Friday, November 23, 2012


Yesterday I played with a football (the American kind). No, I certainly didn't play football. I played with that football and had no idea what I was doing.

And I played sausage. All you say is sausage. Someone tries to make you laugh.
"How do you get your hair like that?"
"And those strange lumps?"
"Moriarty isn't a man, he's a..."

I also played Moods.

Good times with family. And alone.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Memoir Time

 Winter has come to Utah, (but soon will be gone) and snow covers the ground. This time of year always gets me thinking about one of my first experiences with snow . . .

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named me. Both my mother and father had a job, so since I was not yet in school, I would go to daycare every day. In the fall we would play on the playground, and on special days in October or November, the adults would rake up the leaves from the great big trees outside into a great big pile, and the children would take turns jumping into the pile. Being but wee lads and lassies, the pile seemed all the larger to the us, and it was great fun for all.

But when all the leaves had fallen, been raked, jumped in, and disposed of, autumn came to a close and winter arrived. And with it came snow. I was but three or four years old, and snow was a wonderful thing, a thing of which I had little recollection. On the first day of daycare and snow, I couldn't wait to play outside. All of the children were restless, and when we got the opportunity to play outside, we all ran out to turn a smooth white blanket into something not so smooth. (yeah, I don't know what to do with that sentence)

Though this seemed my first experience with snow, I was glad to have an all-knowing and wise sister of five or six years old who, before going to school that morning, had taught me how to make a snow-angel. I made snow angels all over that lawn, or at least three. After our recess was over, the children went inside to stop snow off of boots and remove coats. I didn't have any snow-pants and my regular pants were soaked, but I didn't care. I had had some amazing fun, and I regretted nothing. But  then the lady who ran the daycare, Mrs. Incharge, I shall call her, came up to me.

"Your pants are soaking!" She said.

I looked at my pants. Yes, they were.

"You look like you've wet your pants."

(I can't remember if that's actually what she said, but it was something along those lines, and typing it up, I see that that was an extremely immature thing for Mrs. Incharge to say)

Being three, I was recently potty-trained, and I quite resented that statement. I had been working hard, and did not deserve to be accused of something I didn't do. I was downright offended! I explained to her that I had been playing in the snow, and it was water, not pee, covering my pants. I was insistent that she understand that I was perfectly continent. She knew I was wet because of the snow, but she kept saying that I looked like I had peed my pants, and if I wanted to play in the snow I had to wear snow-pants.

Thus ends the tale of why I wear snow-pants.