods must be Celts (Wait, Mormons are monotheistic, but you know what mean.). I want to be "at least Celtic." </em></span></span><em> </em><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">I return to college in September, my desire to know my first parents grows. I meet a green-eyed, soft-spoken, analytical young man with a Detroit accent named Jim Bakaitis. His skin is so fair that he is never in the sun without a shirt on. He offers to find my original parents who gave me away. I think this is an impossible feat, but Jim manages to accomplish it with one afternoon at the university library and one phone call. </span></span><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"> Jim understands and supports my need for answers. He gives me some of my identity back. This is the guy I will marry. In the temple. In the <a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/gs/new-and-everlasting-covenant">New and Everlasting Covenant</a>.</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXGGhtVa7fr2l4Is_wwnNO-9UvQSH-wFPXhkr9r7Ljc6kUPCy2ighzxz2cf514PDgI3N1gjdGbGcaf9TQFyU100eAxfSxa4vorL6t0_j7VTCIzSIJCZ1Y_hFaSZTOfI0Ubw8dtI5eLYkX/s1600/Oakland_Mormon_Temple3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXGGhtVa7fr2l4Is_wwnNO-9UvQSH-wFPXhkr9r7Ljc6kUPCy2ighzxz2cf514PDgI3N1gjdGbGcaf9TQFyU100eAxfSxa4vorL6t0_j7VTCIzSIJCZ1Y_hFaSZTOfI0Ubw8dtI5eLYkX/s1600/Oakland_Mormon_Temple3.jpg" width="138" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oakland, California Temple<br />
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints</td></tr>
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<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">As it happens, Jim is a Celt -- both Irish and Welsh. He is also Lithuanian and Polish. I like to hear the pride in his voice when he talks of his ancestry. His mother and aunts often speak of their Irish roots.</span></span><br />
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<span data-measureme="1"><br />
<span class="null">Even after meeting my original parents, it would be years before I'd feel secure enough to research their ancestry. Whenever I considered it, I felt like I was betraying my adoptive parents. There are some within my adoptive family and church community who disapprove of adoptees finding answers, even though church policies don't discourage it. But as Malachi of old prophesied, the hearts of the children will turn to their fathers. <span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">In the Spring of 2013 I began the task of mapping out my genetic family tree at last. A trip to Ireland in March 2013 (which is what this blog post was supposed to be about before a story took it over) was the motivator. I helped my husband learn his family history -- talking to old-timers, learning the history of Achill Isle where Jim's ancestors lived, thumbing through registers, poring over maps. It was awesome! </span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">I am happy that we were able to show our two sons the land of their Irish ancestors. The oldest son Benjamin is now serving a mission in Arizona for the Mormon Church (<a href="http://www.mormon.org/">The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints</a>). He wrote Jim and I a letter telling us that he was grateful we took him to Ireland before his mission . He shares his experiences in Ireland with others as he teaches them the importance of eternal families in Heavenly Father's plan for His children.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-NUV0OBYuOsebPRETDmEV_VozPW46npaCacl3-79uyq3N0i-ZFbdhTNQWg8Vqldh1dpu4ZKOwU0_YnbzkViRX0XnJ99tq00zY0A9n9uBMU-3CeLr0QLrQc5digFoAVhIDottTdKTsYLzx/s1600/Ben+village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-NUV0OBYuOsebPRETDmEV_VozPW46npaCacl3-79uyq3N0i-ZFbdhTNQWg8Vqldh1dpu4ZKOwU0_YnbzkViRX0XnJ99tq00zY0A9n9uBMU-3CeLr0QLrQc5digFoAVhIDottTdKTsYLzx/s1600/Ben+village.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben (now Elder Bakaitis) <br />
Remains of a deserted village on Achill Isle, Slievemore, Ireland.<br />
He recently wrote to me that he has gotten taller on his mission, "I never wanted to be taller than 6 feet," he says, "It's harder to kiss girls when you're tall." Yeah, he's part Irish. He'll manage.</td></tr>
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<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span><br />
<span data-measureme="1"><span class="null">After returning home from Ireland and dumping the adoption blog, I have spent the past year earnestly researching my biological ancestry. And guess what? <em>At least I am Celtic</em>. Hooray. I own a scrap of Irish and Welsh, but am maybe 30% pure Scottish, another Celtic line. <em>There is a bit of divinity in me after all</em> :) I have traced other ancestral lines to Germany and England, some as far back as the 1600's. It's not just about the DNA. It's the stories. I've collected a dozen fascinating stories about my natural ancestors. These I share with my children, along with the inspiring stories my adoptive parents gave me about their ancestors. T</span></span><span data-measureme="1"><span class="null"></span></span>hey are pearls of great price. I have so many connections! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7NuNyg7FauLIvyzaTEKY8f3gke6UyIaFc7tMeAirSRTZpcTUxp6UAksCwzY9FngLuOjy4vvMaxCIdEzymkIlQqVn7osVJ9MrZuAy7HIhiMMgV9Op-kGgPf2a4Opz3Dr4ThcDn6_ly3Yx/s1600/Patton+small+pixel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7NuNyg7FauLIvyzaTEKY8f3gke6UyIaFc7tMeAirSRTZpcTUxp6UAksCwzY9FngLuOjy4vvMaxCIdEzymkIlQqVn7osVJ9MrZuAy7HIhiMMgV9Op-kGgPf2a4Opz3Dr4ThcDn6_ly3Yx/s1600/Patton+small+pixel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tombstone of my paternal great-great-great-grandparents, Samuel Patton and Margaret McDonald. Sam, Maggie and some of their children are buried in a tiny cemetery 20 miles from my home in Central Illinois. Their grandparents were Scottish emigrants, I think. I have dozens of ancestors buried very near my home here in Illinois. I do not believe it is mere coincidence that I happened to settle in here, more than a thousand miles from where I was born and raised. I feel like these ancestors are calling to me.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9xYp5wB1WWDhbe2biEEjFxFuSDfA1XTkGpf8GTROsfEQ0jd2C1dvQf_zRsGSO8KIEywKftSc-bGNo-0p10MwU2aSnWWsnqPBPzPO-oKkvYTYfeykg8cXei9hLgzBSjF8G6NgF1_FL2lWR/s1600/Bohm+Marriage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9xYp5wB1WWDhbe2biEEjFxFuSDfA1XTkGpf8GTROsfEQ0jd2C1dvQf_zRsGSO8KIEywKftSc-bGNo-0p10MwU2aSnWWsnqPBPzPO-oKkvYTYfeykg8cXei9hLgzBSjF8G6NgF1_FL2lWR/s1600/Bohm+Marriage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">1904 Marriage record of my maternal great-great grandparents, John Schaible and Mary Boehm. They were married in Walvis Bay, German Southwest Africa, which is now modern day Namibia. This microfilm image of Lutheran Church records was a great find at Family History Library in Salt Lake City. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">During WWI the British took over the area and German civilians were forced out. The Schaible family spent the remainder of the war in Johannesburg. They came to America with their five children in 1921.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGi4s7NCqFrIagzi9gbf2XKaUDhmk5hfMYXh-MITi4jZbJRUnr_8Rr5bt8HD-4yyXktC7ba9eTes_QDtqAW4Hcgo7akUQDP3LkNk2wXbRuhS0QBY3qEoKN7_YJZzLbd6UhegrqfQJL8Gm/s1600/Schaible+-+Ellis+Island+-+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGi4s7NCqFrIagzi9gbf2XKaUDhmk5hfMYXh-MITi4jZbJRUnr_8Rr5bt8HD-4yyXktC7ba9eTes_QDtqAW4Hcgo7akUQDP3LkNk2wXbRuhS0QBY3qEoKN7_YJZzLbd6UhegrqfQJL8Gm/s1600/Schaible+-+Ellis+Island+-+crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellis Island emigration record for John Schaible and Mary Boehm Schaible and their five children. <br />
The family settled in Michigan.</td></tr>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-52702088056139786442011-09-28T19:48:00.000-07:002014-02-13T20:00:49.478-08:00Peru! Part 2: Peruvian Gold<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"></span><br />
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On July 14, 2011 at 6am Rachael and I departed our hotel in Trujillo for a 1-day tour of Chiclayo. Jim had contracted a mild case of South American gastritis, and opted to stay behind. The 3-hour bus ride was very comfortable.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ljjIwhibb004kkybwse-uoKEFYKDy7I27K-EL2d_cRvi1i54GyCrxmjqlH2ZUyeGFKKjeRXqc16-lQujiarAFW4sNLhR9h5gurPm7w5Fej9TOMN4VPoY2a-45SlYfmqs5uH68TzQ3d-o/s1600/104_3547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ljjIwhibb004kkybwse-uoKEFYKDy7I27K-EL2d_cRvi1i54GyCrxmjqlH2ZUyeGFKKjeRXqc16-lQujiarAFW4sNLhR9h5gurPm7w5Fej9TOMN4VPoY2a-45SlYfmqs5uH68TzQ3d-o/s200/104_3547.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a></div>
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Once in the Chiclayo, we hooked up with a tour group. I didn't understand Spanish, and two of our fellow tourists didn't understand English, so Juan our guide gave the tour in two languages.<br />
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<b>I VIEWED REAL PERUVIAN GOLD WITH MY BARE EYES!</b> It is very rare, a precious archaeological find. Wow. Peruvian gold was plentiful before the Spaniards invaded in 1632. But the Spaniards shipped all the gold they could find back to Spain. They even raided sacred Moche and Incan burial sites to get gold. Once in Spain most of the beautiful golden ornaments were melted down to make coins.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOq8Cj_A5aeY62V6SjcEogLX8JUgNZcp0tH_JvA3jTTV7SxtDl2TDDPicnoQOEzbZvz8yAraM_YlnZZSDXBCIad-gW7eGeWkayeuhfr3EzYF4CLg8k_AHvkJWj40dMw6gm-U02WGoRSHH5/s1600/GEDC1350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOq8Cj_A5aeY62V6SjcEogLX8JUgNZcp0tH_JvA3jTTV7SxtDl2TDDPicnoQOEzbZvz8yAraM_YlnZZSDXBCIad-gW7eGeWkayeuhfr3EzYF4CLg8k_AHvkJWj40dMw6gm-U02WGoRSHH5/s400/GEDC1350.JPG" height="300" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Replica of ornaments for the Lord of Sipan, Moche culture, 300 A.D.</span></td></tr>
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In 1987 the tomb of the Lord of Sipan was discovered--a tomb the Spaniards didn’t find. Wow! It was too deep. The Spaniards didn't bother digging down six meters. The artifacts of Sipan are amazing! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRzTtGBXuR8nkz67SXvbAx4XD_RC1qFQokl7mDHamreuzXYrK5g0p1BTcVfWH8pj_kl-peH2wpmOSKnvWlqgo3YephpIYch7NWlfDz9N2Mil6MGpTxckMAHIGUDBkl7L8KTtD496oUSk0/s1600/GEDC1363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnRzTtGBXuR8nkz67SXvbAx4XD_RC1qFQokl7mDHamreuzXYrK5g0p1BTcVfWH8pj_kl-peH2wpmOSKnvWlqgo3YephpIYch7NWlfDz9N2Mil6MGpTxckMAHIGUDBkl7L8KTtD496oUSk0/s320/GEDC1363.JPG" height="240" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div>
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Buried along with the king, who was presumed to be sort of a living deity, were companions joining him on his journey to the afterlife: A Moche warrior, a priest, three female concubines approximately 15 years of age, an 8 year-old boy, a dog, two llamas, 212 food and beverage vessels, and a guard with his feet cut off so that he wouldn’t leave the Lord. The companions were probably obligated to drink poison. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuRhBl46jO1zG7v8zDPQo4uBPcC6oAKbEHki33KRBgtLzQPLBdityPLPCxbgWGSipSqKod5F4VlIYFZNEbMU8TSVd_sLzhzh0hn80tmbkQjFdnkQjivJsEUZXkcDHYFS4G_xyHyljHjhU/s1600/GEDC1373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuRhBl46jO1zG7v8zDPQo4uBPcC6oAKbEHki33KRBgtLzQPLBdityPLPCxbgWGSipSqKod5F4VlIYFZNEbMU8TSVd_sLzhzh0hn80tmbkQjFdnkQjivJsEUZXkcDHYFS4G_xyHyljHjhU/s320/GEDC1373.JPG" height="240" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></div>
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The artifacts from the Sipan archaeological site now reside in the Museo Tumbas Reales de Sipan, an incredibly contemporary structure situated the otherwise sleepy city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lambayeque</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihq200jToE_m6YJItAe2HCd3uRnFFl-mpQhBlR2_f4BfH8TMwVvwaI3A5b03BUJCsWJMpvMo3ldI4bpswg2OR0ODZ_K7v5o4tvfNCzXJfBQCjbxk1QjuA4JrIswiWcfx145rwsj5PFqzbz/s1600/104_4172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihq200jToE_m6YJItAe2HCd3uRnFFl-mpQhBlR2_f4BfH8TMwVvwaI3A5b03BUJCsWJMpvMo3ldI4bpswg2OR0ODZ_K7v5o4tvfNCzXJfBQCjbxk1QjuA4JrIswiWcfx145rwsj5PFqzbz/s400/104_4172.jpg" height="266" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here's what else we saw on our day tour:</div>
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<b>Tucume Pyramids</b>. Originally constructed by the Sican culture, in 1000 A.D. Later occupied by the Chimus in the 14<sup>th</sup> century, and finally, occupied by the Incas. There are 26 pyramids. We climbed up to the top of a hill and viewd them all!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsI7cDXqtqs6EFw_2ubnJzeRJL5tg4DWD4hrijj1xqGBDH3zWg_dewoLvg7YZaqPBaqV9OR09s98lv7jDl5DTToh8x_Q36CfrSkq94zCb1jLA2pauIFjxCg_vGs54wcyW1n3DckttlbUd/s1600/104_4169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsI7cDXqtqs6EFw_2ubnJzeRJL5tg4DWD4hrijj1xqGBDH3zWg_dewoLvg7YZaqPBaqV9OR09s98lv7jDl5DTToh8x_Q36CfrSkq94zCb1jLA2pauIFjxCg_vGs54wcyW1n3DckttlbUd/s640/104_4169.jpg" height="426" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="640" /></a></div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7452802288022217415.post-27330138258982645002011-09-25T18:09:00.000-07:002014-02-13T19:55:44.297-08:00Peru! Part 1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: medium;"><b>This summer I spent 10 days in <st1:place w:st="on">Northern Peru</st1:place>. My oldest daughter Rachael was an LDS missionary there for 18 months. She served in the Peru, Trujillo mission.</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY11y2EEHnEco8aBJKW2wuFHsnLvww3UTwvfM8JDxdXWq4kLGo98hWbC6JZoiyRPow4EwlADUsILdhbK23p7MJaK8P0WpTG4ruFUPOdb1-G5p9gnBB3U_K8XJR2zh4MwnzLP6Z7U64gixc/s1600/Copy+of+ScannedImage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #2288bb; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY11y2EEHnEco8aBJKW2wuFHsnLvww3UTwvfM8JDxdXWq4kLGo98hWbC6JZoiyRPow4EwlADUsILdhbK23p7MJaK8P0WpTG4ruFUPOdb1-G5p9gnBB3U_K8XJR2zh4MwnzLP6Z7U64gixc/s320/Copy+of+ScannedImage.jpg" height="320" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border-left-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-right-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="216" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNF6TMFUZmsXsz9JxBn2c8ANasvyuGsclgMTBiBO8XaeLb3BEi7IFgqiNLqVZPzz9QIINTlHvxuUCyYG-M04pd-zS0Ut_GvZBJBkoSm_QWsxBgnBjyK8e6g8D2TuPr5a6PceJ5Y4I6MMo/s1600/Copia+de+100_2898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #2288bb; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXEbvq2jF0BLin-KIM_WsBxoEUNZrEsnLfsqDyGKY5R9BLZ6UKQuTeij4NVDFazTMHg2BTDThb7di6h9tYH3cZ_qYmT2uZlcgOXsfYK4FolKOBVBvyWBMFCr33Nbmt5xlnaK6WjTRTmzNz/s1600/Morales+Family+jan11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #2288bb; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXEbvq2jF0BLin-KIM_WsBxoEUNZrEsnLfsqDyGKY5R9BLZ6UKQuTeij4NVDFazTMHg2BTDThb7di6h9tYH3cZ_qYmT2uZlcgOXsfYK4FolKOBVBvyWBMFCr33Nbmt5xlnaK6WjTRTmzNz/s200/Morales+Family+jan11.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNF6TMFUZmsXsz9JxBn2c8ANasvyuGsclgMTBiBO8XaeLb3BEi7IFgqiNLqVZPzz9QIINTlHvxuUCyYG-M04pd-zS0Ut_GvZBJBkoSm_QWsxBgnBjyK8e6g8D2TuPr5a6PceJ5Y4I6MMo/s200/Copia+de+100_2898.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px;" width="200" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYltkgHFtK5yGgzCxHNsFOgQGdH3Qp83K4-TwZiv7CSRgpy10lxUF5UJj-U-7XwUvd9FAcitD4jpaw1MNto0YQQ1smVR345AGFCNVhb_6ywDOJHVqpxeBT3urpSzc4pJBkrRmWRRNlNchJ/s1600/100_2883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYltkgHFtK5yGgzCxHNsFOgQGdH3Qp83K4-TwZiv7CSRgpy10lxUF5UJj-U-7XwUvd9FAcitD4jpaw1MNto0YQQ1smVR345AGFCNVhb_6ywDOJHVqpxeBT3urpSzc4pJBkrRmWRRNlNchJ/s200/100_2883.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhADV5nmfzqNRV1Kn6hP6D-O1rRXUAaLYVAdQQcBJcNpYboQav_zlr2Yi7P1lL4EkarB6rQMoKXzLyPfqAVLof8680pLijn0_yRjawIP6nTVMvQgBI2rkEK65muRw7krE9WRRV00c0jg_/s1600/100_3185.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhADV5nmfzqNRV1Kn6hP6D-O1rRXUAaLYVAdQQcBJcNpYboQav_zlr2Yi7P1lL4EkarB6rQMoKXzLyPfqAVLof8680pLijn0_yRjawIP6nTVMvQgBI2rkEK65muRw7krE9WRRV00c0jg_/s320/100_3185.jpg" height="320" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border-left-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-right-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQCWvqMp10by5e7FnwO6MGfke-B3C1a151tZwYDbRmXnRMeriw_OWMOLZitiouB6EKEfDic-I0NVGjAQNPX4-NEBS4cbUTZPY5FxtKERciV0pfWK2rBqd_rMAFBPYqHz3_XAAR92rfLGW/s1600/104_3603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQCWvqMp10by5e7FnwO6MGfke-B3C1a151tZwYDbRmXnRMeriw_OWMOLZitiouB6EKEfDic-I0NVGjAQNPX4-NEBS4cbUTZPY5FxtKERciV0pfWK2rBqd_rMAFBPYqHz3_XAAR92rfLGW/s200/104_3603.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-mKU5chQaCdlLRdOLLuZKT06LJuJks_2hU41g-gugNDsgvR1yLN3ECNanbtgsfrPua9vQwmODd6TxDqkrAPJZuMrsGdz6Fn97bbzcD5nErlHbQc7XOGNWxGrU5zAHXpGZ9GuuDyGKsg8/s1600/100_3060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-mKU5chQaCdlLRdOLLuZKT06LJuJks_2hU41g-gugNDsgvR1yLN3ECNanbtgsfrPua9vQwmODd6TxDqkrAPJZuMrsGdz6Fn97bbzcD5nErlHbQc7XOGNWxGrU5zAHXpGZ9GuuDyGKsg8/s200/100_3060.jpg" height="133" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-color: white; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: 1px 1px 5px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: medium;"><b>When she completed her mission <st1:personname w:st="on">Jim</st1:personname> and I went down to Peru to tour the areas where she served.</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefFQ87uOWHFaAlanzZmnA9uLi2DZIJgOLIhzQaxiQdoVIc3ma19Yir7Ga31UfbOFMH_nUr6tlBqWBxE2xLmOH8umQd42V5TNMBSW_4GggGS_k4nR1yD_B2HwtMOICpId_8YH129N6kR8k/s1600/GEDC1318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #2288bb; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgefFQ87uOWHFaAlanzZmnA9uLi2DZIJgOLIhzQaxiQdoVIc3ma19Yir7Ga31UfbOFMH_nUr6tlBqWBxE2xLmOH8umQd42V5TNMBSW_4GggGS_k4nR1yD_B2HwtMOICpId_8YH129N6kR8k/s320/GEDC1318.JPG" height="240" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">At the Mercado near Trujillo's Plaza de Armas</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzFt-5VyAKol7Zw8prb7xQpVJ-LffrN3-nRjb-B6g7xSOTl6gpViU31_g-ChT0koOu13BhGXhYVyyf8Z7QScdkllHGGgig62sqdak4T4h2nLKWogW2HZikGfip9eqqrx3dcfk-_jwTo5D/s1600/GEDC1313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #2288bb; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzFt-5VyAKol7Zw8prb7xQpVJ-LffrN3-nRjb-B6g7xSOTl6gpViU31_g-ChT0koOu13BhGXhYVyyf8Z7QScdkllHGGgig62sqdak4T4h2nLKWogW2HZikGfip9eqqrx3dcfk-_jwTo5D/s200/GEDC1313.JPG" height="150" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Cardboard/plywood house</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">in an impoverished area of Salaverry</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRmroS08sSZOJHjzBrEq16E_De8aNAogZMQgKdAbbe6zFtiWrLw-wlvCkjih05QNv5vWcau77Fwi6sp5o5sCVpzlERnMGkzalSt7uRoaL5-OSPE8Fl7STpbe6v5Q12x6YucDCqFPN4FxD/s1600/GEDC1275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #2288bb; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyRmroS08sSZOJHjzBrEq16E_De8aNAogZMQgKdAbbe6zFtiWrLw-wlvCkjih05QNv5vWcau77Fwi6sp5o5sCVpzlERnMGkzalSt7uRoaL5-OSPE8Fl7STpbe6v5Q12x6YucDCqFPN4FxD/s200/GEDC1275.JPG" height="150" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Jim enjoying Peruvian cuisine in Lima.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">We spent our first day in Lima</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;">.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwd4zsWLMs9LVl-fXuYs-MiIISWkHm0hovC713n9TK9QtpneiW-rYhk-IzprqbWBDBB9HPDsOhHPMiIw0oMBKLcqhxNqiqSdLOqRrwvhCkqej3BFj38g1MLhjsrIV9wOVHSIVYGG3UNtGB/s1600/104_4130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwd4zsWLMs9LVl-fXuYs-MiIISWkHm0hovC713n9TK9QtpneiW-rYhk-IzprqbWBDBB9HPDsOhHPMiIw0oMBKLcqhxNqiqSdLOqRrwvhCkqej3BFj38g1MLhjsrIV9wOVHSIVYGG3UNtGB/s320/104_4130.jpg" height="212" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 11px; text-align: center;">At a Menu in Moche. A "Menu" is a small cafe<br />
someone operates in their front yard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbDFwPY55jductRNTsG9P9mRQ0Pa_zFBlBvd1D-esh2lg-OeBMGr2TVNQBPq9TwknyorLrKaix0REax5Iuosir8WqEz9BJ0AfrZT_gwHBFP9b1TAt5hQsq9Jpsl8n_wvEsl3rHvPGZjUw/s1600/104_4138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbDFwPY55jductRNTsG9P9mRQ0Pa_zFBlBvd1D-esh2lg-OeBMGr2TVNQBPq9TwknyorLrKaix0REax5Iuosir8WqEz9BJ0AfrZT_gwHBFP9b1TAt5hQsq9Jpsl8n_wvEsl3rHvPGZjUw/s320/104_4138.jpg" height="210" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">At a church activity in Trujillo</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2Hyp7GXiBTZ3sp4FC1c1aaGPZLBub53Z7N2DQqT_UkWgzrtdpdilwqUS8JrsBQuDCPcUUIYUGtyMa8T7lxxHQ1OwMEmIlUOYzPaUYzlLuN82Xf0AsqnWdePfHBbmMjgbJ9vj59Ki1l7G/s1600/104_4146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP2Hyp7GXiBTZ3sp4FC1c1aaGPZLBub53Z7N2DQqT_UkWgzrtdpdilwqUS8JrsBQuDCPcUUIYUGtyMa8T7lxxHQ1OwMEmIlUOYzPaUYzlLuN82Xf0AsqnWdePfHBbmMjgbJ9vj59Ki1l7G/s400/104_4146.jpg" height="263" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At home with La familia Guillen. Hermana Bettina Guillen</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">was Rachael's pensionista in Trujillo. Bettina is a wonderful cook!</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: medium; line-height: 25px;"><b>We spent the first few days on the coast in the cities of Trujillo and Salaverry, visiting friends and touring archaeological sites. <st1:country-region w:st="on">Peru</st1:country-region> has the absolute best Ancient American ruins. We visits several sites where <i>ritual human sacrifices </i>occurred. Morbid, I know, but fascinating.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><span lang="FR"><b>Huaca Del Luna, Moche culture, 100 A.D</b>.<b> to 700 A.D.</b> </span>Every 20-30 years the Moches would perform human sacrifices at this site. They believed the sacrifices would encourage the gods to improve the weather for farming. Young men would engage in ritual battles. The warriors wore big hats. During the battle, the first warrior to lose his hat would be selected for sacrifice.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IvNNeeGdGO6IRRJIj6sQeRDnri7DXEKCvzHmmSIYU0YvFZzu-SAxpZNFn3uHtGxWug5huCMtRPHNVtqZCoqINAsw-pS4mECesjs3hRAeyzQJX966m94m4U_EpUY8XhpFdWc5au1UZhx0/s1600/104_4126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IvNNeeGdGO6IRRJIj6sQeRDnri7DXEKCvzHmmSIYU0YvFZzu-SAxpZNFn3uHtGxWug5huCMtRPHNVtqZCoqINAsw-pS4mECesjs3hRAeyzQJX966m94m4U_EpUY8XhpFdWc5au1UZhx0/s400/104_4126.jpg" height="201" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Moche Warriors. The top reliefs show the victors of the ritual battles wearing headdresses.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The bottom image shows the losers being taken for sacrifice.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><b>A priestess inside the temple would perform the sacrifice by beheading the young men. She would then collect the blood in some sort of pottery, bring it to the top of the temple wall, and pour it down the wall. That made them feel better (??)</b></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RoFnJm-nU1mJ4BOjuxdwNsim3MX6IG08rbw0SfmgUSXAOIRo9Jb0pR01e3LF_2_HbzAZAMXpLftoY9eUZHfFB6UpA5TRu7Zh8Td73kScnmgqJgmuT3uTBnfT9PN7d1iUcvGX7WyTGJhA/s1600/GEDC1300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RoFnJm-nU1mJ4BOjuxdwNsim3MX6IG08rbw0SfmgUSXAOIRo9Jb0pR01e3LF_2_HbzAZAMXpLftoY9eUZHfFB6UpA5TRu7Zh8Td73kScnmgqJgmuT3uTBnfT9PN7d1iUcvGX7WyTGJhA/s400/GEDC1300.JPG" height="300" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We're standing in front of the wall where citizens would wait for the priestess to show them the blood of the decapitated sacrifice victims.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><b>The Moches eventually abandoned the site because the weather turned really bad (an aggressive El Nino). The human sacrifices didn’t seem to be working to appease the gods, so they gave it up.</b></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3cA9t3yD87feGqU0oBCmwwIyT6SYA_1drf_mjRFnHH6vImwCpvf2krYvGw-rJfvrg1WPUllpMDUAs3q25tjiHeDFHl8FCxhqJodPrZatj_p29Loe5N-wfLGmWoi-YbGoKqKn1Z342Qif/s1600/GEDC1291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim3cA9t3yD87feGqU0oBCmwwIyT6SYA_1drf_mjRFnHH6vImwCpvf2krYvGw-rJfvrg1WPUllpMDUAs3q25tjiHeDFHl8FCxhqJodPrZatj_p29Loe5N-wfLGmWoi-YbGoKqKn1Z342Qif/s400/GEDC1291.JPG" height="300" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Huaca Del Luna is all Preservation, no Restoration.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The colors in the wall are over 1500 years old.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR16BWYUFg25bhhL9TH0Vcr0owjHjGcjDPV39cwMJbK47ohPY1qbHl5OhMIPFfHI7Ys4AA_1d5wUL6BQ-Ad5RJNZjG-KtxZA2boE5-COjlu1FiTSTWdUMjLfXhG2Q2SOQcXgP9YdCqYXN4/s1600/GEDC1289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR16BWYUFg25bhhL9TH0Vcr0owjHjGcjDPV39cwMJbK47ohPY1qbHl5OhMIPFfHI7Ys4AA_1d5wUL6BQ-Ad5RJNZjG-KtxZA2boE5-COjlu1FiTSTWdUMjLfXhG2Q2SOQcXgP9YdCqYXN4/s400/GEDC1289.JPG" height="300" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The guy in the center is Ai-Apaek, also known as El Degollador (the decapitator). He is said to have the hair of the sea and eyes of an owl. Notice he doesn't have a body! Hmm. I wonder why.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b><st1:city w:st="on">Chan Chan</st1:city> city, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tschudi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>, Chimu culture, 1300 A.D. </b> An administrative center with government offices. Ritual human sacrifice victims here were children and young women of childbearing age . The Chimus did not have a written language, nor did they make images telling stories about their sacrifices. We don’t know why they chose women and children or how the victims were selected. The victims may have been enemy captives, sacrificed to limit enemy population growth.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2r9-bjsa4FvWi4LQEKHeCU-vMfARoW3yXk-JMvfDY4wNEzPcy3oqcsm67zswFjtlpgR5tYjXj4V4aCq7U5XQ0YCDVpXqg57C3Wu9TFSgjQx69zHUVQcskZYFCHQVexRQ-QFA9Z3Qiyg1U/s1600/GEDC1340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2r9-bjsa4FvWi4LQEKHeCU-vMfARoW3yXk-JMvfDY4wNEzPcy3oqcsm67zswFjtlpgR5tYjXj4V4aCq7U5XQ0YCDVpXqg57C3Wu9TFSgjQx69zHUVQcskZYFCHQVexRQ-QFA9Z3Qiyg1U/s400/GEDC1340.JPG" height="300" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Rachael and I in the main courtyard, the Sanctuary, where the religious ceremonies and human sacrifices were held. The wall is restored. The statues are Incan replicas, and were not part of Chan Chan city or the Chimu culture. They were put there to look cool and make a nice photo op.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2aBZ6yolkbYK5WItl1Pv_7Lu8oLr-hDylXOuRk4KZsLhN3oLxtRI-wuyv9mXbR5BAUj0PiryZKSh_eHWIoa72kosaggUZpIaKjuftdzDLFaPh58IPrJsD5C7RHE43CemKdKm2C4ELtsE/s1600/GEDC1347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2aBZ6yolkbYK5WItl1Pv_7Lu8oLr-hDylXOuRk4KZsLhN3oLxtRI-wuyv9mXbR5BAUj0PiryZKSh_eHWIoa72kosaggUZpIaKjuftdzDLFaPh58IPrJsD5C7RHE43CemKdKm2C4ELtsE/s320/GEDC1347.JPG" height="240" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">S</span>ome of the original adobe. The friezes have largely been eroded. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The original walls were 59 feet high.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">In all, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chan Chan</st1:place></st1:city> has nine palaces that were personal domains of the Chimu chieftans, but only the Tschudi palace has been restored. When a chieftain died he was buried in the palace along with 500-1000 sacrificed palace residents.. The Chimus believed that the spirits of the palace residents continued to walk around and conduct business, just as they had in mortality.</span> <span style="color: blue;">The residents sacrificed themselves to be with their chieftan.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5exADyXE8to1uDzk_sphk7taJvOMd_2-VzZw6Yhh44itNKzxPN1O2u3ZSVy0DsWCF584yD-pyheked8aap-br95CsxaIAF5HHbvtxzFypeC0BrTpDzMaRMIUZeJ1dTBD7fhz9mnZhPkMh/s1600/104_4141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5exADyXE8to1uDzk_sphk7taJvOMd_2-VzZw6Yhh44itNKzxPN1O2u3ZSVy0DsWCF584yD-pyheked8aap-br95CsxaIAF5HHbvtxzFypeC0BrTpDzMaRMIUZeJ1dTBD7fhz9mnZhPkMh/s400/104_4141.jpg" height="266" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This area was government offices with numerous of adobe cubicles.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can see original friezes here, geometric and animal motifs</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74A1FJlNU06QiYT0I-pRx57_xg4xHzyWCB_oFXn_YipfR5Lt3XDyLRBG8fU4k2L3qzmAeSGTK1A2QTH1NqZI7bzhffDtP9cxYay8TPHeq2qPAREoM9BiO6axvpPE5wUI2gUpP97oQiUgS/s1600/104_4143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74A1FJlNU06QiYT0I-pRx57_xg4xHzyWCB_oFXn_YipfR5Lt3XDyLRBG8fU4k2L3qzmAeSGTK1A2QTH1NqZI7bzhffDtP9cxYay8TPHeq2qPAREoM9BiO6axvpPE5wUI2gUpP97oQiUgS/s320/104_4143.jpg" height="213" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; box-shadow: 0px 0px 0px rgba(0,0,0,0.097656); padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">These are mythological animals. Below them is a fishing net motif. In other areas of Chan Chan you can see friezes of sea otters, pelicans and other marine birds, and fish. </span></td></tr>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16524888517035539671noreply@blogger.com0