|Left: Joe & Mom, 2000 |
Right: Rob & Christjen, his son, 1996
Your elevator pitch—tell me, she said. What’s your book about in a 3-4 sentence summation? I didn’t have an answer at the time, but this is what I’ve come up with so far:
Mine is a story of being the second of seven, each born within 9-years, and raised by an impervious single-mom. (That three-tent circus alone might be “worth the price of admission,” as my dear friend Nan would say.) I’ll also revisit the impact of my father’s compulsions, which resulted in unprecedented consequences by way of his genius, albeit deviant, manipulation. And I’ll explore faith vs. folly as they pertain to my mother’s independence, which was often at odds with her installation of the LDS church as patriarch by proxy of our home.
So this blog may be a forum for wordsmithing—pounding out, if you will—some of the memories that are trying to make their way into my book. On top of that, I might stomp in the puddles of parenting, wrestle in the reeds of politics, or sit on the dock musing over the inner-workings of the universe. Whatever I’m writing, this blog is my pond to play in, and you’re welcome to swing by for a friendly splash.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Thursday, December 10, 2015
At the age of two, she put puzzles together “brown-side” up and sorted Legos by color and size. She would line them up, end-to-end. It was a serious process for her. When she was tired, she would sit near her crib, blanket in hand, and quietly wait for someone to notice. She’s a brilliant kid. And not the least bit socially awkward. (At least not from my perspective.) And then she shared this:
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. My haven. My sanctuary between early morning seminary and the first bell.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the red lights amidst darkness that hid tears of break-ups and hurt feelings. For the scent of developer that overpowered any indication of nervous pheromones.
Prayer of thanks for Mr. Moore, who whispered when he “had enough” of rowdy boys who played air guitar. Who whispered when lessons had to be repeated, and when students arrived late. Who whispered anytime anybody else would have lost his shit.
Prayer of thanks for the one day I heard him raise his voice in response to hearing me say, “I hate my father.” A statement to which he refused to stay silent.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room and its lifeline. When cell phones weren’t yet imagined and private calls were hard to carry-on at home.
Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the color darkroom—where forbidden kisses were at times given freely, and other times stolen.