The Mystery That Is Man

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I've updated this post for our grandson Malachi.
He was over again today on one of his countless rescue missions in this now all-female household.
This time it was to fell an errant tree in the backyard that was in danger of doing damage.

As he headed his Eagle Scout self out back, he was armed.
Carrying a huge ladder and many sharp objects, including a fierce ax, he strode past me muttering enthusiastically about different ways to start a fire to burn the mountain of tree debris. Apparently green wood may need encouragement.

I listened in increasing alarm.

He mentioned that reinforcements had been called in to assist. His cousin and my nephew, Ivan, another male, is thankfully always willing to help us too. Mal thought that maybe he'd have some good ideas about that burning thing.

I was suddenly struck down by a wave of deja-vu.  "There it is," I thought.  "All over again, as they say."

Then from inside my head came a shout, "This kid reminds me of his grandfather!"

So, here's to you, Malachi.
And thank you so very much for taking such good care of us.
We never would have made it through the last year without you.



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I may have shared this with you before but my memory is like a sieve now. Anyway, this subject's been on my mind lately.
The subject of men that is.
Or more precisely the mystery of the male animal.
You'd think that since I've been married for half a century, and all that time to a man, and because I’m not a stupid woman, some kind of insight concerning male thinking would naturally develop.
Sadly you’d be wrong.

This "man pondering" was brought on by our gorgeous desert fall weather, by the way.
Let me explain.

It’s planting time down here in our sunny valley.
Other folks in the northern hemisphere may be putting up storm windows and shoveling flakes but I’ve been keeping a sharp lookout at the big box stores for the first six packs of flowering annuals.
I nearly shouted with glee the other day when I scored some Johnny-jump ups.
I swear they looked like little purple and yellow giggles bobbing in the breeze….you couldn’t help but smile.

I even managed to get them planted in the back patio pots all by myself.
Grandkids had previously lugged the heavy bags of potting soil and filled them for me.
I snuck them in among the petunias, geraniums and dianthus already getting started.

Then as I surveyed my work my eyes cast over our entire backyard.
When we moved here years ago there wasn’t a green growing thing anywhere.
A few dried tumbleweeds had blown into the corners of the block fence, the only sign of life to be found.
So we planted trees and shrubs galore, hoping for shade from the relentless desert sun among other things.

As I looked around I realized how wildly successful we’d been.
In addition to what we’d planted on purpose there’d been a couple of volunteers now grown to huge trees. One mesquite will soon reach above the house.

In fact, it’s kind of a jungle out here now.
Something will need to be done, I worried.
Then my eyes fell on a bare spot along the fence. Once I’d planted a beautiful “String of Pearls” bouganvillia there but it didn’t make it.
I remembered the day I found out why.
It was one of those “the mystery that is man” days.

It was the first February we’d lived here. All our plantings were still new and tentative looking.
All except the weeds that were coming up in a solid carpet of green where nothing but dirt had been when we moved in.
Somehow the winter rains had magically found weed seeds waiting for moisture.
Nature’s miracle had happened in our own backyard. Front yard too, actually.

Well, the miracle must be stopped.
And it must be stopped right away because the homeowners association would send us an ugly letter if weeds were spotted from the street.
Don’t get me wrong. We’re actually grateful for our HO. It protects the neighborhood property values from people like us.

So Larry was put in charge of getting rid of the weeds.
I didn’t even have to nag him because he’s afraid of the Homeowners Ass. (As he fondly calls it.)
I was thinking some kind of herbicide spray would do the trick. And maybe some pulling.
But then I was not Larry, who is a man.

The first thought that came to his mind when given the task of weed removal was to build a contraption out of a two wheeled dolly (that thing you move heavy appliances with), a long sprayer device, and a propane tank from the barbeque filled with explosives.
This wouldn’t have occurred to me.
His invention shot fire out the end of the sprayer and made a terrifying blasting, whoosing noise like a hot air balloon being filled before liftoff. A neighbor actually called.
He drug it along behind him as he went from weed to weed incinerating it. It left awful black burn marks all over the yard and caused dogs to bark from blocks away.
It was horrible.

One day our daughter and son-in-law came over when Larry was “weeding,” as he now loved to do.
Scott, who is also a man, thought this remarkable invention was a stroke of genius and asked to borrow it for their yard.
I joyfully convinced Larry that he needed to share. It made him sad but he agreed.

A couple of days later I got a frantic call from Kim.
“Ma, tell Dad to come get his fire blower. Scott is burning up the whole yard and black splotches are everywhere. Today I caught the boys looking at it and I know they were trying to figure out how it works. That thing is dangerous! Get him over here quick before someone gets hurt!”

I did notice that none of their five daughters were reported to have tried to figure out how it worked.
Only the males who would one day become men.
Apparently this thing starts early.

Anyway, a few weeks later Larry and I were again out in the yard working when I noticed my lovely “String of Pearls” bouganvillia over along the fence. This variety was a hard to find delicate pinkish white. I was anxious to see it in color.
To my great dismay it looked sick. In fact it looked dead.
I said to my dear husband, “Oh no…..look at my bouganvillia! And it was doing so well!

Larry stopped what he was doing and gazed across the yard to my poor plant.
“That’s too bad, Hon.” he said in a sympathetic tone.
He stopped to stare quietly for a minute and then remarked, “I think it must get too hot over there by the fence.”

“Too hot!” I cried. No, that can’t be it. Bouganvillia love the heat.”
I walked sadly over to investigate.
There among the black scorch marks on the ground were poking the charred roots of my once promising plant.

I turned and sent an accusing look over at my husband.

He actually said without shame, “Look….there’re no weeds around it.”

This whole thing got me to thinking about the scriptures.
Specifically about Adam in the garden of Eden. As I recall it tells about a time when Adam was left alone there.
Father looked down on him and said something like…….
“Will you look at that. There’s Adam all alone in the garden. Well, that certainly is NOT good!"

I think He may have added, "Good grief he needs help! Quick, hurry and get a woman or there’s no telling what will happen.”
Perhaps there wasn't room to include everything.

And so woman was put on the earth.
If you think about this even a little you’ll realize that one of the divine purposes of woman’s existence is to stop men from doing all the crazy stuff they want to do.
You can read all about it in the Old Testament.
You’ll notice that there’s no mention of Adam making a fire blowing weed killer.
Thank you Eve.

It’s amazing to me how the scriptures, most of them written long ago, still apply to our lives today.
I guess some things never change, do they?

A Woman’s Got To Do What A Woman’s Got To Do Too

*Something reminded me of this old story just the other day. 
  I think it was our grandson, who is now a man.



I've been married a long time.
I don’t know why but for some reason this makes people think I know certain things.
Let me assure you, they are mistaken.
I know nothing.

Still, just the other day a young woman asked me about the secret of a long marriage.
I thought hard and replied, “Just don’t get a divorce.”  
One of the Prophets said something like that I think. Maybe President Kimball.
Anyway, even if he didn't, it’s true.
Tomorrow is often a different day.

I thought about this some more and then remembered that I did know one important thing. 
“Oh wait!" I said to my young friend, "I almost forgot. You’ll be needing a strong defense if you marry a man.”

She said, “A strong defense? Why?” 

“For use when a man’s just got to do what a man’s got to do.” I replied.

To give just one example, the man that I’m currently married to tries to injure himself just so that I’ll get upset and worry about him.  
I’m not joking.  I think it’s one of those guy things.
I've noticed that women seldom do this because it’s dumb and just doesn't make sense.

I especially remember one little scenario that happened regularly in the winter when we were living in the mountains. 

Husband’s age at the time was 50ish. He’d been diabetic for years, with high blood pressure and cholesterol to boot.

Heavy snowfall was a regular occurrence in our area from October through March.

Now I admit that big piles of snow created issues around our place.  Some kind of action was indeed required. All of us had to get out of the house and to the road leading to the highway so we could get to work and school. 
Something did have to be done with all that snow.

So, husband thought about it hard. 
He considered all factors carefully. Safety first, of course. Then he conducted time, expense, and feasibilty studies.

Being a man he finally decided the most sensible solution was to buy a used 500 lb snow-blower, which cost several hundreds of dollars, which he'd heard was for sale from the school district in town. The only flaw was that it kept coming apart when in heavy use.
This way he could go out in frigid weather and wrestle with it and tons of cold, wet, snow every time we had a storm.
  
This machine was a behemoth. I tried to move it once and it nearly gave me a hernia. It took four men to load it in the truck when he bought it. 

I mentioned to Larry that I thought it was way too much exertion for a man his age and with his medical history to mess around with that heavy machine in freezing weather. Especially since we lived 40 miles from the nearest hospital. With icy roads it might take a long time to get there.  
“We have young men with snow blades on their trucks who’ll come out and move our snow for just 20 dollars,” I explained in my most reasonable tone. “It’s not worth the risk dear.”

Well, this comment triggered the old, passionate, “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do!” lecture. 
This same dusty speech was repeated every time he wanted to do something dangerous, expensive, and unnecessary.  
Right away I knew that talking sense was useless. 
So I did what a woman has to do when a man has to do those things that a man does.  
Defense. 
Here's just an example.

One early morning right after the next 2 foot snowfall, husband stood in front of the living room window looking out with a glint in his eye. He was holding a cup of hot chocolate. 
I was making the bed in the other room but I could see that he was all ready for a big fight with tons of cold, wet precipitation. He was wearing full combat gear. Snow-boots to the knees, wool hat pulled down, ears muffed, gloved to the elbows. He stood looking out the window sipping happily.

After a bit he called out loudly. 
“Okay, I’m going out there now. Don’t you worry, I’m not going to give myself a heart attack. Don’t try to stop me. A man has responsibilities. A man’s got to do….. bla, bla, bla.”

Then there was a rather lengthy pause after which I heard growling. 
That was followed by a string of not so nice words.
“What the bleep! Bleepity bleep! What’s that kid doing? Will you look at that Clint! Bleep him! He’s out there moving my snow! 

I came to stand quietly at his side. 

“Well, isn’t that the nicest thing,” I chirped. “Young Clint’s come out to be a good neighbor with his truck and snowblade. You better go out to thank him. Now you be especially friendly. We want him to feel that his kindness is appreciated.”

Husband heads out with a forced smile and a reluctant wave at Clint.  
I could hear snippets of “Don’t trouble yourself next storm young man.  I've got a machine right here that’ll take care of a 5 foot snowfall. Want to take a look?” 

Clint got out of his truck.  
They both stood hovering over that thing. They crowed about how it was the deluxe, super duper model. 
Big enough to throw a mountain of snow.  Bigger than all the other guys blowers for sure.
I was a little worried about young Clint at this point, but he had a busy morning lined up with his truck and plow. He left right after he finished moving our snow.

But, lo and behold, and much to my husband's dismay, that “Dang, bleepity, do-gooder kid!” showed up after every storm with his truck and blade. 
He moved all of Larry’s snow before he could even get his combat gear on. 
What a shame, huh?

*I always made sure the $35 I’d promised Clint was in his mailbox as soon as the roads were cleared to the post office.
The extra $15 was for coming to our place first, and for keeping his mouth shut.

Yep.  
Just one case of, “If a woman’s going to be married for a long time she’ll need a good, strong, defense.”

The Alarm Clock of Youth

Why, oh why, must children remember the very things about their childhood that you wish them to forget? And why, oh why, don't they recall the many wonderful things, (I'm sure there must have been many), that are worth remembering?

My kids are all grown. One day, I was feeling uncharacteristically wistful about those long, lost days when they were newer.  I asked one who turned out well to tell me about a childhood memory.  I was looking for validation that I'd been a good mother, that I'd been a light in little childish lives.

Take my advice.  Don't do this. You may be sorry.

Dear daughter cheerfully replied that one of her most vivid memories as a young girl was being awakened every morning by the ringing sounds of pots and pans clanging together. This was coming from the kitchen. Then every so often,  after a particularly loud crash,  the shrill voice of her lovely mother would cry out in exasperation,  "Damnation!"

She doesn't recall that I was all alone out there, in the dawn's early light,  making breakfast and packing lunches for the rest of the still sleeping members of the family.  No, of course not.   All this before I had to get ready for work too.  Never mind that I wasn't cussing AT anybody for Pete's sake!  Plus, I didn't think anyone was listening, but that doesn't matter either.  She just remembers what she calls, "The alarm clock of my youth."  5:00 AM she said.  It never failed.  For years she awoke to the sound of pots and pans crashing loudly and "Damnation!" ringing out from the kitchen of our "little house in the big woods."  Now whenever she hears anybody shout, "Damnation!" she thinks of me.   Great.   Happy mother's day.

After this distressing little tale I asked her to tell about something nice.  A beautiful memory.  Something precious that we'd shared as mother and daughter.

She thought hard and said with a bright smile, "Nothing comes to mind off the top of my head."

If you still have kids at home think about this.  Let it be a lesson to you.  Children have very selective memories and good hearing.  And regret has a bitter taste in old age.

Watch yourself.

Lying Parts

Dear Readers,

If you’re looking for inspiration today then don’t read this.

Read the scriptures instead.

In them we’re taught many great truths. “If ye have not the spirit ye shall not teach,” is one of those. Well, I used to think that meant that when I was giving a lesson in Sunday School or Relief Society I’d better have said my prayers and tried to live right beforehand or the lesson was going to be a bust. True, but I’ve since learned that it applies to all sorts of situations, not just classes for sure. Lately I’ve especially noticed that when I’m trying to teach my husband to change his ways and I’m filled with contention, or impatience, or crankiness or the like, he never does learn a darn thing. 

Well, I think I had not the spirit when I wrote this. In fact I distinctly remember being annoyed about someone. 

Just want to be up front with my friends.

Lying Parts

My oldest daughter, who is cynical, says that men have lying parts. She says they’re born with actual, physical, body parts that keep them from telling the truth in certain situations. She says she knows where the parts are located too. 

I don’t understand her attitude at all, because she’s been married some twenty years to a fine upstanding priesthood holder. A wonderful, honest man, a leader in his ward even.

I’ve counseled her and pointed out the error and unfairness of this kind of thinking but she remains unconvinced. All she says is, “Think about it, Ma.”

So I thought about it.

The man I know best in all the world is a truthful man. 
Well......... truthful mostly. However, I do know that there are some particular areas where betting your life on the veracity of his responses would not be wise. One involves food. 

Any question that begins with....

“I’m trying to make............  (fill in the blank) for company tonight. Have you seen the......half bag of chocolate chips....last of the shredded coconut...the rest of the Oreos I was saving to use for pie crust...marshmallows...graham crackers..."     

...will involve him gazing off into space, pretending to think hard, trying to formulate an answer that isn’t exactly a lie because he knows lying is technically wrong, and then saying, “Well Hon, I saw them a long time ago, way back in the tall cupboard, but I haven’t seen them lately.” Meaning, “I ate them when I found them, so you can stop looking.” Also meaning that I need to find a new hiding place.

I’d like to explain that I don’t keep many sweets around the house as a rule. This is due to the fact that the man who lives in it is a diabetic with a sweet tooth so fierce that it could start a cattle stampede like in that old western movie. Remember the cowboy who tried to sneak into the chuck wagon to steal sugar and knocked all the pots and pans off the hooks? It made a racket that started the herd galloping off in a hundred directions. Well, I’m married to him. But for Pete’s sake, sometimes people are coming over and expect a dessert that’s not artificially sweetened! You know, grandkids, missionaries, friends etc. It would be nice to be able to keep a few basic ingredients handy!

Another area where falsehoods fly involves doctors. My husband’s physicians have given him wise counsel about his diet, including carbs, sugar, salt, fats, sodium, and cholesterol. They’ve told him not to eat any of that stuff, but instead fill up on vegetables. They’ve told him to exercise regularly. After one recent appointment with his kidney specialist, he came out to the car to report that his doctor wasn’t that happy with his lab results. She’d asked a lot of pointed questions about what he’d been eating lately. I asked what he’d said. “I told her!” he snapped. “What’d she say? I asked sweetly. “She says she doesn’t believe me and she wants to talk to you.” 

Uhuh.....a married doctor who’s familiar with the male lying parts.  I assured him that I’d vouch for him and tell her that he didn’t put salt on the last bag of pork rinds that he ate.

 

In addition, at least once that I know of, he lied to me about what the doctor told him. It was back when we both had the same general practitioner, a fine man, dedicated and compassionate. Larry came home from a visit and informed me that the good doctor had advised him that frequent sex would make his blood sugar go down. A few months later when I had an appointment of my own I mentioned this to our dear physician, saying that I really didn’t appreciate that last bit of advice which he’d given my husband. After listening carefully he stood thinking for a bit, took off his glasses, rubbed his nose wearily, took a deep breath, and said a bit reluctantly, “I never told him that.”

Later I realized that the good doctor was stalling for time trying to decide whether to back up one of his own kind or to tell the truth. When confronted, my late husband just said, without a hint of shame, “Well, it made sense to me.”

In any case, I still think my oldest daughter is cynical about men.  
Although when I mentioned the theory of  “male lying parts” to my “ladies” doctor when I last had a visit, she said, a bit cynically. “Mmm-Mmm, and I know right where they are too.”

Included here is a sort of recipe for a strawberry cake type dessert which my husband likes and which doesn’t raise his blood sugar.

*One sugar free store bought angel cake. (In the bakery aisle at Fry’s or Wal-Mart)

* 1 package fresh strawberries

* 1  small sugar free red jello (raspberry’s good)

* 1 small sugar free french vanilla pudding mix (Plus milk)

* 1 Large carton sugar free or reduced calorie Cool Whip

Slice the berries into the bottom of a 9x13 pan. Make the jello with only 1 ½ cups water. Pour over the berries. Refrigerate until set. (I put it in the freezer while I do the rest because I don’t have time to mess around.)

Tear or cut up the cake into pieces the size of regular marshmallows. Make the pudding. Fold the cake pieces into the pudding. Spread it evenly over the firm jello and berries. Pile on the Cool Whip covering completely. Refrigerate for a few hours before serving.

Other fruit works too, like sliced peaches. But don’t put bananas unless you’re going to use the whole cake the day you make it.

*Not to worry, my husband's not really "late." But he may be my first husband which is how I always introduce him to strangers 
anyway.