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.”

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.

A New Bedspread

There's an old Spanish proverb I posted in my classroom once.

"First we shape our houses. Then they shape us."

And because I remembered that saying I’ve been shopping for a new bedspread. 
And that reminded me of how troublesome men can be. 
And that got me to thinking of how troublesome it is to do the right thing in general. 
So now I need to vent.

I was shopping because our bedspread has issues. It's years old and looking dated to say the least. Even, I hate to admit, a little shabby. 
Because it came in a set and I used one of the smaller pieces to cover a window valance, replacing it means replacing the valance. It's going to be a lot of trouble and work. 
Well, the price of beauty is labor, as they say, and we've been counseled that our homes should be places of beauty, haven't we? 
So.

That inspired counsel given about our homes was certainly not that they be costly, or large, or of any particular style. But that they shouldn't be neglected. No matter where or what, they should be places that reflect intelligence and beauty. In fact, we’re supposed to create homes of such charm and grace that “angels will want to visit and rest there.” I read that somewhere important.

I know that several early Prophets have talked about the subject of our homes and surroundings. I think it was Brigham Young that said when people look at the home of a Saint they should say to themselves, “What a lovely little cottage.” 
So, this must matter to Father.

And if it matters to Father then it should matter to me.

I’d like to do the right thing here but it would be a lot easier for me to accomplish this if my circumstances were different.
There are obstacles, I can tell you. 
Sometimes money for one.
The man I live with definitely for two.

So, here I am. In the middle of the blazing Sonoran desert, in a tiny little house, (tiny by choice but nevertheless) with a shabby bedspread and a troublesome man. 
I’ve been told to create beauty. 
I’m thinking.

While thinking my mind wanders back to a fall day in the center of a Glendale, Arizona barrio. 
I was teaching at the oldest school in the city, one that, sixty or so years ago, I was shocked and dismayed to learn, had been reserved solely for kids who did not qualify as “White Only”. I hadn’t realized there’d been segregated schools in this state. Sadly, I found out, there were.

I was going out to visit the mother of one of my students. I needed her to sign some papers. She had several little ones and couldn’t come in to school herself. This happened a lot. So I drove along the street, passing small houses that were surely built at the same time as the school, looking for the address. I stopped at a house that couldn’t have been more than one room wide.

There was a short chain link fence with a gate in front. It enclosed a tiny yard with a patch of grass that was green and neatly trimmed. All along the fence, vines and flowers were growing in a narrow bed. As I came to the door I saw cleverly disguised tin cans and food containers also filled with growing flowers.You had to look closely to see what the containers were. A large and lovely vine which I recognized as a sweet potato plant, hung from a twine carrier and spilled down gracefully next to the front window. 
I knocked. 
The woman who answered was dressed in a colorful skirt and a clean white blouse. She was carrying a baby on one hip and had a little one grasping her skirts from behind.The small girl clinging to her knees had big dark eyes and pink bows in her braided hair. The woman asked me in.

It was the smallest living room I’d ever seen. It couldn’t have been more than 6 feet wide. 
The room was spotless and filled with light spilling in from the window. The floor was shining cement, the walls were adorned with lovely pictures, landscapes and religious subjects as far as I could tell. Some were in frames, some appeared to be cut from magazines and placed on colorful, lacy paper mats. All were carefully hung in groups to the glowing white walls. The only window sparkled in the sun and that lovely vine could be seen gently moving in the breeze outside. There was a little shelf holding a colorful scarf and a porceline figure on the wall. 
The only furniture was a small loveseat and chair covered with matching throws. A little painted chest stood against the opposite wall. On top of the chest was a television and a vase of the flowers I’d seen outside. Delicious smells came wafting out of the next room which reminded me that it was getting on toward suppertime. 
Without asking she immediately brought me a cold drink. We talked pleasantly, she signed the papers and I left to head back to school.

Well, it’s been many years since I sat in that little home but I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I was there. You could almost touch the peace, the beauty, the creativity and intelligence that dwelt there. The woman who created that home was magnifying her sacred calling. If I were an angel I would love to stop by to visit and rest awhile.

This got me to thinking about another one of my student’s homes.

It was during our mountain years. I was teaching in a wonderful little school in a tiny town with marvelous, down to earth people. It was lunch time. My kids were out in the hall getting ready to go to the cafeteria. A new student had joined our class that morning, a boy from a family just moving from the city. We were all standing in line talking together, waiting for the 4th graders ahead of us to get going. 
My kids, who were always friendly, were talking to the new boy, trying to make him feel at home. I was chatting with some of the girls with half an eye on keeping the line in order. I heard one of my guys ask the new boy where he lived. He told them. 
Someone else said, “Oh, I know where that is. Down at the other end of the street from the “junk house,” right? “Yeah,” some of the other kids chimed in, “That’s where it is. At the other end of the street from the junk house.”

The line started to move. The kids stopped their conversations

My boys didn’t even know that their classmate who lived in the “junkhouse” had heard them. They didn't mean to be cruel.

But I saw the boy's face. What I saw there broke my heart. 
There was shame and embarrassment. Feelings hard for a child to bear. 
But, I prayed silently, not, "I come from the junkhouse so I must be junk." 
Please Father, don't let him think that.

So, creating homes of grace despite our circumstances is important to Father. Order, cleanliness, and beauty might really be next to godliness. Maybe there's something to that old saying, "First we shape our houses, then they shape us

Back to the bedspread.

Gratefully, I have the means to buy a new bedspread. And I even have the grandkids who can climb a ladder and get the old valance down. 
What I don’t have is a husband whose grizzled gray and bearded face looks good under any sort of elegant covering. Every time I think I’ve found a new one (bedspread that is), I imagine his sleeping, snoring face peeking out from under the covers. 
I’ve tried, really tried people, but he just doesn’t match with any type of charming decor!
Some of you may be married to elegant or adorably cute men but mine is the rugged type. He now looks like a mountain man fresh from the hunt. An old one to boot. Burlap or buffalo hides are the only fabrics that come to mind when you gaze at his sleeping face. 
Back when he was younger he used to look like Sean Connery. Then a cross between Sean and Santa Claus. Then just Santa Claus. Now, it’s the mountain man phase. 
I’m not the only one who sees these evolving resemblances either. Once a few years back, in an emergency, I called Sears where he’d gone to buy some shoes. 
I asked for the tool department. I told the girl who answered that I needed to find my husband quick because our son had just called with last minute tickets to the ASU / UofA football game, and they needed to leave in 20 minutes. 
She asked what he looked like. I told her a cross between Sean Connery, Santa Claus and a buffalo. She said she didn’t see him. 
I said “He’s a good kisser.” She replied brightly, “Oh sure, there he is now!”

Yes, men can be troublesome indeed.

Even so, you’ll be happy to know, I am not deterred. 
Thinking about all this has strengthened me. 
I’m off on my quest for a new bedspread. 
And I’m going to try to create beauty by replanting my patio pots with hardy perenials that can perhaps survive in this blast furnace portion of the Lord’s vineyard. 
And I even won’t murmur against those people in San Diego or Flagstaff who have such an easy time creating beauty all around, and don’t appreciate it. 
On the coast I once saw tomato plants and flowers growing wild and tall as your head around the dumpsters behind a McDonalds! Tomatoes were everywhere and desperately needed to be picked. 
I almost had to cuss but “Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s tomato plants” is a rule, I think.

Anyway life is full of obstacles meant to be overcome. I’ll let you know how this one turns out for me.