Happy Thanks-iversary

Fourteen years ago tonight I crawled into a hotel bed with my soon-to-be mother-in-law. I must have eventually made some sort of bargain with sleep to rush me into the next day. It would be the day after Thanksgiving- the day I would marry Wesley Johnson in the Seattle LDS temple.

November 26, 1999

Oh, how I treasure my friendship with Wes!

Today, I am especially grateful for our marriage covenants, personal revelation, and the gospel that binds us together.

I am grateful for my husband's kindness to me. He has ALWAYS treated me respectfully. He encourages me and supports me in my aspirations.

Neither of us is perfect and so tonight I am grateful that he has always been the first to apologize- whether or not he is wrong. I am grateful for forgiveness.

I am grateful for the opportunities to grow and mature together as we've recognized the Lord's tender mercies during difficult times.

I am grateful for my husband's faith and his desire to always do Heavenly Father's will, even when that requires some bending on his part.

His desire to understand ME rather than jam me into some preconceived ideal was perhaps one of the things that first drew me to Wes. I am grateful for his devotion to meeting my needs, often at the expense of meeting his own.

I am grateful for the five incredibly special children who have truly blessed our marriage and that everyday they see how much their parents are still completely in love with each other. 

Happy Anniversary, my dear friend, Wes. This Thanksgiving, as always, I am thankful for YOU.

Moroni's Weakness

One hundred posts a year--I think it's a good goal. It allows me just enough time to record to our family's history and still not take too much away from me actually TAKING PART in that history. It does, however, make for some late nights here and there. But I don't mind that too much. The time to ponder our daily life together has taught me a lot. It's amazing how much the seemingly mundane can mean when I take time to relive it late at night on my keyboard.

I love this talk I dug out of the internet last month by a younger John H. Groberg. And in particular I love these words:

There is something eternal in the very nature of writing, as is so graphically illustrated by the scriptures themselves. In a very real sense, our properly written histories are a very important part of our family scripture and become a great source of spiritual strength to us and to our posterity.

Wow.

Sometimes I wish I were the spectacular photographer that I see in some of my friends. But that's just not me--at least not now. As long as I don't scroll too far into my camera's function menu, I've gotten rather comfortable with my trusty point-and-shoot. I love sifting through the gazillions of photos I take each week, flagging the good ones, and sifting some more--then combining those that make the cut with just the right words to create a usable family history.

And then there is the issue of my grammar. I know. It's so bad sometimes!

But if you would have overheard the conversation I had with my seventh grade teacher years ago, perhaps you'd have some sympathy:

"So when are we going to learn grammar? You know," I went on, "...sentence diagramming and stuff."

"Oh, specific grammar instruction is not part of our curriculum," she explained. "We're just supposed to teach it when it comes up."

Fantastic. No small miracle how I got that academic scholarship to college and survived English 101.

At the same time, I accept full responsibility for all my typos and misplaced semi-colons. How many people attempt semi-colons these days anyway? It's a conscious choice to swallow the perfectionist in me and publish some things that could be better in favor of more time to make memories with my family. Cop-out? Perhaps, but they are, after all, the fodder for everything I write.

My thoughts echo those of Moroni, an ancient prophet in the Book of Mormon who conversed with the Lord about his own weakness in writing (see Ether 12:23-27). What if the generations to come would only mock what he wrote and never appreciate the real worth of what he recorded?

Of course, I'm not comparing myself to Moroni, but his concern definitely resonates with me.

Here's hoping the Lord can make something of my own imperfections for the good of my family and perhaps a few others along the way.

A Change in Seasons

During the summer, leafy maples and alders fill in the spaces of our towering evergreen forest. From my window the lushness is impenetrable. Beautiful.

But now--somehow--it is November and the mountains have reached through the last of the falling leaves to find our house.

The change is not necessarily for the better or worse, but the view of those majestic peaks is welcome.

There are times when I find old photos of Beau and moments gone by reach through the lushness of thirteen years to embrace me.

And now--somehow--he is a teenager.

Earlier this week I waited for him as a sea of colossal eighth graders spilled out the front of the school. Beau's 5'3" frame emerged and climbed into the front seat. His friend, Daniel found the back seat.

"So Daniel," Beau began, "where are you going trick-or-treating this year?"

"Oh...um...I'm not going this year."

"What? Why not?" 

"I'm kind of getting a little too old for that."

I watched it happen in my peripheral vision. This was the same boy who we had to finally sit down in the fifth grade for a very frank conversation about Santa Claus.

No clue, I tell you.

And now clearly he was completely oblivious to the thought that someday he just might be too old to trick-or-treat.

The transition over the next two days was interesting.

He asked another friend, Tyler, "are you going trick-or-treating this year?" 

"Nah."

He called Jaxon. "What are you doing for Halloween this year?"

By now his tone had changed from the thrill of dressing-up and petitioning kind strangers for candy to a more socially aware exploration of the alternatives.

He ended up spending Hallowen "hanging out" at Jaxon's house with Daniel and Tanner--all good boys.

So this was the year. At thirteen, Beau shrugged off trick-or-treating like it was last year's too-small-coat. 

Another change in seasons for my first-born.

I Thought I Loved You Then

"Do you want to listen to something?'

It had been quiet ever since we both sat down at our desks ten minutes earlier. We share an office, my desk facing one wall and his another. In the evenings, after the kids are all in bed, it is our retreat--nothing but the two of us tapping away at our keyboards.

"Yeah," I replied in perfect confidence, knowing my husband's taste in music mirrors closely my own.

He snickered as The Hamster Dance rudely interrupted the peaceful ambiance I crave after 9 pm.

"Uh...NO thank you."

I can always count on Wes to make me laugh at some point in the evening.

Within a few minutes he found something perfect on Spotify.

"Ooooh. This is nice," I said, recognizing the instrumental version of a song by The Fray.

More tapping on the keyboard.

"This is something you might hear in an elevator," I said. "You know, the easy-going instrumental version of a popular song."

Silence.

"We just made elevator music our listening choice for the evening," I continued.  "I think that makes us old."

Truth be told, I love growing "old" with Wes.

A few weeks ago we showed our kids some YouTube videos of people running the Snake River. It brought back memories for both of us of falling in love in between our own river runs.

That night, in the the family room, ten wide eyes stared up at us, captivated by the stories of the younger versions of their mom and dad.

There's nothing quite like remembering that time when we were just beginning to define our lives by the other's presence. Each of us laying awake at night, wondering if the other could possibly feel the same way. Hoping the time apart, before we could see each other again, would pass quickly. Starting to picture the rest of our lives together.

All that is young love wells up in my heart again--only it's layered, compounded by fourteen years of complete emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual intimacy. A feeling hardly captured with a cliche, "I thought I loved you then."

And I know we're not ancient. But fourteen years of the kind of closeness marriage can foster makes me feel "old" in a good way.

The other day I sat in my car, bawling my eyes out as I listened to Fred's story of Sweet Lorriane on NPR. Have you heard the song he composed for his wife of 73 years?

Again, "I thought I loved you then," just isn't adequate.

How grateful I am for the covenants we have made in the Lord's temple. To know that though we grow old together and one day death will take us, we will be together again. Eternal marriage is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father, made possible through the Atonement of His son, Jesus Christ.

For more information on LDS temples and eternal marriage, go here and here.

A Spider, a Thief, and a Marriage

I'm still trying to figure out this whole blogging thing. It's been, what? Eight months since I left my comfortable seat along the blogosphere wall and joined the dance? And since becoming a contributor for Mormon Mommy Blogs earlier this summer, I'm now trying to figure out which posts to publish on MMB and which are better suited for Five in the Foothills. I think I'm working it out okay, but occasionally I feel like my dance card is double-booked. 

Below is a reposting of one of my first MMB articles (go here for the original post), including the same freaky photo that still makes my skin crawl...

Photo credit: Amy Selleck

"RAAAAAAHHHH!!!"

It was definitely a battle-cry, but what kind of war could he possibly be waging up there?

I heard the the toilet flush and then saw him at the top of the stairs; my husband was flexing his biceps and trying not to smile. His eyes glimmered with accomplishment.

I smiled back in complete understanding. "You just killed a spider, didn't you?"

If by divine design...fathers are responsible to provide... protection for their families, well...when it came to spiders Wes was still working on it.

It was only a few months later, though, when he would stand to protect his family from much more than an eight-legged pest.

Every moment of that night is still vivid in my mind. It was sometime around 2 AM when I woke up with the feeling that something was wrong. I got out of bed to check on Beau, who at the time was our only child. His body was sprawled out on top of his bed and yes, his chest was rising and falling in rhythm with his breathing. I went back to bed.

But I still couldn't sleep. Not knowing what else to do with the growing pit in the bottom of my stomach, I crossed the hall again, scooped up Beau, and carried him back to our bed.

Wes normally sleeps like a rock, but by this time he was fully alert to my anxiety. Finally, I had the distinct impression that someone was lurking around downstairs. No noise. Just an undeniably clear impression. With decision in my hushed voice, I turned to Wes:

"Someone is in our house!"

He stood to act on my prompting immediately, calling out from the top of the stairs and demanding that the possible intruder leave. It was then that we heard an object drop and the intruder make his exit.

Over the years, this experience has become more than just a scary story to retell around the campfire. As we continue to reflect on the events of that night, we are first and most importantly grateful for the Lord's hand in protecting our family. We are also reminded that there is no competition between whose role is more important in our marriage. It was Wes who stood to protect our family that night, but not without my intuition.

On those days when my husband drags through the door after working a 12-hour shift only to be greeted by a disheveled wife with peanut butter in her hair, a half-naked screaming toddler in her arms, and ANOTHER six loads of laundry at her feet, any argument over whose role is more important is just not helpful.

Marriage is not a competition. 

Both my husband and I continue to make unique and equally vital contributions to the success of our family.

150 Mile Summer- Part 2

Hiking Tip #1: Being chased by a pack of ankle-biting zombies can be highly motivating. 

As our family has hiked deep into the Cascade mountains, we've found that packing plenty of snacks, donning imaginary "flying shoes," and yes, a good game of zombie tag all help to subdue the waning enthusiasm that inevitably kicks in somewhere around mile two. When all else fails, three-minute piggyback rides come in pretty handy, too.

Surprisingly nobody ever wants to be left behind on our next hike.

Some of our little hikers are better accessorized than others.

Taking a break along the Denny Creek Trail.

Hiking Tip #2: Planning day hikes along rivers where the kids can swim, climb waterfalls, and skip rocks is the way to go.

Keekwulee Falls

Nothing like a well-skipped rock along the Cooper River to put a smile on this boy.

Which is exactly what we had in mind when we tried to find an old trail that we had hiked with a much younger Beau over ten years ago.

As our memories helped navigate our way closer to the trailhead, we remembered the beautiful drive along the Skykomish River. Through the trees we caught glimpses of the sunlight as it danced playfully along the same current my husband, Wes, kayaked years before.

Then, about five miles down the road, we stopped the car.

Because we came across something we did NOT remember.

I think it might be a while before we ever hike Troublesome Creek trail again. Or even GET TO the trailhead.

Hiking Tip #3: Be prepared to enjoy a spontaneous change of plans.

Thirty miles left to go of our 150 mile summer.

Celebrating Lyla

The contractions were coming right on top of each other and my epidural was only slightly successful at mediating their intensity. Lyla's heartbeat was dropping fast and she wasn't making any progress toward the outside world.

Childbirth had always been the easy part of pregnancy for me. As I carried each of my babies, I became far too familiar with the smell of my toilet bowl, dehydration, and hardened veins from all the IVs. This last pregnancy was the worst of all of them, perhaps because of my age, or the fact that my body had gone through such extreme sickness so many times already. Probably it had something to do with both.

But that last nine months had also been sweetened by an outpouring of compassionate service from friends and neighbors. As I lay on the couch, half-aware from all the medications, the women from church made sure my family continued to eat. They brought meals 3-4 times a week, making sure there were enough leftovers to get us through. My children had play dates and rides to and from school. I had rides to and from the hospital twice a week. And more than a few times, someone showed up on my doorstep with rubber gloves and scrub brushes. Yes, I even had clean toilets to throw up in.

We will ever be grateful for the sacrifice and loving watch-care of so many good, good people.

We were taken care of.

And then there was no heartbeat. Another contraction. Still no heartbeat. No stranger to delivery room dynamics, I immediately recognized the change of atmosphere. My doctor's smile faded into pure concentration. The NICU team arrived. And the cheerleading efforts of one or two encouraging nurses expanded into an entire squad of scrubs and white coats, focused only on the very clear instructions given when something is wrong.

The thought that I might not get to meet this one gripped me, became tangible. I felt desperately powerless. 

So I prayed. I mean EVERYTHING in me prayed. Because at that point it was the ONLY thing I could do.

I heard the doctor call for forceps, then felt my baby being yanked out of my body. 

The unwinding began. Her umbilical cord was wrapped twice around her neck, then around her waist, and her feet, and then her neck again. With each contraction as Lyla had descended out of my pelvis, the cord that had once sustained her was pulling tighter and tighter around her tiny six-pound body.

Up, Over, Around. Up, Over, Around. The doctor and nurses worked quickly to free my baby from her full-body noose.

Tears streamed down my face as Lyla took her first breaths.

Adoring smiles returned to the faces around me. Everything was right again. Peaceful.

Once again able to turn his attention to me, my doctor confessed, "In all my years of delivering babies, I've never seen an umbilical cord nearly that long."

But I was only half-listening. Now looking deeply into those precious little black eyes, I thanked my Heavenly Father for the chance to feel Lyla's chest rise and fall against my own. 

And as we celebrated her third birthday today, I thanked him again.

150 Mile Summer (Part 1)

It was sometime around May when the conversation started.

"So, what are we going to DO this summer?"

Well, sleep in, for starters. That one scored pretty high on everyone's list...except for Lyla's. Unfortunately two-year-olds just don't see the appeal.

But after everyone in the house eventually rolled out was dragged out of bed, we could head to the library and gorge ourselves on good books of all sorts.

We would take trips to the Zoo and visit local museums. We would play at the beach, build our giant slip and slide, and get together with friends.

And, of course, we would hike. 100 miles? Too easy. 200 miles? A bit of a stretch with everything else we had planned. But everyone agreed 150 miles this summer was a manageable goal.

Because my children are suckers for checklists and progress charts, Sophia decided to make a poster.

In June we hiked to the top of Cedar Butte. Halle was particularly excited to reach the top and find what her mom and older sister had come home laughing about last year. What six-year-old wouldn't look forward to reading "Ceder Butt" on an official geographical marker?

We hiked to the top of Little Si.

And the kids all joined the polar bear club with their Dad at Talapus Lake. I'm sure it was refreshing after the two mile climb in 80 degree weather, but I chose to stand back and take photos. My husband was not surprised. He knows the only time I have ever jumped into an alpine lake was while we were dating. And the more I tell that story to my kids, the more sheets of floating ice appear in the climax. Yes, I liked him that much.

And I sure do like all these little hiking buddies we've created!

Truth and Tears at Jell-O's funeral

The small pile of dark brown earth stood out among all the deep green foliage.

Tears formed in my eyes. And when they threatened to spill over I fought desperately to discreetly wipe them away. Would my husband ever let me live this down? Crying at the funeral of my children's smelly pet hamster they so classily named Jell-O?

Wasn't it bad enough that we were having a funeral for a rodent?!? And that the melodious strains of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Consider the Lilies poured forth from my husband's iPhone?

Really???

But I was so touched.

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."

The familiar refrain echoed in my thoughts.

Not only did I feel that Heavenly Father created and loved this pitiful little creature, but also that he was keenly aware of each of us standing in that circle.

And that, like Jell-O, we would someday each pass out of mortality.

"But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ."

As I stood there considering the doctrines of the atonement, the resurrection, and eternal families, the beauty and vastness of the plan of salvation overwhelmed me.

I rejoiced knowing that if circumstances were different, if we were gathered with tear-stained cheeks around one of our own sweet family members, it would not be the end.

A loving Heavenly Father has provided a way that his children may share in his eternal happiness both in this life and the life to come...as families!

With my husband's "amen" my children each tossed their wildflowers on top of the little shoebox. Wes turned to look at me, his face a reflection of my own. The tears rolling down his cheeks revealed our common experience. And we both smiled, then shrugged as if to say to each other, "Really? Here at the funeral of a rodent?!?

Two years have come and gone and the tiny grave remains a hallowed spot in the corner of our property. It serves as a reminder of the truths that the spirit etched into our hearts that day.

Through Christ's atonement there will be a resurrection and families can be together forever.

photo of hamster by turquoise field

Garden Gone Gangbusters

Sometimes I get carried away fretting over the two additional rows of corn that I didn't get planted. Or the five blueberry bushes that were supposed to be nine by this summer. Or when the next load of free wood chips will be delivered so I can keep this cursed Curly Dock under control.

Lyla watering

And then I remember the REAL reason I planted this garden in the first place.

Of course, I'm not exactly a reluctant gardener. I LOVE growing my own food.

When I was a teenager my neighbor had a small stock pile of half-dead nursery plants under his back deck. I'm pretty sure they were the remnants of a failed business venture. Among those plants were a few blueberry bushes. Something lit up inside me when he said I could have them. Really, these things were just pitiful. If not already dead, they certainly weren't far from plant heaven.

I dug a few shallow holes into the packed Georgia red clay and plopped my soon-to-be miracles in the ground. Surely, I had the magic touch and could rescue these precious blueberry bushes. Needless to say, I never tasted any of those much-anticipated berries.

As a newlywed living on campus at the University of Washington, I tried to keep tomato plants alive on the small patio sandwiched between the apartments on either side of us. And I was mildly successful...until the raccoons discovered them.

When we lived in Michigan, again in student housing, we rented a 10x10 garden plot about 1/4 mile from our townhouse. In Michigan you just have to think about growing food and it will grow. But I was pregnant and sick for much of our gardening time there. The broccoli went to seed and the strawberries got mushy before we ever even noticed them.

When it came time to actually buy a house in Washington we looked for acreage. I wanted my children to understand that food didn't come from Costco. I wanted them to learn to subdue the earth and pray for a good harvest. And yes, have ample opportunity for REAL chores. Chores that if not done, held REAL consequences. When the chickens don't get fed they don't produce any eggs. When the bedding in the goat barn stays nasty for long enough the goats get sick.

I'm still holding out for chickens next summer, and maybe goats the summer after that, but as my neighbor puts it, "I went gangbusters"  with the garden.

I admit I've never heard that phrase before, but I guess I know what it looks like and love what it means for my children.

Halle harvesting

Why Mom Doesn't Freak Out These Days

"Oh, okay. For the third time this week, you're not going to stay buckled in your carseat as I'm barreling down the interstate at 70 mph?"

After five kids, I've logged countless hours waiting on the side of the road for someone to get buckled. Bring it.

Resourceful child.

But there was a time when I would have been in tears over this. In knots over whether or not I was handling the situation the right way. The subject would have animated multiple discussions with the rest of the 10 A.M. new-mommy stroller brigade as we dominated the sidewalks of Seattle's north-end.

The experience of raising five children, though, has smoothed out much of the rough surface of my parental anxiety, polishing it instead with at least a bit more wisdom about how much to worry or whether or not to worry at all.

Take, for example my nearly three-year-old daughter who has been talking intelligibly for over a year now, but suddenly slips into gibberish over lunch. Six years ago I was fretting over Sophia doing the same thing. It's like some sort of made-up language they expect the real world to find absolutely charming. Just talk normal, already! Which at ten-years-old, Sophia does now quite successfully, using her impressive rhetorical tactics to draw out a late night shoulder rub from even the most exhausted parent.

At ten-years-old, Sophia can't get enough real words- or Nutella.

So now when three feet of babbling beauty beseeches me from across the table, I exaggerate my amusement with a giggle and then non-chalantly take another bite of my grilled cheese sandwich. Lyla can be so silly.

Or how 'bout the fact that on Sunday morning I adorn Lyla in the sweetest pink floral dress, brush her tangled hair, and pull it back into two perfect pig tails on either side of her head. An hour later she smiles back from the end of the church pew, wearing an additional sweatshirt and an orange and blue chevron headband over her one remaining pig tail. Yep. Sophia did this, too. And she now has her own sense of style and wears it well. It eventually all came together for her and I no longer worry how she walks out the door.

So with my fourth child, Halle? I don't even blink an eye when I drop her off at kindergarten wearing pink and orange plaid shorts, a long-sleeved purple shirt, and yellow boots. 

"And that green ribbon you saved from last year's Christmas package that's tied hippie-style around your head? You're rockin' that, too, Baby Girl!"

Then there's Beau, my first-born. Back then I was worried that the thirty minutes of red-faced hunger-screaming from his infant carseat- when my husband just wanted to get there- would damage him for life. And I don't know, maybe it did. But he seems to be getting along okay these days.

Beau getting a laugh out of his brother.

And I guess that's the point.

Five children later and an increased scope for what's going to matter down the road, allows me to face parenting with a little less anxiety and a bit more acceptance. Stuff passes, most of the time leaving us unscathed, whether I freak out over it or not. So while my children still aren't allowed to run with sticks (more on that experience later), I relax about a whole lot more these days.

Moclips- Part 1

Sophia had been dutifully freezing and crushing leaf lettuce for the last week. The little tadpole in the open container on her windowsill certainly wouldn't die of starvation. She had watched two legs become four and was anxiously awaiting the day when his tail would fall off. Of course, that was when she was planning to use a lid. 

It was in the rush of packing up for our last-minute trip to the beach that I heard the loud yell.

  

"My tadpole is missing!" He's gone and

I can't find him anywhere!"

Her room quickly crowded with bodies large and small as everyone joined in the search. How far could he have gotten? And why did he have to jump in the middle of our hectic push to get on the road?! We were still asking ourselves these questions two hours later as we piled into the car.

It was a typical road trip for our family. Cries of 

"She's doing it on purpose!"

and

"He's looking at me!"

were quickly interrupted by incoming snacks. No one wanted to miss what Mom was tossing from the front seat. M&Ms maybe? Or some other usually forbidden box of preservative-laden crackers? I was in vacation-mode. Hey man, WHATEVER it takes!

When we arrived at the beach house, the kids all but dropped their stuff and ran for the beach.

Where they spent a LONG time

 digging in the sand

 and basking in the sun.

Eventually, when only their silhouettes danced before me in the sinking sun, we headed back inside.

It was not as nice as the beach house we stayed in last time, but it was also a far cry from the nightmare of 2010 when Wes and I had left the kids with a babysitter and hit the road for two days.

A charming historic hotel in downtown Anacordes welcomed us on the first night of our getaway. The concert just outside our second story window was loud enough to drift through the thin walls and tone down the slightly upscale ambiance.

The next day's agenda included boarding a ferry to Port Townsend and meandering south toward Ocean Shores. It was the height of Twilight mania and we gawked as we drove by the mob of teenage girls clambering around the "Welcome to Forks" sign. Two stoplights later, the tiny logging town with its hosts of vampire groupies was behind us.

The beaches in Lapush, however, were well-worth lingering to watch the setting sun glimmering on the ocean. (I wish I could find those photos.)

It was sometime around 11:00 pm when we finished up a mediocre dinner in Ocean Shores and drove over to- what was it called? Oh yes, the Sand Flea Hotel. Or something like that. Wes checked in and we headed to our room. Wary of the characters drooping over the balcony outside our door, we should have turned right around and handed the key back to the manager. But we didn't. We swallowed hard and unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal something out of the 1960s. And NOT the trendy vintage look, either. Cobwebs draped the extra-furry moose head hanging on the wall. The dim lighting merely shrugged at the darkly paneled walls and brown carpet.

It was while listening to the guests in the neighboring room that I checked out the bathroom. Fantastic! Hair in the tub. Wes feigned getting comfortable with the surroundings. If he didn't say it, I saw him think it: "Okay. We can do this. All these other people around us are doing it. It's just one night and this is the last room in town." I raised my eyebrows as he gingerly sat on the edge of the chair beneath the moose.

"Uhhhhh...you're really going to sit down on that?"

I walked over to the bed and pinched as little fabric as possible between my two fingers. Pulling the covers back revealed scattered grains of sand on a pilled, slightly stained sheet.

"Oh, I'm out."

Wes hastily added a "me, too" and we quickly grabbed our bags.

The manager gave Wes an understanding look as he refunded our money and we hit the road again. We drove halfway home that night before stopping at 2 am in a suburb of Olympia.

So the weathered blue beach house this time around was FINE BY ME.

Little White Truck

Wes and I had just finished spreading around two yards of mulch and despite the ominous skies, it was time for another load.

As hail started pelting our windshield, I remembered driving through another hail storm in this same little white truck.  It was fourteen years earlier and the truck still belonged to Wes's step-dad, Dave.  Wes and I were dating and were on a fantastic road trip across the northwest.

It was while driving through Montana that the almost baseball-sized hail started pounding the windshield.  I had NEVER seen hail that size before!  We navigated the rest of the northwest with a huge crack across the entire windshield.

We were so grateful, when a few years ago, Dave gifted us the little white truck before he moved out of the country.  It's 21 years old now and wrapped up in many more of our family memories.

Kids unloading gravel into our fire pit area.

A rich, organic aroma greeted us as we pulled into the mulch yard.  We parked the truck between several towering mounds of mulch and walked into the small business office.
"Do you think I could throw another 1/2 yard on top of what I did last time?" Wes asked the young woman behind the counter.
"Ummmmmm.....,"  she stalled, "well....it was kind of....mounded when you drove away last time."
Ha!  I would later joke with Wes that she could have said, "Ummmmmmm.......well....your truck is kind of...small." But she didn't.
He went for the extra 1/2 yard anyway and as we drove home on strained u-joints, Wes quipped that REAL MEN don't need big trucks.