The Day I was Born

This week's prompt for the #52stories Project: "What do you know about the day you were born?"

I've always been sucked in by jigsaw puzzles. 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 can and ought to become the picture

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.

What did 5 year-old me know about the day I was born? 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.

What did 15 year-old me know about the day I was born? 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.

12:38 am. Thirty Eight. Specific down to the minute. 

SF General Hospital on Portrero and 22nd. Specific street address. Documenting simply Mission District, or even San Francisco 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.

William P. Young, MD. Middle initial P, a Doctor of Medicine, was in the room.

Single birth. So, it was only me and my placenta in the womb, no evil twin. Good to know. Or was single birth referring to my natural mother's marital status?

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.

Were a Certificate of Legal Parentage to exist, I'd have no problem having my adoptive parents' names on it. But a Certificate of Live Birth 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.

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?

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.

What did 25 year-old me know about the day I was born? 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.

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.

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.

What did 35 year-old me know about the day I was born? 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

45 years old and beyond...

Sorrow seems to be the puzzle piece that has been most elusive for me.

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.

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.

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.

The Worst Childhood Chore

Back in March I published a post entitled Nectarine Jam Day describing lessons learned from my mom about work. I concluded the post by stating that I would shortly write about working with my dad.

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.

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.

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!

My Brush with Death

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.

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.

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.

I felt very useful at the office, and enjoyed being around my Dad who often

Back at it

Took 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.

The Smiling Grandma

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.

5 year-old Rachael with Grandma Bakaitis, September 1994
Love Grandma's smile.

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.

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.”

I was a little surprised that Joe and Peggy had three adult children ages 24, 26 and 28 living at home though. 

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.

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.

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. 

(Remember, there was no Internet in those days, so we couldn’t google “turning orange with carrots.”)

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).

Nectarine Jam Day

This weeks prompt: Who taught you to work? What would you want your children and grandchildren to learn from their example?

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.

Here are a few of the lessons I learned from my mother that serve me today:

1) Set a routine and clear expectations. And start the day by making your bed.
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.

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.

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.

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.

2) Use your whole team 

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.

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.

3) Do your work even when you don't want to. You will enjoy the fruits of your labor.

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).

Best Friends

This week's prompt: Who was your first best friend? Are you still in contact with each other? What do you remember about the friendship?

Megan and Teresa, Millennium Park in Chicago, 2015

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.

Grade School

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.

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.

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.

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.

The First Sleepover

Ready for the dance! 1979

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.


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.

How He Met My Grandmother

This week's prompt: Do you know how your grandparents met and fell in love?

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.

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:

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.

Here's another memory:

[When he was about 8 years old] 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.

How my grandparents got together:

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.

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 remained on my mission for 26 months, the whole time being a spiritual experience.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

The thing that kept him going, the thing that brought him joy and happiness, was love. Happy Valentines Day everyone!

Me at age 4 with Grandpa Larsen, Christmas 1970

Overcoming Chronic Pain: My Personal Journey.

This week's prompt:  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?

I overcame chronic pain, and somewhere in the process got muddy. I am so, so very proud of that.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But look at me below. 35 years later, I got muddy while running again!

From left to right: Molly, Amber, Andrea and ME at Mudderella 2015.

The day I signed up for Mudderella, I started trying to run. The first 6 months I got a bunch of running injuries

Bible in a Year

Prompt for week #3:

What would you want your children or grandchildren to learn from your example about making and achieving goals? (I am uncomfortable writing about me me me. But here I go):

"Suffer the Children" by Minerva Teichert

This artist gives me inspiration to KEEP MOVING FORWARD

Here's a goal I've done that I'm very proud of:

I read the entire Bible in a year. 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.

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 this link.

I didn't just read the Bible, I took it further and read all four of the LDS Standard Works -- the Bible, the Book of Mormon, 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. 

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.

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

What Grandma Taught Me.

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.

My latest flower embroidery project, unfinished.

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 visit 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.

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

Defining My Dash in 52 Stories

This blog is my effort to take on the challenge from LDS Family Search's #52Stories Project, Define Your Dash.  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:

Megan

Devoted Wife, Mother, Friend

1966 - 2076

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. 

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 

The Power of a Woman

by Rachael Bakaitis

 

Rachael as a missionary in the Trujillo Peru Mission, 2009
with friend Luz Nancy
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

 

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Rachael and  cousin Heather, 2012
Draper, Utah

 

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.

Women's Temple Trip, 2009
Nauvoo, IL

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.  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.



Mother Peggy, daughters-in-law Megan and Rena,
daughter Marlene 2004, Allen Park, Michigan

 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.

Megan and daughter Rachael, 2007
Parklands Nature Preserve, IL

 



Chelsea and Mother Megan 2010
Bountiful, Utah

 

Tribute to My Dad

Based on the Life Sketch I delivered at my dad's memorial service in Petaluma, California on April 17, 2011

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. 

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 Alma 40:11-12 in the Book of Mormon)

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.

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.

Dad had a wonderful sense of humor which developed and thrived in Driggs, Idaho with the large Cordon family.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

During the summers Dad helped to build the Teton Dam.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

American Legion Honor Guard.  Dad was buried in Driggs, Idaho along side of
my mother, Roberta Cordon on April 13th. 

Chelsea's College Graduation

 

 

Spencer W. Kimball Tower (SKWT)
Dana Jensen, photographer. credit

Change

When I attended BYU from 1984-1987, we reverently referred to this building as "The Kimball Tower."  The edifice was only 3 years old when I arrived as a 17 year-old Freshman.  It was named after our beloved prophet Spencer W. Kimball.  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. 



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! 

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!



Graduation Day!

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.

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).  

Breakfast for Mom: Fulfilling the Unwritten Mother-Child Contract

It 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! 

Sausage airily sizzling with occasional interrupting Pops.  Wooden spoon tap-bapping 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:  clank-pfft, clank-pfft.  Bright, G-pitched  pinging of silverware dropping against a ceramic plate. Shuuup - bread placed in the toaster plunges downward to the awaiting toasting coils.  Blam-blam 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.

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 will be 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.

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 HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!  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.  "Oh, wow!" 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.

"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.
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Random pictures

Sheep!  I found myself taking so many pictures of sheep.  They were everywhere we went. 
Here they are on the road next to our rented cottage.

 



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.
 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.

The only head shot of me from the trip. 
I just have to say that this is not a glam shot. 

 

Jim at the beach near Keel.  The sound of the waves on shore made me homesick for California.

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!

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! 

Jim, Aaron and Ben with a random donkey

 

Stuffed suitcase!
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.  I'll buy you all scarves or jewelry next time.

 

 

Cigarettes sold at the London, Heathrow Airport. 
I wish tobacco products in the U.S. would come with such prominent warnings.

 

Pictogram at the London, Heathrow Airport. 
As we walked by, Jim said, "Hey, that man has airplanes coming out of his head," 
Ben simply said, "Antler Man."