In Honor of Troy Leishman, my Sister's Husband

Troy joined the Anderson family through marriage nearly 26 years ago. When Monica started dating Troy there was a general inquiry by the younger siblings about who Troy was. Since there seemed to be an army of Leishmans in Rexburg, exactly which Leishman was this Troy? One of the first identifying pieces of information was the front window of the Anderson home on Apache Avenue. A pair of oversized, nearly body-length windows faced the street from the dining room. Among one of these windows, was something that looked like a bubble, or maybe a lodged marble inside the glass. Having never taken notice of it before, and having asked for clarifying information to link to this new boyfriend, we were invited to look and see this curious malformity in the windows. We learned it was not in fact a lodged marble, but the crusted tomb of a small BB bullet shot from a BB gun in the street. Did we live in a gang-ridden inner city? How had this window not completely broken? Why didn’t we grow up cursing the fool that had shot at our home?

“Well, several years back the Leishman boys shot at the window. At least we think it was the Leishman boys. We’re not sure if it was Todd or Troy, but they were always together.” 

Wait, this was the guy that was dating Monica? Keep in mind this piece of history wasn’t ingrained in our minds like it was in the window, it simply came up when we asked. But it definitely left Troy in the market of already having some making up to do, at least before he was given the green light to be Monica’s Number One.

Wait….so this kid who shot BB guns in neighborhoods, he was the same Leishman kid who had the cheesy permed mullet when he was in High School? The very one. 

 Two strikes! 

Nonetheless, the window remained and Troy was welcome into the home. After all, the mullet and it’s accompanying rowdy lifestyle were years ago, and there was a polite sweetness to this now newly returned missionary. 

As you now know, Troy did in fact become Monica’s Number One, and as far as the Andersons were concerned, Troy didn’t strike out. He even batted a home run. He got the girl! They were married less than a year after their courtship began. 

Watching a loved one become a wife or husband, seeing them start their own family, cultivating their new family culture as they bring their own history and expectations, well this is always a curious thing. By the time Troy was given the green light from the Andersons and got himself a pretty little wife, we loved and respected Troy. 

We knew that: 
A) If Troy was raised as a hunter, and passionate outdoorsman, and
B) Monica was a Coach’s Daughter and grew up in a sports family, then 
C) Which culture is more annoying? What would their new culture be? 
D) Are all sports people rude jocks? Are all hunters weird rednecks? 
E) Would Monica be left with new little ones and be ditched every hunting season? Or worse... 
F) Would those cute little babies eventually grow up and (*gasp*!) have their own disgusting mullets someday too? 

You think this is an interesting math story problem, but it’s actually a trick question. Because what we haven’t told you thus far is that there was an underlying foundation that was shared by BOTH families. And what that shared culture was, well it trumped everything else. What was it? It was the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was faith in a God who was in fact our Father in Heaven. It was devotion to family, and faith in the goodness of people. It was obedience to a living prophet, and a patient outlook on the work required to raise children. 

So how did that translate into the welding of this new family culture created by Monica and Troy? It meant that Monica had to get used to the man of the house not being gone for basketball games, but gone a bit during hunting season. It meant that Troy had to cut his hunting season short sometimes so he could stay home and help with the kids. 

Apart from the horrible general stereotyping that has happened so far in this little essay, there was the individual personalities and quirks of Monica and Troy, and that’s where it really gets interesting. Because Monica wasn’t just a “Coach’s Daughter”, she was and is a very capable, smart, independent woman. She can do complicated math in her head at the same time she is blazing creative energy into sewing, cooking, or crafts. The girl can’t sit still and she takes no crap! She is generous to a fault, and yet has a hard time disguising her frustrations at self-absorbed or lazy people. THE GIRL GETS IT DONE. 

What about Troy? As you well know, he wasn’t just a “Crazy Hunter”. He was and is a patient and kind man. He built relationships with rough-mouthed construction workers as easily as he did with sports coaches, sanctimonious clergymen, or retail clerks. He started a company by his boundless work ethic, then he made it a thriving business because it became synonymous with integrity and a job well done. Not only did he work his tail off, he still made time to water-ski, snowmobile, dirt-bike, hike, fish, and garden. The man dies at 47 but has left a lifetime of adventures with his wife and kids. That’s because his outdoor lifestyle wasn’t just a man’s club, it included his children and wife as well.

Speaking of children, how could such a macho outdoorsman hold all the tiny hearts in his hands? Babies and little children flocked to Troy. He cuddled and loved on his own kids, and when they grew up he didn’t stop. There was many a church and family function where Troy was swaying a baby, carting around a toddler, or playing with children. He was an expert at playing and he was pure in heart, and children loved him for it. 

For our sister and daughter personally, he was a doting husband. He respected her spitfire while simultaneously tempering it. He adored his children, and allowed them the space to pursue their own unique talents, even if they differed from his own passions. Monica and Troy’s work ethic was only matched by each other. There have been many meals delivered, clothes mended, adventures organized, and literal refuge during other people’s personal life “storms” given freely from Troy and Monica.

Not only did Troy not strike out, but he kept batting home run after home run.

Home run #1 – Jaden Troy Leishman

Home run #2 – Alexis Maryn Leishman

Home run #3 – Danner Wade Leishman

Home run #4 - Sage Christine Leishman, and

Home run #5 – Regan Leishman

These kids were and are a testament to the beauty of Troy and Monica and their life together.

Together, these two were a force to be reckoned with!  It literally took the thrust of a million pounds of snow careening down a mountain to separate them.  Nothing else could have torn them apart.

There again is another trick, but it is the last.  For there is no death, but only change. Troy has taken an unexpected adventure away from his sweet Monica for a time, but he just needed to scout out the place.  He’s finding the perfect spot to set up camp, gathering wood for the fire. In the meantime, there is work for him to do. For although he couldn’t take his gun, his fishing pole, or his snowmobiles with him to the other side, he took what really made him the man he was and is.  He took his testimony, his love of his Savior, and his undying duty and love to his family. He took his joy in the gospel.

That joy remains here with those remaining behind, although in a bittersweet and complicated form.   That joy will at times be shrouded behind sorrow, woven in with fatigue, or twisted in with regret, but it will be there.  There must and should be joy in the life Troy lived, in the love that he gave, and in the generosity he offered to anyone and everyone he met.

Until we meet again dear brother.

Troy's obituary can be viewed here

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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!

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Quiet Giants and Why Feeling Small is Good for the Soul

Back in the 80's when I was a mutt, my parents loaded everyone up and took us to Oregon and Northern California.  It was such a stark contrast to my Idaho and it's own form of beauty.  Luscious, deep, and bursting with life, I fell in love first with the city parks in Oregon.  I remember everyone having lunch in a park in Medford, Oregon, marveling at a bicyle world that I could only dream of as a gutter rider on Apache Avenue.  Hilly parks with paved trails, including bridges for bicycles!  All of this on top of tennis courts, basketball courts, and lots of playground equipment.

It was a trip never to forget, especially because just as we were descending into Redwood Country I got sick and huddled over a barf mug for an entire day.   I up-chucked twelve times.  Twelve times! With each disgusting release of my stomach, I added a tally mark in my head and felt my martyr status grow.

Yet...and yet! I was lost in a marvelous world of trees unfathomable in size.  By day two, I was cured, and happily scurried into the intended frame as viewed by my mother and her silver Minolta camera, capturing everything on Kodak.

And so it was with great anticipation, that I scoured the internet to find a Redwood Grove the little Olsen's could visit on a recent trip to the Sierra Nevada Region of California.  Even in the heart of winter, it did not disappoint.  So we have the Olsen's meet Calaveras Big Trees State Park.

We stayed at Angels Camp, the site of an old gold-miners camp during the Gold Rush.  I checked the weather report for Angels Camp, noted a high of 61 for the day, then promptly tucked away our winter boots.  My little clothes-horse Isaac, the only one with multiple jacket options, was downgraded to his red jacket.  

We drove the short 20 miles to Big Trees Park (near Arnold, California) and found ourselves with snow-packed trails, garnering me the mother of the year award as my little man slowly froze throughout the day.

Fortunately, hats and mittens were in our car still.  Here's Isaac after he inherited mom's mittens and hat.

While much of the summer lushness is gone in winter, I found visiting Calaveras Big Trees State Park in January to be almost perfect.  We practically had the entire trail to ourselves (North Grove Trail) and the combination of green foliage and red trees against a plain white canvas was visually delightful.

White, Green, Brownish-Red.  Downright perfect if you ask me.

This grove is interspersed with pines and cedar, as you can see in the foreground.

The North Grove Trail was a flat 1.5 mile loop that had 26 stops narrated by the park booklet available for 50 cents.  It truly was teaching a lesson about the history of the grove, and inspiring visitors to be better protectors of wild places. 

There was an irony, as I found myself most excited for photo ops at the places where these trees were exploited most.   Here's a few examples:

This is the mack-daddy tree.  It was discovered (white-man discovered) in 1852 and quickly spread through Goldminers Camps and beyond to the east.  A year later, speculators came and chopped the thing down.  It took 21 days with augers and wedges as no saw was big enough, and still then the symmetrical giant didn't fall for a few days.  And yet, it fulfills my curiosity of knowing just how big are these trees? 

After it was felled, they used the stump as a dance stage.  

An early drawing showing the Discovery Tree Stump dance floor. The lithograph caption reads: The Stump and Trunk of the MAMMOTH TREE of Calaveras. Showing a Cotillion Party of Thirty-two Persons Dancing on the Stump at one time.”  Source

Here's Leif, Chloe, and Isaac at differing perspectives, all standing atop the massive "Discovery Stump".

Here's the "Mother of the Forest".  Her bark was harvested in 8 foot sections, in order to be rebuilt in an exhibit in New York and London.  This prompted a growing chorus of outrage, as this thousand-plus year old tree was now defunct in opportunities to carry nutrients and sugar through the structure.

 Near the end of the loop you come to this carved tunnel.  Such a fun photo op right?  This was carved in the 1880's after Yosemite (somewhat close) had carved a similar tunnel and was stealing tourism traffic away from Calaveras.  You can find these sorts of things all over different groves in Northern California.  It is now illegal to do this to these protected trees.

The exploited trees in the grove did meet my needs of curiosity and my pretenses of being a scientist.  Well just how big is it around? (Well step on it, we chopped it down!)  Well, just how tall are they? (We harvested it's bark, come take a look!)  Could you live in it, drive through it, or walk through it? (You bet, we hacked a clearing right through the center!).

With our stopping and learning at each new avenue, it became clear how much kids are sponges.  You have to be careful! They lack maturity to find balance.  Soon I could hear statements like: "Why would they do that to the Mother Tree? Why are people so mean? People are so bad!" until there was a reassurance that the Mother Tree was perhaps content in teaching a lesson, and how there was much excitement and goodness all around.  

Here's some more pictures of our visit.  We stayed about 2 hours, and the kids reactions were exactly what I was hoping for.  Amazement! Magic! Wonder!

Prepare to crank your neck up a lot.  Here's The Mister with sunburst and wonder.

 There's four of us at differing depths of this fallen tree.  Can you find us all?

 Here I am inside the same tree, now I'm looking out to the clan.

 Here is Isaac standing by the plackard showing a picture from this spot 100+ years ago.  Notice the background as dad films brother and sister making their way through the long tunnel.

Below, is a fuller angle of this fallen "Father-of-the-Forest".

These big trees were often named after famous people in the 1800's.  This tree was named "Abraham Lincoln" just after his martyrdom in 1865.  In honor of Abe's #1 fan (Herm-Daddy) and one of the BEST movies of 2012, we though we'd all take a chance to take a picture with ole Abe.

 Starting to get cold.  Hey buddy, we'll go eat some lunch soon!

 Look how he can turn off those waterworks just like that!

 What a handsome boy in his new Christmas coat, mittens, and hat!

Is it legal to put this many pictures on a post!

That's a wrap.  My #1 regret and bit of advice, visit this place with a ball of yarn.  Loop it around one of these trees and cut it.  Place in a jar with some pine needles for a fun memory display.

Adios!

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Garden Tour: Hoser's Garden on the Edge

A few months back there was an article in the local paper about a young couple that just moved to Cache Valley. The young mom had grown up in a big family with a HUGE garden, and she was getting her new garden set up. The article talked about sharing knowledge and produce with neighbors, and I thought to myself: Man, I want to see her yard.




 So I sat down on facebook, tracked her down, and said Hi! Were you just in the paper? I live in ______ and I am trying to become a good gardener. Could I come visit your garden sometime? 


 Two days later she responds: I'm not really comfortable with that. But the USU Extension is a great resource for new gardeners.[insert condescending cheesy smiley face here] Good luck! 


 I'll admit I was a little sad, and embarrassed. I wondered if it was not normal to want to visit people's yards and see their gardens. So I just decided to start some garden tours on the blog for fellow like-minded weirdos. These aren't necessarily garden magazine gardens, but real people, with other lives, and what they're doing with the dirt. They're doing good things with the dirt. So here's my first garden tour. It's the garden of my dad in good old I-dee-ho.

Here's a view from the deck. Lots of intoxicating views of Idaho potato and wheat fields. In the distance, on a clear day, you get a glimpse of the Tetons. Gorgeous! That's just the backdrop to Hoser's dirt patch.

So here's the actual yard. The clean line of the lawn is edged with railroad ties, and then it slopes down down down and gets to the garden. For a good 15 years the slope had wildflowers - daisies, asters, lupine, yarrow, poppies. Sadly, those days are gone, but magic is still happening in the earth below.

uno. Nooooo! Don't take my picture. Can if I want.
 dos. Down the steep path.
 tres. Aspen and pine surround a firepit to the side of the garden.

This is why this garden is lovely. A) Because of lovable little Hoser, Coach, Daddio.  B) It's the untamed slope, meeting the edge of the fields, all teeming with weeds. But his garden path is clear and pure. I love it! It gives me hope that my raspberry patch can be good someday. I threw up my hands when it was surrounded by fields and canals and couldn't keep up.

 When asked why he gardens, my dad just kindof shrugged and said I like to eat corn. Notice the pines and aspen at one end of the garden, with the willow windbreak on the other end. The willows were so thirsty he cut some of them out to help his garden thrive. Oh, and I had to water every damn tree as a punishment for breaking curfew with a boyfriend back in the day. Welcome for the shade everyone. Is anyone reading this? Am I officially making my blog boring? I'm kindof obsessed with gardens right now!

Here lies the major trick with gardening - weed management! Gardens are manageable if you tackle weeds before you start. Compost, manure, tilling - there's lots you can do. So my dad's plot was CLEAN, and his management is EASY. Triangle hoe slices under any seedlings sprouting up. Not many sprouting up because he has a dripline only watering his veggies. Did you know that driplines don't work that well with secondary water? They get clogged up too easily. But when you conserve, you can more readily afford culinary water. That's what's going on here: Driplines with culinary water.

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Anderson Talent: Part II

What with my beached whale status, and the fact that for $7.99 a month I can watch Netflix episodes without even needing a disc...means that I have been in an Apache Avenue Time Warp the past couple of weeks. The Cosby Show People! It was the sitcom of my childhood, and according to some, the sitcom of the century.

But mostly, it's a sitcom about my dad. I have been watching episodes while folding laundry, while doing dishes, and I laugh at Dr. Huxtable and think of my dad. Although I would say my dad is more of a cowboy version of ole Bill, there's the undeniable similarities: the dry sense of humor, the deflection of tension through silliness, the athletic prowess relived through the offspring. There's the interest in your kids lives, the interest in your kids friends, the waiting for the kids friends to get the dad's weird sense of humor.

The loving to hang out on a Friday night in High School with your best friend while your dad lounges out hours of riddles which he will only answer with a yes or no question. What dad is ever cool enough to get their high school offspring (and buddy) to want to hang out with him on a weekend night?

Ummmm, that would be my dad.



This is a picture in the 80's at my Grandparent's 50th Wedding Anniversary. Apparently I'm not the only one who compared my dad to Bill Cosby, because it was at this somewhat formal family event my dad was invited to be the Master of Ceremonies. He was funny. All the grown-ups were comparing him to everyone's favorite funnyman, Bill Cosby, and I heard it often growing up.

So now watching The Cosby Show, I'm not obsessing over what amazing outfit Denise is going to be wearing next. I'm a mother now, and I think of what kind of parent I want to be. The parent I intend to be. And yes, the parent I wish I could be but decide not to be sometimes.

That folks, is talent!

Like American Television searching for "Who's Got Talent", I get caught up and even rightly impressed with busy mothers composing hymns, and people with vocal pipes to light up a stadium, but I'm trying to not forget the network of quiet talents that, like their showy counterparts, require work, discipline, patience, and perseverance. The talents of:
* listening
* forgiving
* laughing
* playing ball
* and filling your punk kid's gas tank every other month just to be nice

These are the talents of my favorite funnyman, my own little Hoser....my dad! (P.S. The gal on the right ain't so bad either)



Here's some awesome memories of my dad that have spawned from the depths of my brain while watching The Cosby Show:

- He taught all of us kids our address and phone number with a little chant we would sing. He also taught us a chant to know what to get when it was our turn to set the table: "Bread-n-butter, Salt-n-pepper, Knives-and-Forks-and Spoons!"

- When I was in Jr. High, the little Siepert kid up the street ended up at our house one day looking for his older brother. My dad joked around with him, probably teased him. The next day, this kid knocked on the door and asked me if my dad could play. No kidding! So cute.

- When my nephew was a baby, he was put down for a nap. My dad stood above the crib and grabbed a children's book and started singing the pages (cool cowboy voice mind you). Pretty soon the kid settled down and all was quiet, but Hoser was gone a long time. When he finally came out, he was asked what took so long? Your grandkid stopped crying a long time ago? My dad simply replied that he had to finish the story (I'm pretty sure he kept singing it too).

- When new friends would come over to my house, they all seemed to be intimidated by my dad. He was a coach, and his humor was dry. Inevitably (especially this happened with friends that were boys) he would sullenly walk up behind them, grab each ear in his hands, and then tilt their head from side to side while making airplane sounds. After 3 rotations, he would start shaking their head (by their ears) and make machine gun sounds. Duh. He was a fighter plane people!

- Speaking of chants. As a coach as a church-owned school, he helped during the summer with boys basketball camps. It was b-ball morning, noon, and night. After meal-time all the boys would fill the gym and get ready for a group stretch. Then Hoser would state they were to stretch while chanting an old Indian saying..."Repeat After Me!"
{Stretch to the right} Oh-wah!
OH-WAH
{Stretch to the left} Tuh-nah!
TUH-NAH
{Reach for the sky} Siam!
SIAM

Repeat 5 times..getting faster each time. Little boys at a church college chanting this over and over? Now that's funny!

- And lastly: A woman turns off the lights to her house. A couple hours later she turns on the news. What she sees on the news makes her kill herself.

What happened and why did she kill herself?

(p.s. in riddles, every detail is significant. Only yes or no questions allowed!)

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Anderson Talent: Part I

There's something to be said about using your childhood years, even into college, to developing your talents. There's no other time to be quite so focused, and even a little selfish. My ma and pa paid for me to take lessons in piano, clogging, gymnastics, and skiing. Later when I played athletics, they paid for volleyball and basketball camps, which weren't cheap. They also watched every single boring game I ever played in (I think my high scoring game in basketball was 6 points. Woo!)



The lessons and hard work during those years helped me play the piano for congregations throughout The South during my missionary service. The tinkering of a few guitar cords from my buddy Kristi helped me woo The Mister of the House with a simple song. The dad as a wise coach, plus the cost of volleyball camps helped me to play with a State Championship Winning Volleyball Team in High School.

So I remember having the very clear thought when I became a wife and mother, that it was now the time to be the beneficiary of those lessons and that season of "developing talents", and that my progression had ceased. Yet I was to be grateful at the same time. Why would I spend $50 a month on guitar lessons when I could use that money for diapers?

I had a good season of talent building, but the transition to mother would mean all resources would now be poured into my offspring.

This was my take on it for many years. But then my little sissy, a mother of three kids and the wife of an overworked medical student, composed a hymn!

She sent it to me to look at and play through. I was blown away! How dare she progress in the piano department when I had become a martyr to my own kids development!

Yet this hymn was the first of many songs she has composed. I love that she is disciplined enough to sit down and do this. I love the creativity she channels, and I love the message of her music.

Recently, her oh-so-proud mother entered her hymn into a showcase event at BYU-Idaho. Though little sis was thousands of miles away, an auditorium of people sang along to the hymn she composed. It's based on Helaman's Stripling Warriors, and is called "Warrior Families".



Anyone wanting a copy of this music, make a comment here and I'll see if the sis can oblige.

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