Places I Have Lived

Decades ago I made up  my mind to love every place I lived. No matter the initial impressions, you can find beauty and pleasantness and friends anywhere.

Some places I don't remember living, such as Brooklyn New York, my birthplace, or Perryopolis Pennsylvania where my Mom stayed with me in between moves, or Sherman Oaks California where we lived for a year and a half. Actually, I remember one thing about that place--tumbling down the concrete stairs at our apartment building.

When I was two we moved to Sepulveda California and lived there until I was 13 (1956-1968). It was white-bread dullsville suburbia and life was predictable and safe and comfortable in our 1400 square foot one-story ranch-style home with a big backyard.

My life took an exciting turn when my folks found a larger (2200 sq ft) house in Valencia (Santa Clairita Valley) (I lived there 1968-1974). The area was still rural country then, and I discovered peers who were not like me. My college-educated father went off to work daily to an office job. Some of these kids came from homes that were hardly better than shacks, and their fathers were blue-collar workers, if they even had jobs at all. My high school was attended by blacks from Val Verde and Mexicans whose parents had been migrant workers before they settled down. A few of my friends had horses and was that ever fun--one of my favorite memories is the day I rode my friend's chestnut down the main drag to Thrifty Drug to buy supplies for our school project.

Then it was off to college at BYU (1973-1976) in probably the grandest setting of any university anywhere. But again, these people weren't like me. I was a brand-new Mormon. My roommates fully embraced me and helped me learn how to be a Mormon. As for the city of Provo, I didn't really care for it much, once I started working downtown. Folks were either active LDS, or they were inactive bitter anti-LDS and made life hard for the other ones.

Craig's first job was in Ridgecrest California (1977-1978) in the Mojave Desert, sandwiched between Death Valley on the east and the Sierra Nevada Range on the west. What a nice small town. There were disadvantages such as a dearth of retail establishments. On the plus side the people were humble, strong and faithful, the landscape was beautiful and wide-open and fascinating. We stayed two short years.

Meridian Idaho (1978-1984). Meridian had the deepest effect on who I am today than any place I've lived. We turned our half acre into an orchard and garden, sometimes weeding on summer nights until it was fully dark at 11 p.m. Our neighbors came from all over; there were tons of children in the neighborhood. We belonged to LDS Meridian First Ward which took in the "downtown," if a farm town actually has a downtown. These farmers had lived in their homes for 40 or 50 years or more and raised their children in two or three bedroom little boxes. They spoke out about what was right, even criticizing when appropriate. They put up with me and I came to love and appreciate them. These old folks (many of them widows) reached out to we younguns, taught us about hardship and life and canning and every practical skill. From them I learned a person didn't need much to get by; the virtues of faith and hard work were what got you by.

Portland's Rock Creek (1984). We spent such a short time in that area while waiting for our house to be built. We still have life-long friends made that year.

In December 1984 we moved 4 miles down the road to the Beaverton area, where we have lived 26 years. 

Introverts Unite!

I am an introvert.  There, I said it.  And I am not ashamed.  It's past time for we introverts to embrace our introvert-ism and let the world know it's acceptable to prefer quiet or alone activities over crowds or parties or large public gatherings.  Solitude is empowering!

Being born an introvert does not mean a person cannot function in high-profile roles.  And it does not indicate that a person is un-adept at public speaking or teaching or leadership positions.  We operate successfully in our own way.

During my entire lifetime I have been misjudged by extroverts.  Extros assume there is something wrong with a person who doesn't babble incessantly, who doesn't desire to be the focus of attention, or who seeks a quiet corner in a group situation.  My most dreaded part of this misunderstanding is for an extro to ask me "What's the matter?"  In fact, in an article published in the Wall Street Journal online, Jennifer Kahnweiler wrote, " . . . avoid many introverts' least favorite question: "What's wrong?" For these quiet, reserved types, nothing is wrong. So, why not leave them alone—and enjoy a little peace and quiet yourself?"

On numerous occasions peers who didn't know me well would say in a situation, "Why don't you talk?"  Or, "Why don't you ever say anything?"  Wish I'd had a smarty-pants answer then.  My usual reply was, "There's nothing to say," or "What do you want me to say?"  It's OK to to enjoy the moment people!

The same WSJ article mentions that introverts tend away from showing emotion and do remain calm in heated situations.  I can think of many times that has been true in my life.  Others might ask why I'm unaffected by the turmoil around me; I am affected but it's not my nature to "go public" about it.

I've been thinking about this since visiting my 2 grandgirls, Meme and Majd.   They are polar opposites.  Majd is the extrovert, Meme reminds me of me as an introvert child.  She enjoys quietly coloring, or standing on the 'sidelines' observing without commenting, or being happy without proclaiming it from the housetops.  And I understand her perfectly.

Home-Grown Terrorist?

 Pioneer Courthouse Square setting up the Christmas tree Friday

When I saw the photo of the Somali fellow arrested Friday night for attempting to blow up downtown PDX, it occurred to me that he might be from around here, because we have a large Somali community. And sure enough, he is a graduate of our very own Westview High School. 4 of our 5 kids have graduated from WV. Steven knows him from some common classes. Kristi says, " . . .I have known him since the 7th grade when he moved to America. I got to know him in my social studies class when we were learning about Islam. He was the only Muslim in the class and he talked a lot of his culture. It is so weird to think that he turned into what he is now. I cannot understand why anybody would want to hurt so many innocent people."

I sincerely hope this does not make our local Somalis targets of the idiots who would blame them by association. They appear to be law-abiding people and can't help that they had to flee the horror in their own country. I see the tall, willowy graceful Somali women around town. They make a lovely scene as they practically glide rather than walk, robed in stunning, vivid draping fabrics.

This guy doesn't appear to have been the sharpest tool in the shed though. He bought into an elaborate FBI ruse so he cooked his own goose, as they say. If convicted he'll probably get life. What a waste. He could have lived out his life here in the wonderful comfortable USA.  As it is, life in prison here is in some ways better than life outside of prison in Somalia.

 The tree was happily (and safely) lit Friday night

Washington County Fair

Last year Brooklyn decided she wanted to make a quilt for the Washington County Fair, held every end-of-July. I had some assorted pink fabrics lying around that I had gotten for free, and she just happened to like them, and here is the quilt she made. Brooklyn cut the fabrics, pinned and sewed them, then tied the knots at the corners to hold it all together. She sewed the binding on too. Cousin Lacey and I assisted her with the tasks but she did most of it herself. And she won a blue ribbon!

You can enter just about anything you want in the fair--baked goods, preserves, textiles, flowers, vegetables, table settings, photographs etc. Over the years we have entered quilts, pillowcases, photographs, and applesauce.

This year Jonah decided a week before the fair to sew a quilt. We rushed to the fabric store and found some nice fabrics with wild animals on them. Here is his quilt below, and he won a blue ribbon too!

Four Things Past Their Prime

 We all have 'old favorites' around the house that would be trash to others.  Here's a few of my favorites:

Crock Pot--in 1977, fresh out of college, we moved to Ridgecrest California.  We didn't have much, and we  even lacked normal equipment essential in a kitchen.  During a conversation one day a gal in my ward, Vera Todd, picked up that I did not own a crock pot.  She had two.  She showed up with the extra one for me to keep.   Here it is in all its glory, the Simmer-On II.  Yes they make better more versatile crock-pots now.  This one still works well and the bonus is that I think of Vera every time I use it.  And try to be more like her.

Cinnamon Shaker--Don't know where or when my Mom got this dandy little shaker, but I grew up with it.  We liked cinnamon toast and this is what we used as a shaker for as long as I can remember.  It still does the job and rustles up memories every time.

Tiger Cup--Craig took Teresa to the Barnum and Bailey Circus in Portland when she was about 4.  That would be 1989.  She brought home this cup which I adopted as my water cup.  I like the handle, the thick base that keeps it stable, and the capacity is just about right.  About 5 years ago it cracked down the side and formed a small hole, but as long as I periodically refill the hole with rubber cement it doesn't leak on me.

Mom's Jacket--When Mom died in 1994 my sisters and I went through her clothes.  We helped ourselves to a few things before donating the rest.  I brought home this snazzy "jogging" jacket and  pants.  The pants eventually gave up the ghost but the jacket still lives, and I enjoy thinking about Mom when I wear it.  Its most redeeming feature is that it's a very thin shell, which is all I need most of the time on exercise walks.  Anything heavier makes me sweat too much.  I know it makes me look like a relic from the 80s but I don't care.

Majd

One of our granddaughters has the Arabic name, Majd.  When we visited her in October she was barely 2 years old.  Yet she has a command of language that surpasses that age.  At times I couldn't help laughing at our conversations, because you don't expect a young child to say certain things.

She was playing with a set of 3 cheap dolls that happen to have wings.  I asked her, "Majd, where are your dolls?"  She vehemently replied, "They're not dolls.  They're fairies."

I asked her if she would like to visit me at my house.  She cheerfully blurted out, "Do you have toys?"  And after a pause, "Do you have kids???"

If I teased her by calling her 'be-be' she became very serious and said, "No!  I called Majd!"

When she was eating a piece of bread I broke off a corner and put it in my mouth.   Sternly and in a huff she said, "You ruined it!!"  And marched away with her bread.

The day before my departure I wanted to prepare her, so I explained that tomorrow I would be going home on an airplane.  She became genuinely solemn and declared, "I'm sad."   I wasn't even sure she would understand what I meant, but she did and it made her sad.

Majd also narrates her life continually.  While awake she is constantly talking, describing everything she is doing.  At dinner, "I put pasta in my mouth."   Changing clothes, "I take off my dress."  And so on.  And on.

Majd is a little firecracker, a little imp.  She is enthusiastic about life and  it's catching.  One day we got off the ferris wheel at the Casbah and immediately she darted out of our presence to where she could get a good view of the fair.  She sucked in her breath and jumped up and down at the sight.  It was then I realized what a beautiful sight it was with all the lights, the boats on the creek, etc.  She garners attention by intentionally being naughty, as when she takes her arms out of her car-seat straps and makes sure we all know about it. She knows how to have fun!

neighborhood playground

fun at the Casbah

She is queen of the souk.  Every visit she is mobbed by shopkeepers who want to hold her, hug her and bestow a gift on her.  One day 3 different shopkeepers gifted her.  Two gave her tiny bracelets which they bothered to resize for her and the other gave her a little plastic bell which she called "my pretty fragile thing."

 merchant sizing a free bracelet for Majd

 The storekeeper did not give her this more expensive necklace but let her wear it until we left!

An Historic Night on the Road to Damascus

Even though we make history every day, it's rare that we are eye-witnesses to national or international historic events. Thousands have watched the inauguration of presidents and the coronation of kings; some are involuntarily sucked into an event such as the tragedy of 9/11. I have never had that degree of an historically significant experience. However, in April 2005 I was eye-witness to the Syrian Army's evacuation of Lebanon. Not a well-known event, true, but significant in the Middle East and an important success in the presidency of GW Bush. Here's how it unfolded:

We traveled with Bridget's family to Lattakia Syria to enjoy a few days on the Mediterranean. Rather than catch a bus straight back to Damascus, we hired a driver to take us home via Beirut Lebanon.

In the Lebanese immigration station we filled out paper work, then waited. Nervousness permeated the  heavy concrete bunker that was staffed by Lebanese soldiers sporting automatic weapons. When one of them yelled out "Steven Walker!!" my heart skipped a beat. Why were they singling out my 12-year-old son?

We all walked up to the counter with Steven. The soldier sternly summoned the attention of his comrades, held Steven's passport high above his head, then regally declared, "Steven Walker! Your visa number is 1559!"  The soldiers clapped and cheered and we nervously smiled while Bridget quickly explained to us that 1559 was the number of the United Nations resolution that ordered Syria to remove its troops from Lebanon. We joined in the frivolity celebrating his lucky number.

We spent some hours in Beirut, then hired a driver to take us back to Damascus. In deep darkness the station wagon crawled up the lofty Anti-Lebanon Mountains toward Syria. Suddenly we were passing a long military convoy, a convoy of Syrian trucks carrying tanks, weapons, and soldiers. It was the fulfillment of UN Resolution #1559!  We continued to pass lines of Syrian military heading for the border and their hero's welcome, after 29 years of occupation. All of this happened after intense pressure from Pres. George W. Bush, precipitated by the Feb. 2005 assassination of former Lebanese Prime Minister Hariri. And we saw it happen.