The 8 Year Old Swim

Back in aught-five there was an explosion of babies.  Just in August, came my son and 3 girl cousins.  Four months later 2 more cousins arrived, yet another girl and finally a boy.  With cousins spread here and there, we were able to track down at least one to share a special day with....8 years later.

I remember my baptism day.  A couple of months prior, my mom was visiting a woman in our neighborhood with a daughter a year older than me.  They didn't come to church very often, so I'm not sure why I took the girl as an expert.   "When you are baptized, anything bad that you have done is completely erased from your memory!" she announced.

I pressed her as we played with her barbie house.  To this day, I can't remember what it was that she had done, but whatever it was it dissolved like butt-ah on a hot pancake the moment she was immersed underwater.  It was magic!

From that moment on, I latched on to my sins that I knowingly had committed.  We grow up in families and learn to share and get along and fight, I'm not talking about that stuff.  I'm talking about knowing better and choosing the other way.

Sin #1) I stole a small handful of Swedish fish from Porter's Variety Store.  I loved them sooo much, and my mom wouldn't buy them, and they were right there in front of my face.  I took them, and was quickly busted and escorted back to the store where my sins were publicly confessed and a dime was given to the cashier.

Sin #2) Knowing that I was getting baptized in a year, I remember visiting my Aunt and Uncle's house in Blackfoot.  Sitting on their couch with my cousin Quinn, I busted out every swear word I could think of.  I did this knowing these words were bad, and that once I was baptized they would be permanently off-limits.  That consisted of the following: shit, damn, and hell. 

{Now when I mutter these under my breath, I'm proud of myself for not dropping a double-fudge brownie like I heard a million times a day when working at a ski resort (exclamation, adjective, greeting).} 

So I was excited for the big day, I was ready and wanted to follow Jesus.  I also knew that He was powerful and that on my baptism day I would witness my first of many miracles.  I waded into the font, excited to see my dad, and got ready to be baptized and have my sins washed away.  

As the prayer was said, I fixated on my Swedish Fish Fiasco.  I reminisced the details of the store, the chewy release of raspberry? strawberry? Sweden?  The pounding of my heart as I knew I was taking something without paying, and then it was time!  I took a big gasp of air, plugged my nose, and bent my knees for a smooth ride.  Down I went, under blue, waiting for the magic of baptism and my sins to not only be washed away, but scrambled from my brain forever.

Up I came and took a new breath, happy but confused.  In case you didn't notice, I have been describing my former sins approximately 30 years later.  That means when I came up out of the water as my new 8 year-old self, there it still was, like an out-of-town uncle that took over your bedroom for a week and was supposed to be gone yesterday.  I don't mind you, but I thought I was getting my bed back?

The main thing is: I didn't steal anymore Swedish Fish.  As for sin #2? I'm doing pretty damn good at watching my language.  Every now and then in a moment of unbridled stress, something slips out.  But for the most part, we're just hugging on the kids and praising God in our heart.

But like I said, that was 30 years ago.  And today?  Well, who knows what my Vanilla Wafer was thinking about when he went in the water.  I'm hoping it was something more along the lines of: Heavenly Father loves me!  I want to follow the Savior! The gospel gives you power and happiness!

Here's Leif and Eliza with Grandma and Grandpa Cozy!  Grandpa confirmed Leif an official member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and commissioned the Gift of the Holy Ghost.

We had family from Idaho, Salt Lake, and Draper.  It was so great to have such awesome family support.

 Mmmmmm....kissy kissy.

 The Olsen's in 2013 look like this.

Here's the dude that baptized me!  My papa gave such a great talk during the service.  He has always been funny and wise!

And here is the guy that confirmed The Mister of the House.  We are so blessed to have Grandma and Grandpa "Kitty" close to us.   Grandpa often says how much he thinks Leif looks like he did as a kid.  Good to know, since he looks nothing like me!

Read More...

Summary only...

Seventh Heaven at the Piggly Wiggly

Earlier this month we sent our pigs to the county fair.  After 3 years of raising pigs over the summer, we finally figured out:

A) How to get the pigs from the very back of our one-acre lot- through the farm gate, past the garden (which they could destroy in point-five seconds)...and between the yard gate into a waiting trailer.

After much hoo-hawing and general running around, my father-in-law saved the day.  "How about we corner them into the horse fence and drag the fence through the yard."  The horse panels are strong and light, so Herm-Daddy, The Mister of the House, and Mrs. Olsen lugged it over the creek, up the hill, unlatched it through the gate, blah blah blah.  Pigs!  But my garden was safe, we got them in the trailer, so it was all worth it.

In order to have "fair pigs" they need to be born in January or March.  Here they are in August. They weighed in at 277 pounds for the girl and 305 pounds for the boy. The boy was disqualified because he was too big.  My girl (my actual girl, not pig girl) walked them and brought them scraps every day over the summer.

Some years (like before this year) it's easy to find a good fair pig.  This year?  We had a tough time.  We ended up getting pigs from an ornery old-timer who seemed to think the world (or at least city zoning laws) were out to get him.  Cause they were.

These pigs had "poo daggetts" encrusted all over when they came to us in the spring.  What are poo daggets?  Nuggets of dirt and stinky pig poo dread-locked into their hair.

We hosed them, soaped them, scrubbed them, chased them, hosed them.  I was so grossed out but at the same time, felt like I was doing a rescue mission.  Here pig, let me save you....so I can eat you later.  Messed up?  Maybe.  But they had a good life, enough space to keep relatively clean, organic feed, and plenty of water.

Here's Chloe tap-tap-tapping her pig around in front of the judge.  After watching a few rounds, I noticed they started taking pigs one by one and putting them in individual stalls.  Eventually, there's just one or two pigs left and these are the prize pigs.  So the first one in the stall = last place pig.  

So here come The Olsen's with poo dagget pig mutts and I wonder if  the judges would notice.  And yes, every pig from zoning freak got last place.  The judge tried to be nice when they exited the arena. "This pig is adequate size...adequate weight.  But like I said I just wish I could take this pig apart and put him back together".  

FYI, short squat with wide hips win the day.  I have no idea what I'm talking about. 

Lucky day Grandpa Anderson visited the pigs (and the Olsen's) at the farm.  It's fun to ask advice from my dad.  He grew up on a farm and fled fled fled for a better and cleaner life.  I'm sure he wonders where I came from when I run to the dirty germ-infested farm life (wait, that's my mom).

While looking at tractors with Chloe, he laughed when she saw a small tractor and exclaimed "Oh that tractor is A-dorable!".

Here's Olsen's-Don't-Know-What-They're-Doing Part II.  We sold 7 goats a month before fair, just wanting to get them off the property and be done. 

Lo and behold we see one of our goats showcased at the fair, with a purple grand prize ribbon.  We wanted to yank it and put it on OUR chest, after all we bottle fed these goats for two stinkin' months.  Give me that ribbon!

Here's Chloe in the last-place stall with Petunia the Pig.  We're just starting to realize that there's a good chance that the fair will be during Leif's birthday every year.  So this little trooper hung out at the fair while everyone puffed about sister and her pig.  She got $11 for showcasing her pig, and little brother couldn't believe it!  I know he was calculating what Legos he could buy if he had that money.

Here's a little reminder at the fair.  Leif's holding up 7 fingers so we know that this fair year, he turned SEVEN.

Leif is great.  Here's what makes him an awesome part of our family:

He loves his baby brother twin.  Every morning he gets him out of the crib and brings him to me.

He is quiet and observant, but surprisingly confident.  I was afraid he would be sensitive about things (friend troubles, or ?) but he is always quick to laugh.

He and little brother Isaac play together all summer.  Isaac's friends are all Leif's buddies, and Leif lets him tag along without a complaint.  They really are best little buds.

He is an awesome reader, the best in his class.

We had a party for him before the fair, so we made sure he felt special on his day.  Buenos Dias folks!

Read More...

Summary only...

Counting Christmas Sparrows

Being involved in a local non-profit had its perks this week. With one of the missions to "improve quality of life on a local level" along with some extra funds needing to be allocated this year, we decided to do some shopping for some families in need from the a local community center.

I'll be honest, after reading this story of a family wanting to help do a sub-for-Santa, I was leery of helping out for those with the lottery mentality. But when we saw the community center list detailing simple necessities like:

*shirt size
*pant size
*shoe size
*dream toy (most listed "anything". Others listed things like a barbie, or a radio).

we felt we could really make a difference this holiday. We spent around $550 to provide items for 2 families, both single mothers with four kids. For the youngest recipient, an 18 month old boy, the listed dream toy was diapers.




In reality, all I want for Christmas is to get rid of half the stuff in my closets, toy room, bookshelves, garage, & shop. The rest I wouldn't mind getting gorgeously organized somehow.

But I remember the lean years, when I used Christmas money for new tires, or even groceries (since my grocery budget went for Christmas instead). But now I am full of kids, blessings, and even stuff more than I can handle. I know it's going to sound cheesy, but I couldn't help having a "Schindler's List" moment after shopping for these local families. I thought, man do I really need all that stuff I put on my lists (and yes I gave a real "list" to people who asked, and yes it included more fun stuff!)? Do my kids need all the stuff they're getting? Are they staying up thinking that all some kids want for Christmas is a new outfit and a barbie?

With all the browsing in toy aisles and department stores, I sometimes feel I am cultivating a personal lottery mentality among my own kids.

"I want that mom I want that!"

"Just put that in your cart for Christmas and I promise I won't peek!"

"Who's getting that toy? I want that!"

But for a small moment yesterday, when we unloaded a simple outfit, new shoes, and one toy for each person, I couldn't help hoping that my kids (and my heart) was paying attention to those who really stood in need this holiday season.

It was so exciting for The Mister of the House and me, we took pictures to document what The Sparrow Alliance (our local non-profit) did for 2 small families this Christmas.



I wanted to buy some quality department cast-offs from TJ Maxx, but in the end Wal-Mart found me stretching my dollar with new jeans and long sleeve shirts with boys, along with some clearanced ankle boots to complete the look. Some twin boys are sharing a big "Cars" rug with some accompanying cars. My four-year-old was drooling over it all night, and his Christmas list was once again re-arranged.

Nothing like a huffy "touch that toy again and you're going to bed!" from your mother to harbor the Christmas spirit eh?



Each of the mothers each received a $30 gift card to Wal-Mart or Sam's Club. I wish I could see the 10-year-old girl (because I have one?) with her green cowl-neck sweater, funky jeans, and red sparkly shoes totally strutting her stuff right? We can only hope!

I hope you have a Merry Christmas!

Read More...

Summary only...

My How They've Grown

Remember this view from Bok Bok Cottage recently?

This was one of the three "hens" our neighbor gave to us, of which all turned out to be roosters. So this rooster was pretty young, not yet fully grown and born in April. Since we decided to raise all of our meat this year, we raised up some "broilers" and processed them this month. Much to the pleasure of can't-bend-over-for-chicken-feed-without-getting-blindsided hens, we got rid of 2 roosters with our batch of meat birds. So check out this next photo, it is a picture of two chicken thighs. One belongs to the rooster, and the other to a younger (by about a month) genetically hyperdriven meat bird.

proceed with caution vegetarians...

Fascinating right?

I don't mean to disrespect the life of these birds by the way.

Speaking of genetically hyperdrives, my little guy turned 5 this month.


Lucky for me, Grandma Cozy had the kids for a sleepover (in the camper wahoo!) and Vanilla Wafer was able to wake up with a special breakfast and wishes for a good time as a 5 year old. Here's Grandma with princess cousins Olivia and Ruby.



It was just one year ago I was pulling out all the stops for his 4th birthday party.


Adorable right?

...Here's another recent view from Bok Bok Cottage. Our little baby goats when they were a few days old.

Cheesy I know, but sometimes it's nice to hold something like a baby that you didn't have to bleed, sweat, and cry for.

But even these little goats grew up faster than I wanted. Here they are just a couple weeks back.

That picture was for the online classifieds. Boo!

I was relieved when a young family bought them to help their kids learn how to raise goats for 4-H (no immediate butchering...yay!). But my mother heart was breaking when the mama goat Matilda was desperately bleating for her little babies for a couple of days.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really cut out to be a farmgirl.

over and out...

Read More...

Summary only...

Transference

As a born and bred Idaho Girl, I was excited for a recent reunion away from the farm, over the river and through the woods to Island Park. Driving through southeast Idaho, the valleys are wide and plain. Plod further north and you get to beautiful Ashton, and right on the border of that town, you see the impending rise of the land, a major geologic shift forcing your transmission to growl. Within the course of a mile, the landscape transitions from wide sagebrush plains and winding rivers to forest. Don't think lush Oregon forest: ferns underground shaded by the massive outstretched arms of pinion pines catching oceanic gusts. It's just miles and miles and miles of tall, straight, narrow Lodgepole Pines.

These are the trees of Island Park and Yellowstone. These are the trees of my childhood trips to cabins and geysers. These are the trees whose cones stay sealed shut, never replenishing their seeds until they are set on fire. And thus, these are all the trees that burned and burned back in 1988 when I was just 13 years old. The let-it-burn process was natural, but soon became a crisis. Then the fire and smoke sent boyfriends away as firefighters, and spewed a billowing gloom for hundreds of miles that turned the moon red and had folks quoting end of the world scripture.

I could, and I did, sit in the passenger seat for miles with head crooked to the right, watching the assembly line of lodgepoles running past catching their brief dance with sunlight from above. And so it was that I turned to The Mister of the House, on our way to the Olsens-from-Utah Reunion and stated in my best neener-neener voice: Idaho is prettier than Utah.

Where else but an Idaho Lodgepole Pine Forest could you hide in the forest while dancing in the light?



And where else could you have a cabin by the lake, with dozens of trees between you and the water, and still have a view of the blue?

With the Olsen Clan came The Mister's grandparents, Grandma Darling and Grandpa Jack. Like me, Grandpa Jack is a born and bred Idahoan, and so that makes him extra special to me. After the recent passing of my last living grandparent, I am left to transfer all the last conversations, acts of service, collecting of garden knowledge that I wish the adult Mrs. Olsen was able to have with her biological grandparents onto my grandparents by marriage. Nothing could be easier, because they are beautiful people.



As a former Stake President, Seminary Teacher, Temple President, and professional counselor, there's something about associating with Grandpa Jack. With every person he meets, he genuinely loves them. Like other intimidating holy men, he has laser vision.

Or so it seems.

Both he and Grandma tell me over and over what a wonderful wife and mother I am. There are times when I look into their eyes, I look away in fear that they will see that I sometimes lose my temper, fart under the covers, argue with my husband, and cuss under my breath when my garden goes to weeds.

More than once I have left Grandpa's house and wondered (and hoped) if I could really, I mean really, be as good as he thinks I am. I'm not talking just about a good mom doing her duty to her kids and family. I mean really good. Like the kind of good that lifts, blesses, and makes it back to heaven. And this is not me fishing for comments on the blog okay? Don't you ever wonder these things?




Grandpa Jack often looks at my little Vanilla Wafer and comments how much he looks like Grandpa did as a kid.



And I hope that all the years of hard work, the love of mankind to the point of serving them for free...for decades, the faith, the endurance, and the pure love embodied by Grandpa will somehow transfer to my offspring.

Like my Idaho Lodgepole Pine Forest, Grandpa practices a transference of light. Who else can you hang out with over a weekend and bask in warm delightful love of God?

Here's some more photos from our weekend of fun:


More transference of light from Herm and Norma, who I love love love. Thanks for the cabin getaway!


Herding cats.


River run.


Cautious smiles from my cautious boy. On the river with Grandpa Herm-Daddy.


My favorite girl.


"Smile with your teeth"


My Idaho. My Trees. Perty sunburst.


Before the boat showed up to take us on a river run, here's how we played in the water...or near the water.


Oh sorry, Yellowstone spiritually claimed by Idaho. Better luck next time.


Old Faithful = excited tension.




For an extra two bucks, Rainbow Girl got to hide food for da bears!




Hiding spot under the rock.


Found by "Spirit"




People training. Mrs. Olsen wanted to edit this poster so the female had a thought burst that said: Is HE ever happy?! First he swaps our 10 pound infant for 3 shoulder bags, a picnic blanket, and car keys and now his panties are in a wad over a kid who's excited to see a bear.


Sorry folks. The tetons also spiritually claimed by Idaho. Better luck next time.




More transference of light. My beautiful momma.

Read More...

Summary only...

Weedkiller: Part One

By the time Vanilla Wafer was born, my womb had been dry for four years previous. We were so excited to have that perfect mix of one boy and one girl. We reached deep into our Scandanavian heritage and gave him a Viking name. It was only a matter of time until he would pillage the neighborhood and wreak havoc on the nay-sayers.

Would. You. Just. Look. At. That. Face! That was way back in aught-five.

Now look at him:





And as Joseph! Be still my heart! (pictured here with his cute cousin Eliza). It was one short high school career ago that he was a little cuddly mutt!

So here's the thing: we wanted him to be a tough little viking, to grow up fast and strong like a weed, but that kid is downright tender-hearted. Now don't get me wrong, the testerone thing is evident when he just starts wrestling neighbor boys for no reason but to say hi. Other than that he is cautious, careful, and quiet. Plus he's four, and he's semi-eloquent. That basically means that when I was recently in a major hurry and got the kids a cheeseburger at MickeyD's, that after the fact we couldn't get in the car without him begging for a "Cheese Ham-bow-guhr" for a month straight. Not cheeseburger, a Cheese Ham-bow-guhr. Got that?

In a hurry to take Rainbow Girl to piano, and from the back seat comes the excited "Mooom, can I get a cheese ham-bow-guhr?"

On the way to Grandma's across town: "Mooom, can I get a cheese ham-bow-guhr?".

So I thought: protein, calories, growing boy, semi-eloquent english quotes, happy kids, no dishes...totally worth a buck!

But then one night I was carpooling Rainbow Girl's best friend. Her mom is my dear friend, works hard to pass good nutrition into her family, cans food 4 months out of the year, and recently did the "Daniel Diet" with her family (aka all natural foods, nothing processed).

So I'm throwing the burgers to the kids, yell back and ask if BestFriend wants something. She politely says no. We drop off the friend, get home, and then Rainbow Girl cautiously approaches me to ask me a question: "Mom" she starts timidly, "BestFriend told me that there is poo in the hamburger meat. That's why she doesn't eat those hamburgers. Is this true mom?".

Okay, wait just a second. What do you think? What would you say?




So after thinking for about 6.7 seconds, I dropped my head down so I could look her square in the eyes and said: "Yep. It's true."

"Mooom!" she starts, "Why didn't you tell me?!"



...and then an old argument I had heard once just popped out of my mouth. "Well, they make sure they cook it at a really high temperature so any bacteria that might be in there would get killed!"

Rainbow Girl says nothing. She is just looking at me, looking off into the void, wondering. I hurry off to my bedroom to fold some laundry and catch myself in the mirror. "What the hell did I just say to my kid?" I wondered to myself.

The thing is, The Mister of the House and I, we owned a movie store for 6 years. So the delicious film "Fast Food Nation" had been presented to me a few years earlier. Based on the book by Eric Schlosser, this film details the cultural, marketing, ranching, and farming fallout of the crazy consumption of the American Fast Food Meal. One scene in particular shows the Kill Floor where they process the beef. It illustrates how quickly they must get the meat through, that an occasional intestinal puncture would spill unspent shittake mushrooms onto the processing block. Minus the mushrooms part. It shows how they would be in too much of a hurry to shut down, throw out the contaminated carcass, and that instead they would just keep going and, um, incorporate all of the ingredients.

All this e.coli stuff that happens? That's from poo in the meat, right?

In the film, poo and e.coli is presented to a top dog of the industry, and in the film he counters back that the strict cooking regulations will kill any bacteria that may be present. THAT LINE, from THAT guy defending poo in the burger, is what came out of my mouth to my kid! Messed up.

So I came back to my kid and said sorry. I said it was gross and we should just stop getting those cheese ham-bow-guhrs and we went to bed. The weird thing is that THAT resolve to sign off the Fast Food burger was mine several years ago, after seeing the film "Fast Food Nation". I lasted a really really long time. The Mister tapped into his daring and risky Viking heritage and lasted a month before he ate a burger again.

And now this? Proud mom wanting a strong boy, and why had I forgotten my previous resolve? Damn them I think it's because of the Southwest Chicken Salad.

Read More...

Summary only...